Faces of Fear

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He had to look.

He had to look at it all, and be objective, and make the final decision.

He let the damp towel fall away from his waist and drop to the floor in a sodden heap around his feet, steeling himself as not only his face but his entire body was revealed in the full-length mirror in his bedroom.

He stared at his image quietly, suppressing the instinctive urge to turn away, forcing himself to view it with utter detachment, as if it were nothing more than some hideous sculpture an inept student had produced, and which he must now find a way to turn into a work of art.

Not that it was all bad: he had kept himself lean and strong, and a fit body had at least given him good legs.

The torso would eventually take care of itself.

But the face. The face was the key to everything.

The key to his future.

The key to his happiness.

He took a deep breath and focused his entire attention on what he had come to think of as nothing more than a canvas upon which the original artist had put nothing more than a rough sketch, but that he would turn into a masterpiece. It was simply a matter of analyzing each feature and making the decisions that would not only put them all in perfect balance, but please the viewer as much as the artist himself.

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