It is a lick of time before he gets himself to a mirror after dyin', and first glimpse he does not know himself. Things have changed.
Hair gone white as flour for one thing. Sure, he was turnin' before, his mousy brown hair getting' to mousy gray, but this ain't no salt an' pepper it's full-on white. And it don't half look odd with his skin pale as it is now too, white like a fish's belly, like he'd never done seen the sun or somethin'.
Weird thing is he wouldn't exactly say he looks older, really, not even with that white hair. His eyes got focus back, they ain't bloodshot and a touch filmy no more. That whiskey bloom has vanished with the rest of the blood. Hell, his teeth
got fixed somehow, don't ask him how but they sure did, each mother's son of them back in his mouth and white as if he'd never touched a cigarette. His skin's... smoothed
some, like someone took it off him and ironed it out and stretched it back over him again.
He doesn't look young. No. No, the weird health to him isn't that of a young man, it just is
, it fits him like a stranger's suit but hell, he's not complaining.
There is so much he is not complaining about.
Alright, so he gotta kill folks, yeah, that mayhap ain't ideal. But you know, there are an awful lot of sumbitches in the world who mayhap deserve a killin', an' way he reckons it it ain't a black and white question, ain't like you can take an act just say it is wrong
. All his life he been told a lotta stuff wrong-- doin' things with other men, stealin'-- but the first he don't see how it harms and the second, hell, iffen you hungry
an' there's bread then morals goes out the window some, don't it?
He's hungry now; it's just that it takes murderin' to ease it.
All questions of red hands, all questions of black deeds, slowly fade to the bleached white of bones and forgetting.