The glass shone in the low lighting of the bathroom adjacent to the sparse cabin, and though there were eyes staring blankly into the surface… there was nothing but the walls and tiles and lamps to show their faces in the mirror. He blinked, wiped a hand across the smooth surface, and sighed lightly.
Rodney Skinner… forgot what he looked like. It had been so long since he had seen his face. What colour were his eyes? When he had a full head of hair, what colour and style had it been? What were the fine, intricate details of the face he had grown into? What stories did they tell?
Frowning deeply, for what little good it did for outside observers, and even himself, Skinner cocked his head at an angle, concentrating on the mirror above his sink, and tried to remember.
But it was no use; he knew… nothing would come of it. He was doomed to forever slip away from the memories of those around him, whereas others could be so easily recalled by a detail. Their smile, the light in their eyes, their hair… even something so simple as the shade of their eyes. None of this, Skinner could recall. His greasepaint did little more than show where he was, and his expressions. It would never give him back who he really was.
Skinner looked in the mirror. Who does he see, when he can't see himself? he thought to himself cryptically, sighing with a slump of the shoulders, even as he turned from the sink, switched off the lamps, and went back to try and sleep.
As he lay down under the blankets, he tried once more… but all he could remember was drinking that formula, and condemning himself. He closed his eyes uselessly, and waited.