Kalmar's hands knead anxiously at the fabric covering his bony thighs. He regards the mirror, as he usually does, with the trepidation of someone peering into the window of an overturned car, as though he's risking his own sanity by staring at himself for more than a second.
(He would correct that to half a second, personally. Maybe less.)
All but the first inch or two of his (brittle, scraggly, fraying) hair is officially gone. On the floor, ready to be swept up and burnt lest someone use it in some hex against him.
The back of his neck is cold. He feels painfully exposed, missing the thin black curtain he's been habitually hiding behind for as long as he can remember.
His cheeks look more sickly hollow than ever. Oh, and he wants to cut his ears off with a chainsaw -- make that his entire face -- make that his head --
Kalmar clasps his fingers a little too tightly in his lap. Smiles. "This was a terrible fucking idea," he announces, sounding on the edge of hysteria.
