When a man considers himself a freak, how does the world perceive him?

On gloomy afternoons, John Young often felt himself becoming a fool. Today, as he trudged listlessly down the street, he recalled a certain strange night. Maybe it was because the two places resembled each other, or because the rain fell. But until this memory resurfaced, he had forgotten that something peculiar had happened that night. Back then, police sirens had wailed around him, red and blue lights flashing as they reflected off the wet asphalt. He wasn’t hungry—in fact, thinking back, he couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten. His body was utterly drained of nicotine, and he could feel the faint patter of raindrops against his skin. Have you ever stared at a spoon? Or flipped it back and forth, watching the front and back? Which side was which hardly mattered. Either way, that’s how he felt—as though the city reflected everything, becoming a mirror for its people. On rainy days, this truth grew starkly clear, especially when police sirens pierced the air and red and blue lights clashed violently. There was something mercury-like about it all, a silent force that mirrored the people around him. John Young understood this perfectly. His coat wasn’t water-resistant, nor was it a color that blended into the night. Slim, yes, but hardly healthy, John Young wasn’t a creature of the shadows. The old polyester soaked in the rain, growing heavier, though it was nothing compared to the brakes of his rusted joints or the shrill creaks of his body’s wear and tear. John Young was a man. So he walked with his head down, staring at his rippling reflection in the puddles. When he stepped forward, his mirror-self stepped up too. He heard almost nothing but the drumming rain, save for the occasional stab of a siren. He glanced at his shoes—old, patched with duct tape—then at the city. And the city, in turn, stared back at his disheveled form. John Young sensed the spoon’s duality hovering nearby, warping ahead as it mirrored the red and blue lights.