Several hours later, Stan awakes to a different hue of slatted light: the sun is peeking through the blinds. Seeing Barbara still asleep, he slips out of the bed, and hits the bathroom for a shower and shave. His eyes look back from the steamy mirror, and he frowns. They seem… less green today.
Peeking out the door, he sees Barbara cuddled down in bed. Pleased, he comes back to the sink. I feel so different around her, he thinks, she gets me. Maybe I can shave and slip back into bed with her. With fantasies of morning lovemaking filling his head, Stan begins to shave.
Staring into the mirror, he drags the razor down his face. His eyes widen when a huge chunk of skin curls from his face under the blade, like a wood shaving curls from a carpenter’s plane.
With a nightmare slowness, Stan looks into the mirror: Where the skin dropped off is exposed muscle, bone, teeth. No blood though, he thinks as he looks into the sink. He tries another swipe, again a giant curl of skin comes off and more of his underlying skeleton is exposed. Trapped in the nightmare, Stan continues shaving, his purpose shifting from removing beard to removing skin. Strip after strip he removes his face, lips curling away, his entire nose becoming a blank hole, eyeballs swiveling in a permanent stare sans eyelids.
Finally, he stares at his corpse-like face in the mirror: nothing but bone, rotting muscle, teeth. And eyes. Exposed like marbles, his eyes are cycling between dazzling green and his original not-green not-brown hazel color that so dismayed his mother.
“Stan,” comes Barbara’s muffled voice through the door, “can I use the toilet, love? I need to pee.”
Without waiting for an answer, she comes in, wearing a stolen shirt from the closet. Standing beside him, she stares into the mirror. “Oh honey, what have you done?” Stan’s marble eyes swivel to meet hers in the mirror, and his lipless mouth opens in a silent scream.
“Let me help, love,” she whispers as she reaches over to his heart. Smiling at herself, now alone in the mirror, she picks up two green marbles that had dropped into the soapy water, drains the sink, and puts the marbles in her eyes. She replaces Stan’s razor in the medicine cabinet.
Early morning, in Stan Greene’s apartment. Urban sounds have picked up as rush hour fills the streets. Now a gentle light fills the living room, as heavy footsteps tread the hall, and a loud bang on the door.
“Open up! Police! We have a warrant.”
In the hall, Ally gives the nod to the riot-dressed uniforms accompanying her, and they break in the door. They clear the livingroom with its Ikea cream-colored couch, noting the coffee table is askew. Quickly moving down the hallway, they enter the bedroom.
“It’s empty, detective, no one is here.” Ally receives the news, and heads into the bedroom. Looking around, she sees nothing matching the statue described by Sheila, but notices a dust-free spot on the center top of the dresser.
The bathroom is steamy; someone showered recently, likely in the last hour. Ally’s eyes find a few lingering soap bubbles in the drain and trace downward to the floor.
“Carlson, get me an evidence bag,” Ally says as she spies a pile of dust on the bathroom floor.
Barbara rides down the elevator in Stan’s building. She rummages into her bag, and with a smile pulls out the statue. Its features look familiar, and she looks in the elevator’s polished wall. Recognizing her own features on the statue, she smiles, arranging her hair. I like this look, she thinks as she smiles back at her glowing green eyes.