Brown hair, blue eyes. Brown hair, blue eyes. Gelled hair. Unshaven face. Brown hair... blue eyes. Who is that? Who is that?

The man that Thom sees stares firmly back him, determined not to speak. The man's hand goes instinctively to the back of his head. Thom recognizes the action.
You know, he thinks to himself, I bet that man's got the exact same scar I do... scrap metal can do wonders to the skull.

Thom runs his hand down the mirror, smearing the foggy condensation that has collected there. I've often read that people come to terms with their existence while looking in the mirror, he thinks. Shit, I've been this way for eight years and still can't come to grips with it. I'm pathetic.

He turns away from the mirror, disgusted with the man on the other side.

Brown hair... blue eyes.

He feels her hand touch his shoulder.