Cindy… Cindy… Sydney… Did I meet her in Sydney? That was months ago. Or two weeks ago. When was I in Australia? Never. Never been there before. Never planned on being there either. Going there. Calm down. Take a step back and breathe. You can’t take a step back when you’re on your back so just breathe then. You’re the same guy you were when you stepped into the doctor’s office last week, when you saw the Other Guy in the mirror. Before you saw him. Or was it after? After this morning. It wasn’t last week it was this morning. How long have you been dating Cindy? No you never dated Cindy or a Cindy or any woman in the past how many months it was the Other Guy who did, did Cindy. Did Cindy. Really? Heh. Other Guy did Cindy standing up—no—in missionary—no… 

I was standing now. Couldn’t remember even sitting up after that couch swallowed me whole. I had to retrace my steps. A mirror. It always started with a damn mirror. Maybe I could reboot myself. Just take a mirror and give myself a talking to. Yeah—that usually helped. But then I had to go back out there: to the place with all the people. People I could, at any moment, just grab. And stab—

No. Not stab… But what?

I closed my eyes, took a few deep breaths until my heart started to slow back down to its normal pace. I felt my left hand clenched into a tight fist down by my side. Slowly, I opened my eyes. My right hand was clenched as well, but raised by my head, with my elbow bent, as if I were about to pound my fist onto something. Or slash at it if I had a blade. That glint of light on steel is so alluring. Anything sharp and bright and shining always is. Like that flicker of life in someone’s eye, or the gleam off a knife, or of a shattered mirror.

I lowered my right hand, loosened my fists.

A mirror. I had to find one. I had to or else I’d go insane. I just needed to see myself to calm down and stop losing my mind. Just find a mirror and give myself a talking to. A talking to.

I was—am still Martin. Seeing my face will prove it. Still Martin. My face. Martin’s face. Not Norman, not Nathan, not Arthur or Dylan—Martin. 

M-A-R-T-I-N. Martin.

I walked toward the door, turned the knob, and stepped out to make my way to the men’s room. The faces of my colleagues raced past me, so quickly I could barely make out who each one was. I pasted a grin on my face and waded through the mass of bodies till I finally got out of the crowd and into the men’s room. Escaping the chaos finally eased my nerves. I could think and breathe more clearly now.

The restroom seemed familiar and peculiar at the same time. I walked toward the stretch of mirror above the sinks. I looked a bit pale, my eyes were encircled in grey, and the skin around my mouth seemed to droop lower than usual. I leaned in close to the reflective glass, so near I could see the pores on my face. With a finger, I stretched the lower lid of my right eye down to check the damp layer beneath it. The tiny, fragile capillaries were a stark crimson against an unusually pale, watery membrane. 

The palpebral conjunctiva—that’s what it was called. 

Strange. I didn’t know I knew that. But without a doubt that’s really what you call it. Or what doctors call it, at least. That reminds me… 

I had to call Dr. Rosco back if anything weird happened with my face again. Or, hell, with anything else on my body. I’d been feeling strung out for weeks. Something was definitely up. I was getting older. That had to be why I was becoming—

“A pussy. You’re turning into a pussy. Five years ago you’d never go to the hospital for something as small as a dislocated shoulder. Now you’re running to the doctor to make you feel better after, what, a spooky vision in the mirror? What the hell happened to you, man?”

My mouth stopped moving. The voice stopped too. My ears were ringing but I could still hear the gruff, chastising voice crystal clear in my head. Calling me a pussy. I never really used that word. I’d never dislocated my shoulder. I’d never had those types of thoughts. And yet now they were coming out my mouth like I’d been possessed by an angry, bitter grouch. A grouch with… mismatched eyes…

I moved a couple of inches away from the mirror to get a better view of myself. My left eye was dark brown, with a few darker flecks that were almost black, just like it had always been—just like both eyes had always been. Now, my right eye was a lighter brown with a tinge of orange, like… amber, I guess. 

My irises—they no longer matched. Didn’t they have a term for that? I could swear it was on the tip of my tongue… Hep— Hek— Het… 

Heterochromia—that’s what it was called. 

In the mirror, my mismatched eye twitched.