IT

They say you've never really seen your face, only a reflection of it.  In some cases that's truer than anything.

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'Come look at this one!'

'Oh, it's quite recent isn't it?

'Yeah, I've never seen it before.'

It. That's what they call me. What they've always called me, as long as I can remember and that's not saying much, especially as I haven't been around long enough to remember much of anything. I had been in my current location for approximately eleven sunrises. Eleven times when the sunlight combined with the glare of the overhead lights to fend off the shadows and illuminate things that ought to stay hidden. And after every sunrise, just as the sun inches a quarter of its way along its arc in the sky, a murmur of voices pervades the space. It starts off as a low whisper then gets louder as they come closer and closer...

They're almost always here. Sometimes there's scores of them, sometimes not. Not a lot of them come when it's dark, though. When the bright industrial lights go off, the cacophony of voices fade and the shadows lengthen in the pale moonlight. When all that is left is the oppressive silence that befalls the cavernous space. Nothing moves. Perfect silence. Perfect stillness. There's something almost poetic about it. Something-

'This is the one?'

'Yes sir', a tentative voice replies.

'The colours, so bright, bold, daring' a deep chuckle, 'reminds me of the youth these days'

A wistful sigh, higher in pitch than the chuckle, perhaps a woman's voice?

'Ah! The young. What I wouldn't give to be young again.'

Young
.They always seem so sad, the big ones. They come to visit me with their fixed, yellowing smiles, their greying straw-like hair, sharp folds and creases in their skin. So unlike the smaller ones who bounce around here then dash over there then run, skip and jump all over. The young ones. They aren't young anymore, the big ones, and that has made them discontent. If being happy means to stay young then I hope I am young forever. Though I suppose I needn't worry about it now, they said I was recent. Young. And young is good.

'I'll take it!'

A new voice echoed above the rest. Ricocheting off the cold marble and forcing their entry into the stationary eardrums of innocent bystanders.

'You can't just take it. It is not yours for the taking... Sir'

A joyous bellow, then: 'My good man, anything can be yours for the taking if you're demanding enough. This specimen can't be left to this dire fate! Why, it's too beautiful, too youthful for such a draughty old environment. It deserves to be somewhere where it belongs, with me.'

Beautiful.

He called my being beautiful. Now I can't say I'm wholly disappointed with the empowered speech of the perhaps overenthusiastic man. Young and beautiful. If there were ever a set of traits that would guarantee that one does not end up miserable like the big ones who come to see me every day then I suppose that those two would be the most ideal.

The man approached my being with a wide assaulting smile and exuberance to spare. Eyebrows raised as his expression morphed into one of delighted wonder. Shaking hands rose from his sides and inched towards my being. A tentative, loving stroke of my rather hard curves had me almost shivering in anticipation.

'Yes...' a low whisper escaped pink, slightly chapped lips, 'I'll have you.'

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Complete darkness enveloped me; the kind of darkness so tangible that you could almost cut it with a knife. I've only ever experienced such a thing in The Before. Before I saw the 

sun, before I saw the big ones, before I was young. For a fleeting moment I wondered if I had reached the end of my expectancy, if I had ceased to be young. But that couldn't be the case, could it? Surely one could be young for more than 11 sunrises? Surely-

Click-clack, click- clack

The sound spliced the silence. Footsteps coming towards my being. Closer and closer until there were no more. Silence. Then suddenly a patch of light disrupted the darkness. The patch grew until whatever was causing the darkness had been vanquished. I was exposed.

The man stood in front of me. He looked different. Younger. But I suppose being surrounded by the garishly bright décor his home boasted would make anyone look younger than their years. He sighed contently and moved away.

I caught my being in the reflective surface.

I saw an old, decrepit painting.

They say that youth is about the only thing worth having.

That it is about the only thing the youth have.

I didn't even have that.