The urgency fueled the bizarre. People certainly stared at him now, but one couldn't exactly call that a compliment. His muscles barely fit inside his shirt, his lips were so big he could hardly drink, his strength was a constant source of tiresome accidents. The source of the ogling seemed to have shifted from admiration to slight animosity.
He was unique in an unenviable way, yet the more he gazed into the mirror the more the finish line blurred with the horizon's. The constant study of his own image had rendered him immune to it: nobody ever looked at Mr. Lewis' face quite as much as he would, and yet, it seemed as though he were the only one in the settlement who didn't know what he looked like. And so he stared and stared, in case he might forget. But the longer he stared, the faster he'd become used to his ever evolving features, the faster he'd need them to change once more.
He hadn't seen his family in over a month and a half, choosing instead to hole up on a room he'd rent for the lowest amount ever bartered before. He had his bottle charm to thank for.
What exactly went on in that room is left purely to speculation and myth at this point. Most of the stories contradict one another, with details ranging from the mundane to the impossible. But despite the many people who swear to have known someone who'd set foot inside Mr. Lewis' room, perhaps the story that stands out the most is the one from the maid who worked at the inn he would stay at. She apparently would refuse to clean his room after having attempted to on a single occasion.
One fine morning, Mrs. Roberts claims to have entered with the master key, as was expected of her, and to have been startled by, presumably, a hunched over Mr. Lewis in the dark. She described him as particularly consumed by the mirror before him, but added that the walls of the entire room had been covered by mirrors of different shapes and sizes, with very little light being let in from the window. When he turned to growl at her to leave, she described the eyes as a set of two glowing yellow orbs, and the teeth too many too sharp to be human. This last bit might have been product of the hysteria after the fright, however, for Mr. Lewis had left his room a few other times with nobody describing in such manner.
It was curious that despite having the ability to talk to anyone about anything, that he had become so quiet. His once hearty appetite had been replaced by heavier and heavier drinking; when asked about it, he'd sadly joke that anything else had begun to taste like a fistful of sand. He'd completely stopped playing cards too, in time, either because others were tired of losing against him, or maybe he'd just grown tired of winning.
Days and nights blended together without enough anecdotes to tell them apart from one another. It wasn't until some months had passed that he'd recognized a clear feeling in his chest, even when he no longer knew what to name it.
On an otherwise average day, Mr. Lewis caught sight of his estranged wife and daughters walking around town. He had become accustomed to wandering aimlessly, but on this occasion his steps had regained a lost sense of purpose and direction, even when that purpose had seemed unclear. Before he could think of what it was that he intended to say or ponder on why he felt so compelled to reach for them when he was supposed to wish them gone, he lost them in the crowd, only to find them again when he accidentally turned and watched as his wife fell to the floor when she ran into him.
"Lori, I'm... So sorry." He offered a hand to help her.
"It's my fault." She said politely evading his hand "I should have been more careful, sir."
"Lori, I..."
He tried to breach the distance between them with a step, but he watched in horror as his wife instinctively stepped back and held their daughters closer. The two little blonde heads clutching to Lori's arms were staring at him in what he immediately recognized was fear.
It suddenly hit him that they had no idea who he was.
"My husband's waiting for me." She excused herself.
He moved aside to let them pass and, before he could console himself with thoughts of how she must have lied to him out of manners or intelligent precaution, he saw her cross the street into the embrace of a much shorter, weaker man than himself. Terror fully struck when he saw that the man picking up his youngest bore an uncanny resemblance to the face he had discarded so many moons ago. He felt sick when he understood it wasn't mere similarity- that had been his face.
Desperation clouded his vision but his judgement was, for once, sober. He ran, shoving multiple people out of his way without warning. There was no time to pause for breath. Whatever the cost of his vanity, he couldn't wait to pay the Devil for it. Hell, he'd even be willing to thank him.
And so he reached the door of the Devil's workshop and, trying to collect himself, remembered to fix his attire and uneven breathing before helping himself in.
The cat was resting on the lobby's counter, but the jingle of the door's bells were all it took for his tiny eyes to return from slumber.
Instantly the pupils of the once familiar pet dilated as it jumped on its paws with its back hunched and pelt bristled. Before Mr. Lewis could take another step, the cat hissed a warning and ran out of sight.
He didn't think his heart could have sank lower and yet somehow, it just had.
Wasting no more valuable time, he headed for the back of the workshop where he'd learned to look for Mr. L.
He found him facing away from him, stirring the pot by the fireplace. A sweet smell invaded his nose.
Mr. Lewis cleared his throat and the Devil tasted his spoon before finally turning to him.
"Not quite ready yet, I'm afraid." He greeted him amicably "Have you come for another enhancement, Mr. Lewis?"
Mr. Lewis remembered to feel nervous, but managed to shake his head for a change.
The Devil seemed surprised, but whether the surprise was feigned, imagined or genuine was beyond the grasp of Mr. Lewis' best guess. After all, it had never once crossed his mind to ask Mr. L for the gift of perception.
"I've lost my family." He said, faintly accusative "I just watched my wife walk right into the arms of a man wearing my face... Not just my face, but my entire likeness!"
The Devil nodded, his expression revealing he wasn't particularly shocked by the news.
"It's unusual, but it does happen." He admitted "Sometimes wandering spirits can claim a face that's been willingly discarded."
"Well, I want it back." He demanded.
"You mean you wish to undo my work?" The Devil reworded him attentively.
"I do." Mr. Lewis surrendered "I'll pay whatever is due, just please let me get my family back."
The Devil warned him honestly:
"I can return your face for the right payment, but whether you recover your family or not is beyond my power, as it hasn't been lost because of my magic."
"I thought you could fix any problems!" He felt cheated.
"Personal problems, yes. This is an interpersonal matter." He remained stoic.
Mr. Lewis had no choice but to accept.
"Very well. The price for what you're asking would be the standard of one human soul. Do you hereby willingly offer your own as payment?"
"I do." Mr. Lewis was broken.
With the response deemed satisfactory, Mr. L reached behind the counter for parchment paper and ink. He sat silently for a while as he drafted up their contract; his steady and elegant handwriting were so flawless, it was almost uncanny. Meanwhile all Mr. Lewis could do was supervise helplessly.
The ink was immediately dry, the contract suffered no errors nor unexpected items. All that was left for its completion, was for Mr. Lewis to add his own signature.
But as much ink as he'd try to soak up on the feather, or as hard as he'd push it against the paper, no signature, not even a single blot of ink would stain the paper.
"I'm trying..." He tried to defend himself.
The Devil quickly realized what the problem was and took back his contract, rolling back the scroll for safekeeping.
"I know, Mr. Lewis." He pacified him "I'm afraid the reason you cannot sell your soul away, is because you seem to have lost it."
Mr. Lewis was dumbfounded.
"Lost it? Well, I don't recall giving it away to nobody else." He said defensively.
Mr. L believed him.
"It is a rare occurrence, but one that typically happens in cases such as your own." He informed him "When a soul can no longer recognize its own body, it can stay lost for years."
"Years?!"
"To be fair, that's a kind embellishment on my part, Mr. Lewis. Most of the time, the loss of one's soul remains a permanent offense."
Mr. Lewis fell on to a chair.
"So what do I do now?" He held back the tears dwelling up around the corners of his eyes.
"Well, unless you can find a willing soul to part with, sadly there's little I can offer beyond a cool glass of water or another potion."