But in those moments, when paranoia would grip the young man so tightly, as to threaten his mind propelling outside of his own skull; he would run to the large mirror in his study.
At the hour of the wolf, neath twilight's glow, he would tremble before the large reflective piece.
Eyes closed, chanting softly to himself in silent prayer: "My face. Not your face. My face. Not your face. My face. ..."
Conjuring to his own mind, the image of what he knew himself to look like.
Then, when clearly burned upon the insides of his own eyelids, he would look into the portal and see if he was still himself.
Most nights he was, in which case he would smile through tears of relief and little chuckles would escape from his lips. Thn he would return to bed and sleep soundly.
On the nights when fear seized him, he would do this, and most often be satisfied.
... but not every night.
Not on this night.
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