He stared into the bathroom mirror, his hair a mess and sopping wet from just stepping out of the shower. The steam created from the hot water drifted around the room like clouds of smoke and clung to objects, making them moist and slippery. His pruned and pale fingertips gently slid through the condensation that had gathered on the mirror, creating five lines of reflective crystal through the white mist. His fingertips slipped off of the edge as his other hand cascaded through those lines, revealing his blurred image. He watched himself for a moment before the heat of the room slowly erased it, allowing the mirror to once again be covered in a white mist.

He remarked at how hot and sticky the air in the bathroom made him and tried turning on the fan, his moist fingers fumbling with the switch on the wall. When he was finally able to flick it upwards into a "on" position he found that the fan did not work. His next instinct told him to open the door. His moist hand fumbled and slipped on the glass knob but he was able to grasp hold of it after not too long. As he turned it he heard no clicking of the mechanism that held the door in the small latch. He pulled gently on the door and it did not budge. The window that was inside the bathroom and above the bathtub was welded shut, meaning that there was no way to open it and no way to relieve himself of the hot and sticky room.

For some reason he let his hand gently touch the mirror once more, his fingertips gliding along the crystalline surface in intricate swirl patterns. He could see himself once again but he was fading quickly, his nude and flesh-colored image being consumed by the whiteness of the mist. What did he expect to see when he wiped it away? Someone else? Someone standing beside him? Perhaps him being gone all together? Was the person that stared back at him the person that everyone else saw? Were they disgusted as he was but too nice of people to say anything? The mirror told no lies; it showed exactly what there was to show. It did not lie to you, it did not sugar-coat anything to spare your feelings. The mirror was unforgiving but honest.

He closed his eyes, trying to not picture what he had seen in the mirror but the images were all to clear in his mind, all too well-embedded in his memory. By the outside world's standards he was a hideous and unattractive monster, something fit to wear a bag over his head and exist within the shadows. Beauty is only skin deep, he told himself. But was he simply saying that because he did not want to face the shallow truth? Beauty is a matter of perception, he told himself. But what happens when one's perception is no longer your own but a conglomerate of those around you? What happens when your ideals of superficiality falter and you begin to see yourself as you think others see you? Can one who has lost their sense of self ever say that they truly believe anything?

Fool yourself into thinking you believe you are unique and do not care what other people think and then wrap yourself in these thoughts, holding them tightly so you do not feel the cold, the voice in his told him. Let yourself drown in your pathetic excuses and half-real defense mechanisms...allow yourself to become blind and deaf to your real thoughts.

He felt it, then – the gentle caress of the adoring hands. He felt it against his face and neck, felt them slithering down the rest of his body. He felt their lips against his own, against his cheeks and neck, gently leaving their falsities behind.

We can fix you, they whispered. We and you both know that you are a imperfect and your blanket of false beliefs and ideals is beginning to tear, leaving you open to the cold of the truth. We can make you acceptable and allow the cravings you so desire to finally be within your grasps. But in order to do so, you have to be willing to sacrifice anything and everything. Perfection is not free. Do you agree?

Yes.... I agree.... Even to him he sounded unsure.

Take them...cut it all away, they whispered.

He could feel the handle in his hand, his fingers tightly wrapped around the wood of it. He knew it was a knife because he could the cold of the blade pressing against him, could feel the sharp edge against his moist flesh. One accidental slip of his hand and it would glide against him with no remorse. He could feel his hand shaking, his grip tightening to try and control the knife.

What is wrong? You can't do it? You're presented with an opportunity to remake yourself in a socially acceptable manner and you hesitate? Do you really want this or does fear grip you so tightly that you cannot move a muscle? You are pathetic and weak.

Leave me alone, he thought to himself more than the other voice.

He fell to his knees in pain as the knife plunged into his side, a bloodcurdling scream echoing throughout the room and off of the porcelain-covered walls. Crimson immediately started to fall from the wound, traveling along the edge of the blade and down the tang, coming to the end of the handle and falling off of it in droplets which pattered against the floor. His hand jerked to retrieve the blade and pull it out but he was stopped by the voice.

What are you doing? Don't stop now, you've only just begun.

But it hurts....

Don't think about the pain...just do it.

Instead of retrieving the blade he let it course through him even further, splitting flesh in half and ripping open the horridness of his figure. Tears were streaming down his face from his clenched eyes, blood trickling to the floor and seeping beneath him. His mind told him to stop but his body did not react. His hand pushed the blade further into his flesh, cutting across his abdomen. The blade felt hot against him, each nerve that he was cutting through felt like it was on fire. He fell onto his side, blood continuing to flood the floor. His screams and cries of pain echoed against the walls and door but never seemed to penetrate them.

Cut it all away....

He managed to pull the knife from his abdomen, his pale skin now stained a deep crimson as the blade shook ferociously in his weak grip. Despite his best efforts to stop, the blade penetrated his thigh, issuing another scream of anguish. Blood was now dripping from his lips and his entire body ached. The blade continued to glide through his flesh, leaving a jagged and grotesque trail of blood and butchered meat. He felt his vision beginning to blur, his mind beginning to go.

Quickly, now.... If you wish to be accepted, you must finish what you have started.

No! he shouted. No more! He pulled the knife out of his leg and reached for the counter top, hoisting himself upwards. He screamed in pain as he put pressure on the leg that he had just cut into, blooding now flowing freely as he forced himself to lean against the counter.

You will die, now....

Shut up! He took hold of the knife as best as he could and raised his arm, holding the knife back behind him. He let his arm come forward, letting the knife arc and come crashing into the mirror, the impact shattering the mirror, sending an explosion of glass shards out into the bathroom, several of the shards perforating him and slicing him all over. He fell backwards because of the pain and hit the wall behind him, sliding down into a sitting position, leaving a trail of smeared blood in his wake. He finally dropped the knife into the pool of blood he was now sitting in, his entire body shaking as if he were cold.

His trembling lips curved into a soft smile he looked up into the mist as he finally saw what he wanted all along: acceptance. Their smiling and adoring faces, their outstretched hands reaching for him in order to help him up. His arm began to raise in order to grasp their hands, his fingertips just barely grazing theirs. His arm then dropped to his side, his head falling to the side. They vanished back into the mist and the world grew dark. All senses dimmed and eventually dispersed. And then there was nothing.