Who: Mayor of Crazytown. Both of them. Here there be narratives. What: Henry talks to his mirrors. Little does he know that someone can, um, see it. Where: 105 When: Nowish. Warnings: Henry inflicts violence on a mug of tea.
The mirror on the wall immediately inside 105 faces the living room (which is essentially the entire apartment, given its barren decor). The walls are off-white, there is a couch and a desk (a complete disaster in comparison to the rest of the room, because everything that might have been somewhere else in normal person's living room is stacked on it), and the room carries the air of a place that isn't "lived in" so much as "visited occasionally" because of its lack of ... well, just about anything. On the right, in the mirror's view, there is a door to the bedroom and another to the bathroom (both shut). On the left, an open space and a small visible slice of the kitchen (also sparse).
Henry, in an absolutely horrible argyle sweater (it was a gift), enters from the kitchen with a mug of something hot. He sits down on the couch and pulls a book toward him that had been recently left open on the couch, picking it up and starting to read. After a moment, it is obvious that he isn't actually reading, but turning pages idly. He pauses, then, as if listening to something, his expression tightly controlled and bordering on annoyance. After an almost imperceptible glance towards the mirror, he says with a shrug something that might be, "No, I don't know."
Another pause. He shuts the book with an irritable swiftness and puts it down. He lifts his now free hand to his face and rubs his temples, shoulders heaving with a sigh. What he says next is not only unheard but unseen, because of the hand in his face, but he drops it and turns to the mirror, frowning.
"I told you, you're not going anywhere."
He rolls his eyes, tapping his fingers on his mug impatiently as whatever's responding to him pleads its case. A laugh, and he's almost amused when the next silent phrase comes out:
"No. You're staying right there, and I'll be damned if I let you do that again."
His expression drops almost instantly into another frown, more indignant this time.
"I am not a---fuck you!"
He stands up, pointing at the mirror.
"You stop it! I'm not letting you go anywhere, especially not with that--do not call me Mom I am not your mom is that how you want to play it? Fine! You're grounded!"
A brief look of triumph before he suddenly pales, dropping the mug and clutching his head. His eyes screw shut and his knees buckle, sending him back onto the couch as the contents of the mug--tea, apparently--spread across the clean floor. Henry doesn't let go of his head, twisting his upper body back and forth like he's trying to shake something off. It gets to the point where he's practically writhing when he looks at the mirror again, knuckles white around handfuls of hair.
"Stop it! Stop it stop it!"
Whatever it is doesn't stop. Henry lurches to his feet, very nearly falling over, and lets go of his head with one arm long enough to stoop awkwardly and pick up the fallen mug. His entire arm appears to be shaking as he holds it up, glaring at the mirror and wincing periodically.
And just as suddenly as it started, it stops. Henry blinks several times, slowly lowering his other hand from his hair, and looks at the spilled tea. He turns to go into the kitchen, probably for something to mop up with, when seemingly without warning he turns back swiftly and throws the empty mug at the mirror. It hits the wall just above the mirror and shatters; Henry, meanwhile, has given up on the kitchen idea and turns the other way, storming into his bedroom and slamming the door. He does not come out.