The mirror has been removed

The flourescent light flickers on, illuminating the smokey grey walls of the rest room. It takes a moment for you to realize that there is no mirror in the room. The room is small, little more than a closet, with a toilet and a counter for the sink. The wall over the sink is bare, but there are small screw holes in the wall, and a slight, rectangular discoloration of the paint. It looks as though there was at one time a mirror, but that it has been removed.

You slump down against the toilet and touch your face with your hands. You are repulsed by the strange ridges and the rough texture of your skin, but you can't stop touching it, feeling the mysterious contours of your face. You can't believe they removed the mirror from the rest room. How bad is it? Have you become some sort of monster? Are they afraid that you might hurt yourself if you saw your own reflection?

You should be crying, shouldn't you? You're in the hospital. You've had an accident of some sort. You don't remember who you are or how you got here. Your face has been horribly disfigured. Shouldn't all of these things create some sort of emotional response? After the agony of crawling across the floor to the bathroom, the absence of the mirror has left you strangely numb. Defeated.

So what do you do now?

You could wait until the doctor arrives and give him a chance to explain everything to you. That would probably be the sensible thing to do. But a part of you just wants to slip away, to get out, even if it means you have to crawl on your hands and knees to do it.