I woke up in a panic. My face was gone. With a frantic heart I searched everywhere. In cupboards and closets, in used envelopes, behind furniture and under beds. I took apart old boxes and ran my fingers through a threadbare couch. I paused with a forlorn mind. Then I thought: think rational, of everyplace you've been, just as you do when you lose your keys.
"The mirror! The hand mirror!"
I found the antique in a wooden chest of collectibles. To my horror the mirror enslaved my face. It mocked me by stretching than compressing my visage in grotesque shapes, from the monstrous to the emaciated.
"Give me back my face!" I demanded.
In return I got an evil eye, my tongue extended in ridicule and defiance. Desperately, I wrapped my fist in old tube socks and punched the mirror. The eyes, ears, and nose that were mine flew out and fit comfortably where they should have been.
"You didn't have to hit me so hard, Tortelli," the cracked mirror cried.
"You f#!ked with my face." I said. "Nobody does that and gets away with it."