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Setting his knapsack down in the damp grass, he moved to the edge of the embankment and stooped down. Dipping his cupped hands into the frigid river, he drank his fill before splashing his face with water. Ringlets moved outward from the disturbance and were quickly swallowed by the current. Rubbing his face with his hands, he scrubbed away several days worth of grime before running his damp fingers through is hair, combing it into shape.
His reflection combed its auburn hair as well with liquid fingers. Like it's twin, a young man with clear hazel eyes, boyish features, and clothed in shabby castoffs.
The mirror image rippled and undulated, at first clear and bright then lost in shadow as the sun disappeared behind a cloud.
Which is the real me?, he wondered as he reached a hand toward the reflection. It's ghostly hand moved up to meet his.
Thin. Insubstantial. Sometimes solid and standing on firm ground, yet other times -- most times, these days -- lost and forgotten within himself. Disappearing one inch at a time into the fabric of the world. Until soon all that must remain is a shadow of the man that once was . . . and would never be.
His reflection combed its auburn hair as well with liquid fingers. Like it's twin, a young man with clear hazel eyes, boyish features, and clothed in shabby castoffs.
The mirror image rippled and undulated, at first clear and bright then lost in shadow as the sun disappeared behind a cloud.
Which is the real me?, he wondered as he reached a hand toward the reflection. It's ghostly hand moved up to meet his.
Thin. Insubstantial. Sometimes solid and standing on firm ground, yet other times -- most times, these days -- lost and forgotten within himself. Disappearing one inch at a time into the fabric of the world. Until soon all that must remain is a shadow of the man that once was . . . and would never be.
