The alarm clock wakes me, beeping and flashing its rhythmic curse. It's time to get up and face the morning sun as it burns its way over the horizon. I throw my feet over the side of the bed, sit up, and rub the remains of my dreams out of my eyes. I've learned not to keep them closed too long, for fear of lying down and drifting back into oblivion.
Clumsily, I make my way into the bathroom and empty my bladder to the hum of the vent fan and the flicker of fluorescent bulbs trying to come to life.
Warm water is running through my fingers now as I wash them under the faucet. I splash water on my face and look into the mirror. It's not my face looking back at me. This face has water dripping from its chin and clinging to its eyebrows, as I do. But it's not me.
My name is Ben. I'm a sixteen year old with shoulder length, dark hair and pimpled face. I've got to get ready for school before mom starts to scream at me.
The man in the mirror appears to be about twenty five. He has short dark hair, parted on the side, and a bright eager face. There's an ivory shirt and a maroon tie hanging on a hook behind him. That can't be right. I'm going to wear my AC/DC shirt and blue jeans, the ones with the holes in the knees, to school today.
The man looking back at me has a gold band, shiny and new, circling his ring finger on his left hand. I imagine it hasn't been there long. I stare at the face in the mirror. The eyes, so familiar, stare back at me.
The alarm sounds again, blasting a song from yesteryear, and waking me from my slumber. I'm twenty one now, and on my own. The apartment is quiet and caverness, plain and void. My head pounds with the echoes of last night's party. Too much beer and booze has put an asterisk on my day, forcing me to hurry to the bathroom and purge myself of the liquor poisoning my soul. When the heaves finally release me from their relentless grip, I splash cold water on my face, stand naked before the mirror, and confront the stranger looking back.
He's older now, perhaps thirty eight. His hair has receded and is hauntingly thin. A ragged, five day beard covers his face like a shadowy veil, almost as dark as the skin under his eyes. The wedding ring is no longer there. All that is left is a pale imprint of what used to be. Looking in the mirror, I notice empty beer bottles strewn about and the remains of poison, poison from a syringe.
I look at the face again and scream, 'Who are you?'�
There is no answer. 'What do you want from me?'�
It mimics the movement of my lips, mocking me. I stare deep into the eyes and see loneliness, hollow and empty. And then I see something that chills me to the bone; an obvious and unmistakable loss of hope.
I don't remember how I got here, or where I'm at. I'm thirty now, but this is not my bathroom. I should be getting ready for work, my Honda warming up outside on this cold wintry day. But that's not what I see. The face in the mirror has changed again.
This man has to be at least sixty, or maybe it just looks that way. His thin, wiry hair, tied in a ponytail, is a deep shade of gray. Wrinkles, ragged and deep, run like rivers on his face. The teeth, some rotting or missing, others tobacco stained and a deep yellow, protrude from swollen gums. His arms are lined with needle marks like tracks from a demon hunting a lost soul.
Through the reflection in the mirror, I see the room behind me. The smell of booze, drugs, and sex sickens my nostrils. A large woman, with too much makeup, lay naked on the bed. Her snores rumble with every inhale and wheeze with every exhale. Neon lights, flashing outside the window, light up her pink eye liner like the eyes of a clown. The room is dark, drab, and musty from years of neglect. Three day old donuts litter the counters to become rat food when the evening light fades.
I don't recognize this person in the mirror, but the eyes looking back recognize me. They are hateful and accusing, sad and pathetic. I try desperately to blink away the image in front of me, but only succeed in making my head spin and my mind waver. I look again and the man is crying. Deep waves of regret and misery wash down his face like a torrent of lost days. I want to console him, to embrace his agony, but I don't know how.
Depression and inexpressible loneliness overwhelms me, and now I weep with him. When I can bear it no longer, I turn out the light illuminating my madness.

The alarm sounds and I fling the wretched thing across the room. I have come to despise it and it's meaning of ritual and order. I burrow down into the bed and cover my face with my pillow. Today is my fortieth birthday, and I'm afraid of the man in the mirror.

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