Page 3 of A Most Abhorrent Vessel

I slip my braces off, letting them droop at my sides like wilted flowers. The shirt is next, peeled from my torso and falling to the floor, unwanted. After the trousers, I take extra care to remove the garters, placing them into their assigned case.

I know the act of dressing and undressing is tedious for many men, yet for me, it’s one of the few pleasures of life.

But now, I get little joy even from this.

With bare feet, I push the pile of cloth aside, dragging myself to the mirror to see the state I’m in. The man who stares back looks utterly drab and tired. I turn away with a groan, not wanting to face the disappointment that I am.

Don’t fuss in front of the mirror. It’s unseemly for a man, I hear my father’s voice scold me as if I was still a youth. Would his lecturing ever leave me, or was I to die with his archaic principles echoing in my mind?

I slip into the scalding water with a sigh. Folding my limbs, I try to fit all of them in the tub as best I can. With my height, this is always entirely futile; nonetheless, it doesn’t stop me from trying. I let my legs hang over the edge, fully submerging my face and hair. Beneath the water, I open my eyes, seeing a blur of tans and browns above me. I stay like that until my lungs burn and force me to the surface.

Once I finish washing up, I notice, to my dismay, water draining in an embarrassingly muddy shade. I rinse off quickly before exiting, then wrap myself in my favourite robe.

Usually, a bath would soothe my soul enough to feel at least a little bit more myself, but now, my body is still gripped by a strange tension that even the hottest water can’t dissolve. At the very least, I smell fresh, and my skin is no longer sudorific.

After putting on my pyjamas, I choose a book and drape myself into my favourite armchair. Even if the bath didn’t help, I’m certain this will.

Nevertheless, no matter how many different positions I try, I can’t seem to get comfortable. Even the words on the page hold no interest for me.

I read and reread the same sentence many times over, but its meaning feels entirely hollow.

I drop the book and pick out one of my favourites from the pile next to me. It opens to a particularly well-read passage, the spine knowing which part I like the most. The pages are marred with thin pencil on the margins holding my most private thoughts. These words never fail to fill me with joy, their significance always making my heart skip a beat. The familiar scent of its pages has comforted me since youth.

But now, I feel nothing.

I hold the book closer to my face, inhaling its scent, but no comfort fills me.

I read the words again. Nothing.

I start at the top of the page, paying close attention to its meaning.

Still nothing.

I flip to the first chapter. I remember the opening vividly, the way I felt the first time I read it decades ago. The way it gripped my soul and made me feel seen more than anyone or anything before.

But right now, I am not filled.

I am not seen.

Inside of me is nothing at all.

I close the book, dropping it into my lap, and realise with growing dread that something is utterly and completely wrong.

There is something strangely pleasant about the specific combination of scents and sounds permeating the barber’s.

In the past decade, I’ve not missed an appointment. On the first Monday of every month, I’m greeted with the exact same words. Same cadence. Same song.

“Good morning, Mr. Balfour! Nice to see you on this fine day,” Desmond, my barber, chirps.

Like a perfectly choreographed dance, I respond with, “Very well, thank you. And how do you do today?”

“Very well! A shave and a trim as usual, Mr. Balfour?” he starts as always, but then his response takes an unexpected turn. “It must have been a long month, eh?”

Could a month be longer than usual?

Before I can question the fallacies of time, my hand reaches toward my hair. It’s grown substantially in the past four weeks. The edges nearly curl around my ears. Yet, something makes me change my usual answer.

“Just the shave, today. Thank you.”