Like a da Vinci drawing of the human body, every sinew is defined. Every bone so clearly displayed, no flesh covering, nothing to hide behind. Clean and sharp, cut as if with a chisel. His chisel, as he carved a figure out of driftwood.
The storm was violent as we ran down the steep stairs, avoiding the lit street, running from home, from destruction, we thought, but instead we ran towards it. Down the wet metal steps two, three steps at a time, leaping towards the station platform, arriving before the train left the station.
Inside, we wiped our eyes and, for the first time I shook my head, trying to pull my sodden hair back into shape and somehow knowing it would never again be the same. There was no food, we had nothing now, sleeping under the beach huts, trying to gain shelter from the winters ice.
The carving sold and he bought spice, not food. We broke a window and washed in locked toilets. Each day I became more carved, more honed and as I shook my hair in the broken mirror, I began to like what I saw.
He left when I was asleep on the sea shore. I am locked in here, in this white room. They tell me to look in the mirror until I can see what they see. I shake my hair and I look. Does this reflection show who I am or does it define me as a type or as something not quite normal.