There was something a little bit dead about his eyes.
Guy Furnedge was staring at himself in the mirror, examining his face, his features, his eyes, the bruise that Amy had left him that was slowly fading back into his waxy skin.
He had been home for quite a while, though he wasn’t sure how long exactly. Time had become more of an abstract concept since he’d stopped winding the clocks.
He leaned a little closer to the mirror and studied the eyes peering back at him. Weren’t they supposed to be the windows to the soul? If they were, then his were dirty, smudged, mean little windows that no one had seen fit to clean in a long time. If his soul resided on the other side of them, then he had no hope of glimpsing it through the grime.
His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed. Unsurprising as he hadn’t been sleeping much. Well, not at all to be accurate. But beyond that they looked flat and lifeless, the pupils the colour of rotting wood. A corpse’s eyes.
He’d only ever seen two dead bodies and he hadn’t spent much time staring into the eyes of either. While living, his father’s eyes had always been full of disappointment; Lorna’s had never held much besides scorn. He doubted death would have changed either of them much.
Faces, he’d decided, were peculiar things. The more time you spent staring at one, the more peculiar it became, the more irregular and imperfect and downright strange. Those folds of flesh hanging from the bone, pock-marked and covered in little hairs, blackheads and grease, rounded bits and angular bits, the little creases that hadn’t used to be there but had become more and more prominent.
Yet it was just skin and sinew and muscle and fat and hair, you could move bits of it to convey emotion, whether you actually wanted to or not. People read so much about someone from the cast of their face. Oh, he’s a mean looking fellow! Oh, she’s a bonny girl! Oh, he’s a sly looking one! Oh, she looks like trouble!
Oh, he looks like a murderer…
Did people think that when they looked at his face? There’s Guy Furnedge.