His eyes met his own in the reflection.
He saw his own face peering back. As if pleading to be pulled out from the depths of murky waters.
The smartly cut blue suit with a silk handkerchief in the pocket, the Rolex on his wrist, a nice haircut. Everything contrasted with he rest of his appearance.
Covered with dust and grime. Glitter. White foam. The week old stubble. Dried tears. Blood.
He looked as a sculpture crafted to perfection and then for good measures rubbed in the filth of the world.
The city was alive outside but none of the sounds penetrated the silence in his mind.
Who am I.
He undid his tie and dropped it to the floor. The coat followed the course.
The white shirt had been robbed of it's crispness a long time back. The patch of blood on the left side of his chest had dried a long time ago. His heart should've been there but it had ceased to beat in the past itself.
Slowly he departed with the shirt, the pant and his undergarments. Nude but still not stripped. Not an ounce of weight of the outside world, no expectations from other pulling him down, but he still felt as if lead ran through his veins.
He soaked the scrub in the ice cold water and touched his face to swipe off the make up of the world he has applied throughout his life. The moment it touched the filth of his face all the sadness he had felt engulfed him. All the disappointed faces of his peers brought tears to his eyes. The curses he had earned in his lifetime screamed in his head. Every hate filled face of his companions in the path of life swarmed his mind. Swearing at him. Wishing for his death. Paranoia. Madness.
Was he the devil's angel. The self centered soul of this dimension. Tasked with bringing death, destruction, sadness and grief to all those whose path he has crossed. Was he destined to hurt all of them in the name of showing them the truth?
His hands shook but he kept on scrubbing his body. He had to take the weight of his soul.
The scrub made contact with the foam and suddenly all the hatred of the world inside him changed to happiness. Fun. Laughter. Joy filled his soul. Memories of friends praising him, being grateful to him, being proud of him filled his body. The love he had given and had earned back.
Maybe that was his calling. Being a decent man in an indecent times. Helping others without being asked to. Caring for them. Making them smile through their tears. Being there rock in troubled times.
Suddenly the scrub made contact with the blood. He wasn't ready for this. The silence tightened its grip around him. He could hear the cricket on the other side of the world. The betrayals. The pain. The loves he had lost. The tears. The fragmented pieces of his broken trust entered his soul even further, drawing more blood to his soul. The long heeled scars opened again, sending waves of nausea through him but thankfully didn't started bleeding.
Maybe he was born to struggle. To fight. To fail. To lose.
The scrubbing off of the glitter brought contentment over his aching mind. The applauds, accolades, salutations filled his ears. The moments of glory, achievements and the beaming faces of people danced in front of his eyes.
Maybe he was supposed to reach his goals. Setting up one after the other. Finding contentment in living life on the crest of brilliance and splendour.
He dropped the remains of the scrub on the floor and stared back at the reflection.
Clean. Pure. Without virtues and vices. Naked. Stark naked. The way God wanted him to come to earth.
But wasn't his skin covered with his mother's blood when he had came out of the womb. Maybe God's best laid plans fail too.
He was brown from the sun. Face felt like sandpaper. Taut body and warm blood flowing through his head. But he felt light.
He stared back and suddenly, he found his place.