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cane； red and white （and Black all over 。 。 。 wouldn't Trevor love to put this in a story？）。
Zach felt hysterical laughter bubbling up in his throat。 Tom Waits's drunken piano had nothing on this bathroom。 The sink was bleeding and ejaculating： great。 Maybe next the toilet would decide to take a shit or the bathtub would begin to drool。
He looked back up at the mirror and felt the laughter turn sour； caustic； like harsh vomit on the back of his tongue。
But for certain familiar landmarks…his green eyes； the dark tangle of his hair…Zach barely knew his own reflection in the glass。 It was as if a sculptor had taken a plane to his face and shaved layers of flesh from the already prominent bones。 His forehead and cheekbones and chin were carved in stark relief； the skin stretched over them like parchment； sickly white and dry； as if the lightest touch would start it sifting from the bones。 His nostrils and eye sockets seemed too large； too deep。 The shadowy smudges beneath his eyes had bee enormous dark hollows in which his pupils glittered feverishly。 The skin around his mouth looked desiccated； the lips cracked and peeling。
It was not the face of a nineteen…year…old boy in any kind of health。 It was the face of the skull hiding beneath his skin； waiting to be revealed。 Zach suddenly understood that the skull always grinned because it knew it would emerge triumphant； that it would prise the sole identity of the face long after vain baubles like lips and skin and eyes were gone。
He stared at his wasted image in fascination。 There was a certain consumptive beauty to it； a certain dark flame like that which burns in the eyes of mad poets or starving children。
He put out his hand to touch the mirror； and the lesions began to appear。
Just a few tiny purplish spots at first； one on the stark jut of his cheekbone； one bisecting the dark curve of his eyebrow； one nestled in the small hollow at the corner of his mouth。 But they began to spread； deepening like enormous bruises； like a stop…motion film of blighted orchids blooming beneath the surface of his skin。 Now nearly half his face was suffused with the purple rot； tinged necrotic blue at the edges and shot through with a scarlet web of burst capillaries； and there was no semblance of beauty to it； no dark flame； nothing but corruption and despair and the promise of death。
Zach felt his stomach churning； his chest constricting。 He had never obsessed about his looks； had never needed to。 His parents had usually avoided fucking up his face too badly because it might be noticed。 He still had faint belt marks on his back and two lumpy finger joints on his left hand from breaks that had healed badly； but no facial scars。 He'd never even had zits to speak of。 He had grown up with no particular awareness of his own beauty； and once he realized he had it and learned what it was good for； he had taken it for granted。
Now watching it rot away was like feeling the ground disappear from under his feet； like having a limb severed； like watching the knife descend for the final stroke of the lobotomy。
（Or like watching a loved one die； and knowing you had a hand in that death 。 。 。 Zach； do you love yourself？）
The faucet was still gushing； the sink clogged nearly to overflowing with the twin fluids。 A small black pinhole had appeared in the center of each lesion on his face。 As he watched； the dots swelled and erupted。 Pain zigzagged across the network of his facial nerves。 Beads of greasy glistening whiteness welled from the tiny wounds。
Zach felt a sudden； blinding flash of rage。 What the hell was the white stuff supposed to be？ Maggots？ Pus？ More e？ What kind of cheap morality play was this； anyway？
〃FUCK IT！〃 he yelled； and seized the edges of the mirror and ripped it off its loose moorings and flung it into the bathtub。 It shattered with a sound that could have woken all of St。 Louis Cemetery。 The faucet slowed to a trickle； then stopped。
Zach took a deep breath and put his hands to his face； rubbed them over his cheeks。 His skin was smooth and firm； his bones no sharper than usual。 He looked down at his body。 No huge blossoming bruises； no cancerous purple lesions。 His stomach and hips were hollow but not emaciated。 Even the spatters of rotten blood were gone。 Nothing felt abnormal but his scrotum； which was trying to crawl up into his body cavity。
His shoulders sagged and his knees turned to water。 Zach put a hand on the edge of the sink to support himself。 As he did； he saw movement in the tub； something other than his own motion reflected in the fragments of broken mirror； a swinging motion that seemed to sweep across the glittering shards； then back； then across again 。。。
He stared at it； unable to look away； yet terrified that soon his eyes and his mind would piece together the gestalt of all the infinitesimal reflections。 He did not want to know what hung there； swinging in the mirror。 But if he looked away； it might be able to get out。
Behind him； the hinges of the door shrieked。 Zach spun around； muscles tensed； ready to fight whatever was ing for him。 He saw Trevor framed in the doorway； tousled and sleepy…eyed； his face half…bewildered； half…scared。 〃What are you doing？〃
〃How…〃 Zach swallowed hard。 His mouth and throat had gone dry； and it was difficult to speak。 〃How'd you get in？〃
〃I turned the knob and pushed。 Why did you shut yourself in here？〃
Speechless； Zach pointed at the sink。 Trevor followed the direction of Zach's finger； then shook his head。 〃What？〃
Zach stared at the sink。 It was empty； stained with nothing but dust and time。 The square of plaster above it where the mirror had hung was paler than the rest of the wall。 Trevor noticed it too。 〃Did you…〃 He saw the broken mirror in the tub and frowned。 Then his eyes fell on the bent shower curtain rod and he looked quickly back at Zach； away from the faintest of shadows slowly twisting on the wall。 He wrapped his long fingers around Zach's wrist and pulled hard。 〃Get out of here。〃
They stumbled into the hall； and Trevor yanked the bathroom door shut behind them。 He stood for a moment with his eyes closed； breathing hard。 Then he shoved Zach down the hall toward the kitchen； grabbing his arm and hustling him along when he didn't move fast enough。
〃Hey…what…don't…〃
〃Shut up。〃
Trevor groped for the kitchen light switch； pushed Zach toward the table； then sat down and buried his face in his hands。 Zach saw that Trevor's shoulders were trembling。 He reached out to massage the tightly wound muscles； but Trevor went even stiffer； then reached up and slapped Zach's hands away。 〃Don't touch me！〃
Zach felt as if his heart had been plunged into ice water。 He backed away from the table； toward the kitchen door。 〃Fine！ You don't want me here； your ghosts don't want me here！ Maybe I'll just get the fuck out！〃 He glanced around the room； trying to locate the bag containing his laptop and OKI。 It was leaning against the fridge； and he would have to walk back past the table to get it。 His glasses were still in the bedroom too。 So much for grand exits。
But Trevor didn't even look up。 〃I do want you here。 I think