056 - open stone
The water dripped down his face and chin as he refrained from wiping it up with the towel in his hand. Despite being cold, it felt oddly good. A reaffirmation of his life. He stared himself down in the mirror.
"Cross your heart, and tell me what you're going to do today," he said. The cool figure in the mirror was asking for a call to action. A declaration, a resolution that today was going to be better than the days that had preceded. The reflection was summoning confidence, but as deep as he dug, he just couldn't find it.
"You're going to do the best you can do," he replied, but he knew that it was about as halfheartedly as one can possibly say something.
By now the water had mostly evaporated, and he found no need for the towel. He simply wiped the remaining water off with his hand and knew it would all be soon dry enough.
Stepping out of the bathroom, he flicked the lights off and then walked down the hallway back to his bedroom. It was still dark, and the house was quiet. It tended to always be quiet, though, even in the daylight.
By memory and feel he made his way to his closet where he flicked at a light switch again, but this time to bring illumination to the room. There weren't many options hanging in his closet, but it didn't matter. He only needed one, and he didn't consider any of the other options as his hand swiftly went for the freshly-pressed black suit.
Those hands moved with care, but also with confidence as they applied the pieces of his outfit to his body. The whole time, he found himself staring in his bedroom mirror, making sure that everything was looking right and tidy. He did not speak any further while staring at his own visage--the rest of the morning's rituals would be conducted in silence.
After getting dressed completely, he walked over to his nightstand, and began to collect the items that usually inhabited his pockets. Back pocket, in dropped his slim black wallet. His phone, of course, no missed calls or messages, went in his right pocket. He picked up his keys and slid them into his left pocket, but as he did so, he noticed something was already there.
In went the keys, and then he pulled out something that in his fingers felt like a small tubular object. Laying his eyes upon it, he realized what it was. A green Crayola crayon--forest green, to be precise. He puzzled at how such an object ended up in his pants pocket, especially since his clothes had just been cleaned. He looked the crayon over, and it appeared to be in pristine condition.
The wrapper showed no signs of tearing, ripping, or scuffing. The wax crayon itself was perfect, the tip was long and extended to a nice sharp point. Sharp for a crayon, anyway. It had a strong scent that he could smell from where he was holding it in his hand, just outside his pocket. It smelled good, in a way, reminding him of his childhood, as things from his past often made him do.
Rolling it around in his left hand, he thought that even the paper felt good. If he had something to draw on, he might have done so, but he also considered that the instant he decided to use this crayon, its virgin perfection would be ruined, and so he might not have. It didn't matter much, though, since there was nothing to use it on.
He slipped it back in his pocket. Why not? From there it came, and for now he figured there it shall remain. He went on with the morning routine.