The Cold (I)

On a fevered whim I seized my razor and shaved off the Confucius beard that had been growing; thereafter for the first time in three months I could not recognise my naked face. The dark hairs on my chin had otherwise obscured my pallor, which now distinctly exposed itself in contrast to my bruised red lips. My eyes were those of a stale fish and no longer smiled. My jawline had blunted at the edges. And as I stood transfixed by the stranger in the mirror, struggling to acknowledge how worn I had become, a grim resignation descended on me: I have died.