Psychological horror exploring the mind of a character who has become completely unhinged when life throws her in a direction that she never saw coming. A loss too much for her brain to bare starts to blur her hold on reality. The lines between real...
What I've done will, I imagine, never fully make sense to the majority of people viewing it from the outside. To be perfectly frank with you, dear reader, I sometimes feel myself struggling against the events, too. Whenever someone reads this, and they will, the analyzation will commence. My scalp will be peeled back with precision and my head will be diligently inspected. My brain will be lifted from my skull and set out as a specimen for anyone and everyone to dissect. For some of you, my organs will be placed neatly and with great care upon a series of pedestals. For those of you who will do this with prodigious awareness, I can only applaud you. You are the scattered remnants of a rarefied breed. You can see yourself in me. You don't deny the parts of us that the Others want to harvest and feast upon. While the majority of my readers will constellate around my remains like the singular, ravenous being that they are I encourage you to take note of the Masks. The fucking Masks. They vary in size and painted expression.
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The Coward
There will be those displaying the common features of Fear- wide eyes, gaping mouth appearing poised to scream. But alas, a Mask is a Mask and the screams are suppressed, hinged in their throats. The Beast cackles as it sinks their teeth into them one by one. It tears the limbs from their bodies. The blood gushes onto its stinging fangs and it howls. It licks it's snarling lips, enveloped in ecstacy. The Angry
Others will be adorned with Masks so flagrantly red that you can almost feel their arms outstretched, heavy hands gripping your throat. Of course, they wouldn't follow through. After all, that would cause them to be indiscriminately classified. If they acted upon their desires and let the rage claw its way out from under their skins they too, would be mad. Insane. Completely bonkers. So with clenched fists, furrowed brow ornamented upon their clever disguises, they try to extinguish the flame. Even in the quake of their disdain for me, I pity them. I hope they are never met with the one bad day that will alter their fate. I can assure you- it only takes one.
The Disgusted
Finally, my friends, we can observe the last group so willingly participating in the despicable masquerade organized by my actions. Of them all, this one so happens to be my favorite. These unalterable expressions have met me many times. Their noses pointing upward, their eyes squinting unabashedly into your being. Their lips down-turned in such an unnatural way that you might almost think it's forced.
This Mask hides the true nature of those you may find gawking at the aftermath of a car accident as they pass it on the highway. They are hungry. They are starving. They can't survive without soaking in that part of humanity that they try endlessly to deny within them. The Mask covers that underneath they're just as sick as me. If they don't cringe and turn away at the sight of me, someone might begin to catch on.
They peer into the wreckage, almost indecipherable as anything that could have ever been a car. They search, their long noses clinging to the scent of death in the air. Their eyes wander amongst the frame of mangled, crushed metal and steel. I know what they crave.
They hope they'll see a body.
Sometimes for a moment, they even hope that it's someone they know.
