Work Text:
You’re the last one in the building-- the last human, anyway.
All around you, there are animals, barking, meowing, squeaking, squawking. A couple of weeks ago, you would have been shouting for them to shut up, too exhausted to stop and ponder how being loud yourself is going to make them any quieter. What’s the logic in making /more/ noise in an attempt to stop the noise?
Your job is done for the day, but you’re still waiting on a ride. When you left this morning, Christina needed your car (“Divorce paperwork crap. You think I can get that sweet truck of his?”), so you were stuck catching the bus to work. Apparently you’ve got a ride on the way, according to Jay’s vague text of ‘someone’s coming to pick you up’, which is super considering the buses don’t run this late.
Whoever it is sitting at the wheel, they’re taking their sweet old time getting here. You’re more than ready to be home-- and at some point, you started calling that house home and you wish you could figure out if you’re bothered by that.
At least you’ve got plenty of company here. Noisy, furry, and demanding company, but it still counts.
“I know,” you say in reply to the howling husky behind you. You lean in the doorway between the front entrance hall and the first block of cages and pens. The dogs here love you the most; you don’t care if they leap up on you when you enter their just-a-bit-too-tiny enclosures. You understand why they might be needy, what with having contact with humans through the bars for only a couple of moments every day.
(You understand it uncomfortably well. The main difference is that your room didn’t have bars in front of it, though it might as well have.)
“I know, I know, it’s awful being a dog,” you repeat to the husky. You rotate slightly, your back against the metal doorway. The view of the front entrance is considerably more pleasant than this block of containment units.
It’s something that’s niggled at you since day one: the visitors here might mistake the building for a children’s doctor office at first, with its ceiling painted a childish but cheery bright blue to imitate the sky outside, complete with puffy clouds and substandard stick drawings of children playing with kittens and puppies. The immaculate and shining white floor tiles add to the feeling, and the fish tank propped up onto the marble receptionist desk completes the scene with all of the goldfish darting in and out of miniature submarines and sunken ships.
Meanwhile, at your left is a scene that belongs somewhere in a place where shady men with hats turned low lurk on every corner and people hide away in their homes the moment the sun is down.
Okay, maybe that’s over exaggerating the conditions, but you can’t stand what you see in here, even when you aren’t the biggest animal lover in the world. Dust clings to the wooden ceiling and the pipes lining the corners bear a disgusting shade of rust. The gates whine and grate on the ears when they’re opened, and the floors could use a sweeping or two. Unfortunately, this block of contained pets isn’t the only one in this condition.
As ugly as it is here, though, you can look into the nearest dog’s face and see nothing but delight there, in the waving of its tail and its silly smile.
The rooms may be neglected, but the animals inside them certainly aren’t.
You heave out a heavy breath and tease the husky in front of you with an outstretched hand. She pants eagerly, jumping up on her back feet and slamming her paws against the chain link gate.
“You gonna be okay without me when I leave?” you ask her. She whines, tilting her great dark head and turning her ears back. You take pity and approach her, reaching through a space between the bars. The dog descends upon you, lapping your hand and instantly coating it with a layer of saliva. It’d be gross if you hadn’t been cleaning up far worse things throughout the day.
When did you start talking to animals anyway? Don’t people who actually /like/ them do that?
Over the din of yelps and meows, you hear the faint but familiar squawk of your car tires coming to a stop. You turn, peering past the doorway and through the glass doors of the entrance. A pair of headlights blinks at you, beckoning you over.
“Gotta go, girl,” you say in apology, permitting her one last lick before pulling your hand away. You wipe it clean on your work shirt, reaching for the light switch with your less slobbery hand. All of the commotion going on earlier is nothing compared to the excited reaction to being in a suddenly darker place.
Walking out of the room and making sure to lock it behind you, you make your way out of the disgustingly perfect front lobby and step into the night. The keys jangle as you secure the glass doors as well, giving the handles a tug for good measure. Meanwhile, whoever is driving your car apparently feels you’re taking too long; they lean on the horn, nearly startling you from your skin.
“Shut up!” you call out to them. They reply in turn with a series of three short honks. You roll your eyes and stroll over to the passenger’s side, making sure to draw out every step you take.
You have to rattle the door handle to get them to unlock it-- and low and behold, it’s Alex sitting in /your/ driver’s seat, glaring at you as though you’re wasting /his/ time. If you weren’t so tired, you’d kick him out of the front seat.
“Problem?” you ask sharply, slamming the door shut once you’re seated. He doesn’t wait for you to buckle in, immediately swerving into a U turn and rolling out of the shelter’s parking lot. It occurs to you then that Alex may very well not have a driver’s license anymore. You try your best not to think too hard about it. Wait ‘til you make it to the house, alive and all.
“No, none at all,” he huffs through gritted teeth. You bite the inside of your cheek, resisting the scowl fighting to sneak onto your face. It’s not going to help either of you if you both get pissy at one another.
“Well clearly I was mistaken,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest. “Your totally cheery demeanor and huge smile and all? Of course you don’t have a problem. I apologize.”
Alex attempts to keep his eyes glued to the road, though you spy that little muscle going in his jaw as he fights the urge to scream. He breathes in hard through his nose and slams his fist against the wheel once the car rolls up to a stoplight, attracting the worried attention of an old woman driving beside you two.
“Don’t be a piece of shit,” Alex orders with considerably less hostility than he had when you first hopped in the car. He settles his hands back around the wheel and glances at you with a tentative and furrowed brow.
“It’s-- I hate that place. It’s nothing to do with you. For once,” he jabs, mostly teasing. His foot hits the gas pedal with an unnecessary amount of force. Your back hits the seat and you can’t help but wince. The quick spot of pain is forgotten in no time, though. You’re more concerned about Alex right now. You hope that he’s telling the truth and it’s not... that.
(Looking down at his exposed arms, you see nothing but old bandages and fading trails carved out by a knife that was once yours, though you haven’t the faintest idea where you could’ve acquired it.)
(You breathe a bit easier.)
“What’s so bad about that place?” you question. You think back to the filthy rooms, the drippy faucets and the occasional suspicious smell. Something inside your stomach twists harshly at the thought of there being an awful secret buried beneath it all. If you remember right, Alex loves animals; of course he’d be protective of them if they were in a dangerous environment.
But that isn’t the case. You can tell it isn’t the instant Alex has to steer the car into a spot off the main road, directly next to the senior home you passed by on the bus this morning. The streetlight hanging over the sign bearing the name for the home gives off a searing yellow glow, setting Alex underneath a strange spotlight. He leans back against his seat, arms protectively wrapped around himself.
“You’ll think it’s stupid, probably.”
You shrug. Maybe you will, maybe you won’t; only one way to find out. Alex keeps his hollow stare to the floor of the car, like he might be afraid to catch your eye.
“That place? It’s- it’s where I got Rocky,” he admits with a heave of his chest. He stubbornly pushes his glasses up his nose before they can fall out of place. “I adopted her there as a puppy, and, and when everything was going to shit, I found her dead on the lawn one morning. And not just dead, someone had... gone out of their way to make it as gruesome as possible, and, I-I wish Jay was less law abiding and would’ve driven you home with his stupid fucking expired license but no, it had to be me.”
Okay. You don’t know what you were expecting but it wasn’t that. Of course, with you being you and Alex being him, you’d automatically assumed that he was pissed off with you. The possibility of the problem being the shelter never even occurred to you.
You wish it had; you might be able to figure out what to say to him. It’s the weirdest thing with him these days; you pity him, you sympathize with his problems (a bit more than you’re comfortable with, actually), but there’s this hollow ache in you that awakens when he lets himself be vulnerable. You want to help, and then there’s the old instinct that refuses to leave you: let him be, he’ll figure it out, you don’t need to get involved.
Nowadays, you’ve learned to ignore that instinct, but it never ceases to bother you. You actually-- dare you say it, feel bad.
(Did Jay do that to you? Is it the circumstances of living with Alex and this is some perverse version of Stockholm Syndrome with the more murderous and evil parts of it being stowed away in your pasts? Or maybe you actually--)
(--the past him, he wasn’t the worst guy, and you see him when you’re alone together, maybe plus Jay, see it in his tendency to joke about himself at every opportunity, in the overwrought visions he describes when showing off his old homemade movies--)
(You need to stop, this is getting confusing and too close for comfort.)
“I could yell at Jay into actually getting his license renewed if that’s the case or maybe have Chr-- your mom, uh, pick me up from now on, should I not be able to drive to work for some reason,” you manage, coughing to yourself. He turns his head slowly, peering at you over his glasses.
“Jay’s too paranoid and thinks people will figure out who he is and there’ll be questions and... it’s a huge mess, fuck that,” Alex explains away with a careless wave of his hand. That same hand goes through his stubbly and freshly shorn hair, courtesy of Mrs. Kralie and the electric razor she descended upon him with last week. “And mom isn’t always gonna be able to pick you up. Basically I need to get over myself or die.”
You pretend to ignore the way he phrases that last part, swallowing the ‘shut up’ that tries to get past your lips. Social cues tell you that maybe now would be a good time to touch his shoulder or pat him, or /something/, goddamn, but he might jump out of his seat. Those sorts of touches between you two will never cease to be weird and confusing.
It’d be easier if it was midnight and you two were pretending not to care like you do every night and all, but, it’s not midnight, there aren’t any excuses, no ‘too tired to realize what we’re doing’ or ‘easier on us and Jay this way’.
“You’re not stupid for it, y’know,” you assure him, hoping that doesn’t sound as weak as it feels. “I’d feel the same way, I bet, if I was in your situation.”
He crinkles his nose, upsetting his glasses again and sending them sliding back down his nose. This time, they stay where they are.
“Still.”
The quiet that settles between you two then is almost painful; you want to wave a magic wand and find the perfect words for him, but it’s never that easy, is it? You fidget, your hands tugging and picking at one another in your lap, and he stares into space, chewing at the inside of his cheek.
It must become clear to him that you’ve got nothing else to say to him, because he lets out a long sigh through his nose and sits back up, switching gears and getting the car back onto the road. Without the streetlamp hovering overhead, his face is thrown back into darkness and shadows. You find it easier to look away from him and out your open window.
For all the two of you say for the next twenty or so minutes, you might as well not be there. Cars rush past, flicking your hair about with the gusts of air they leave behind, and the streetlights become fewer the closer you are to home. The combined hum of the car around you and lack of light does a number on your brain, coaxing you to shut your eyes and take advantage of the headrest.
Black dots cross your eyelids, increasing in number the emptier and fuzzier your brain feels. It isn’t long before sleep begins to beckon you forth, and you think you’re about there when the faint rumble of his voice catches you off-guard. Your fading hearing twists his words around until they’re nothing more than a dull hum.
“Fff’wha?” you utter past a muddled mouth. He huffs beside you and repeats himself, this time a bit more clearly.
“It’s not just Rocky. There’s something we gotta talk about.”
Shit. Fighting past the exhausted fog dominating your thinking functions, you quickly review the last few days, trying to pinpoint where exactly you fucked up. Nothing comes to mind right away.
“Uh, does it have to be right now?” you ask with as little hostility as possible. Nothing against him, you’d /love/ to sort whatever it is out right now, but you’re fucking useless like this.
“Yeah. It does.”
Double shit.
His rough voice sets off a nervous patter in your chest, and you straighten up, blinking away the smears over your eyes. At some point during your half-sleep the car ended up in front of the Kralie home. You glance between the house and Alex, pondering why this has to be done here. Is it something that terrible that it can’t be said in front of Jay?
(Or maybe the terrible thing involves Jay and that’s exactly why he can’t be told.)
“Well, what is it?” you try to ask through a thick throat. As upset as he looked earlier, he’s suddenly stoic, with white knuckles clasped around the steering wheel and stern eyes fixed upon the unlit street.
“I had to go into the trunk before I came to get you because Jay wanted to know if there was any more clothes left in it,” he begins before turning his head to look you up and down. You squirm inwardly, feeling as though you’re being x-rayed. “There were, but when I took them out, I found something hiding under them.”
(Fuck--)
Alex unbuckles his seatbelt and twists around, reaching into the backseat. You hadn’t noticed it before-- how, you’ll never know, because even in the dark of night it very nearly glows with its white face. He holds it up by the string, letting it dangle and rock back and forth in the air.
Your mask stares at you with its haunting hollow eyes, the black outlines deeper than ever.
“This isn’t the first time I’ve seen it lying around, Tim,” Alex says with all the firmness that comes with scolding a child. “I saw it when I went looking for Jay’s camera. I didn’t say anything then because I figured you might not know it was still there or you were too busy to do anything about it, and we were all pretty damn busy at the time.”
He tosses it to land in your lap, nearly causing you to jump away as though it might come to life.
“Now, you have no excuse,” he growls. “Tell me why you still have it.”
(It’s scary to you, how he’s speaking, like /you/ might be the dangerous one here when for so long you’ve treated him the very same way.)
(Does he realize that? That he’s switching the roles and placing you under fire?)
“It’s not what you think,” you utter straightaway, batting away the nervous creatures that jump around your stomach and lungs. You wince to yourself, realizing how very little that actually helps your case because when somebody says that, it /is/ what they think and it really truly /really/ isn’t.
“Don’t just say that,” he orders with a sharp glare. “If it’s not what I think, then what is it?”
That’s just it, isn’t it? You don’t know why you have it, not for certain anyway.
(You remember the dream you had, not too long after first arriving here, back when Jay was still throwing up every bit of food put in him and Alex refused to speak to you. At the time, you didn’t think much of it; these meds of yours like to give you weird dreams, though they’re very rarely so detailed. You’ll see flying words and hear tinny whispers within the distance, but nothing much more than that.)
(This dream, you could see, you saw everything clearly, in high definition. You really could have mistaken the house you were in for Brian’s, right down to the flipped couch and the shredded papers complaining beneath every step you took.)
(And Him! He was painfully real-- you could see the stitching in His jeans, the grease of His unwashed hair. This other You, He even had a smell to Him, some mutilated mixture of cigarette smoke and fear.)
(It couldn’t have been a meds-born dream, though you kept telling yourself otherwise. You don’t like the thought that maybe, for a moment, you felt bad for Him. It. That One, the One who formed from the parts of you that you pretended were crushed by therapy and pills and normalcy.)
(It ruined your life, It ran into danger and got your fucking leg broken, got you fired from your job, ruined all the potential relationships you could have had.)
(And It saved you. He saved you, and He saved Jay.)
“It’s really hard to explain, Alex,” you squeeze from your brain. His sharply suspicious glare isn’t doing you any favors; you might as well be back in the hospital, being cornered by a doctor because some other child has started seeing a tall man too, and surely it’s your fault, you’re spreading your lies, liar, liar, you’re a liar, you keep secrets from the only one-- only /two/ people who might give a damn about you and you’re lying by omission, you’re a fucking /liar/.
(No.)
You tear your eyes away from Alex and stare past the windshield, catching your breath. Maybe once upon a time, you would have let the panic seize hold of you and destroy any chance you have of being trustworthy. You’re better now, though, you’re in control, you’re okay. It’s just Alex; you’re in the car with Alex, talking about something that really ought to be talked about like two adults would, and it will be a calm discussion. You’ll tell nothing but the truth, because you aren’t a liar. That’s behind you now.
“I’m not... keeping it for the sake of going rogue again or whatever it was that happened to me when I used to put it on,” you say while taking the mask into your hands. It lays limp in your palms, nonthreatening, useless. For all the trouble it has caused, it’s nothing more than a mask with memories-- or lack thereof. That’s it.
“That hasn’t happened since we all ran off together,” you admit, shoulders rocking with a hard exhale. “I mean, I haven’t put it on or lost time or memories or anything. I’ve kept up with my meds, just in case, but I don’t know if they’re even preventing anything beyond, uh, the other symptoms.”
All of the tension in Alex’s body falters at the mention of your illness. He leans away, his throat bobbing with a nervous swallow.
“As awesome as all of that is, you still have the mask,” he points out, managing to maintain a stern tone through his discomfort. “I thought we were trying to put as much of this behind us as we could. Like, I don’t want to keep any mementos from those times, and the fact that you might be keeping one, it... it’s a bit weird.”
“What does it matter to you?” you snap, pushing the mask from your lap and letting it flop onto the floor. You resist the urge to stomp on it for giving you all this trouble when you could be, oh, /sleeping/ right now, like you intended. “Not like it really affects you.”
“No, not directly, not right now,” Alex concedes with a nod. “But, think about it. Wouldn’t you be just as nervous if I was keeping the gun around? I might not be using it, but you know it’s there. How would that make you feel?”
That. Wasn’t what you were expecting him to say. Not that you really had any idea of what he had in mind in the first place, but this freezes your mind completely, bringing every thought to a grinding halt. Your mouth hangs open, ready to tell him to fuck off and mind his own business while you deal with your own healing process, but.
He has a point.
You imagine it, you can see it clearly with Jay unable to spend a full moment alone with Alex, and you would be incapable of letting them be alone altogether. He could put on the most innocent act, could smile and laugh at your every stupid sarcastic remark, but it would always come back to what’s burning a hole in the trunk of the car, in his closet, his dresser. The question would come round and round again: what’s it there for? Why does Alex feel he has to keep it?
And you flip it, replacing the gun with the chalky-faced mask lying at your feet. You could bleat on for ages, you don’t need it there but you don’t see any reason to get rid of it, but your companions would remember what it was used for and, well, who could blame them for being wary?
Licking at your dry lips, you catch Alex’s eyes and bow your head in apology.
“I get it. I... I don’t know why I’m even hanging onto it. I’m sorry.”
If Alex’s discomfort was palpable before, it was practically radiating off of him now. He adjusts his glasses, clears his throat, fiddles with his still buckled seatbelt, anything not to look at you.
You aren’t much better. Apologizing to Alex of all people, it’ll never cease to be strange, with the apology feeling prickly and sharp and yet like molasses on your tongue.
“Whatever,” Alex sputters eventually, seatbelt coming undone. He gropes for the door handle in the dark, nearly falling out onto the street when he finds it. He steps out and peers back at you one last time, frowning. “Make sure it’s gone tomorrow, okay? And I won’t have to tell Jay. Otherwise, though--”
“Yeah, I get it,” you assure him, albeit gruffly. He doesn’t make any comment upon on your harsh tone; he simply lets the door slam behind him and scurries up the gray pavement, past his mother’s sunflowers and vegetables and onto the front porch.
Without him here to fill the car with itchy vibes and angry glances, the emptiness is stark and grates on your senses. You undo your seatbelt, though you don’t make any move to get out of the car. Instead you stare at the white blot resting below you, eyes and mouth fading into the dark.
Stooping down, you catch the mask with a single finger by its string, lifting it to sit upon your lap again. The shadows catch upon its little slopes and angles, playing with its features until it’s something that isn’t even vaguely human in appearance. All hints of gender are lost in its pouting lips and the lined staring eyes. The nose is somehow sharper, reminding you of a jester in old medieval paintings, all pointed limbs and ends.
Your thumb strokes along its cheek, the surface cold and smooth.
(You could be back in bed, sitting awake, trembling and praying for the effects of the pills to set in soon. Out of all the chaos in your head comes one voice, murmuring loud enough to let you know it’s there, though you couldn’t figure out what the hell it might be saying.)
(It moves inside of you, spreading from nerve to nerve, reigning in your muscles and commanding them to obey. Your hands hover, go beneath the bed, and, you don’t remember putting it there, but the mask is there, and the energy emanating from it seeps out in waves. A faint touch of its plastic skin zaps you with a taste of that energy, and you are tempted to give in, with exhaustion seizing all thoughts of resistance and throwing them somewhere far beyond your reach.)
Touching it now, though, to run your fingers over its mouth, poke your fingers into its eyes-- you feel nothing. It’s dead, dead as a mask ought to be, silent, unmoving, no sentience whatsoever.
As frightened as Alex was of this thing, you catch yourself pondering if his fear is reasonable. How could it be when the mask is no different from any other mask now?
Admitting that to yourself is another situation entirely.
Especially as you feel this horrifying sinking inside of you, like perhaps, you are bothered by the lifelessness of the mask.
Bothered, more like, troubled, aching, terrified that the creature that wore this mask as a face may be just as lifeless.
And that it’s your fault.
(You’re a--)
You shove the mask back to the floor, letting it clatter about there and abandoning it as you shove the door open and slam it shut behind you.
(--you are--)
It’s been an absurdly long day. There’s nothing wrong with needing to get into the house and maybe sleep your whole day off tomorrow away. Hide in bed, like you used to, when you needed to get away from the real nightmares and decided the ones in your head were far easier to face.
(Shouldn’t bother you when It never did you any good, but that doesn’t give you the right to ki--)
The pavement wobbles underneath your feet. Exhaustion, that’s all it is. Hard day. Lots of animals, tons of hungry barking meowing growling mouths to feed, didn’t feed your own very much, maybe you should get a snack, though if you run into Christina she’ll try to make you something and you don’t want to trouble her.
(Troublemaker, troubling others, causing so much trouble, though that doesn’t mean you deserve to die. It caused far more trouble than you, and yet--)
Fuck, can’t step in the garden, you planted some of that, can’t go crushing all the hard work you and Christina went to, crushing life, crushing--
“Stop,” you plead to no one in particular, the single uttered word cracking in your throat. You swallow down a lump past a dry throat and shove your hands to the front door, head hanging low. Thank god it’s late, with nobody out walking their dogs or joggers popping around on the sidewalk. What a sight you’d be, though maybe the neighbors would be used to it, with them bearing witness to a series of drunken Kralies over the past few months.
You breathe in, filling your chest with the humid air.
You’re going to be okay. You didn’t do anything wrong, and even if you did, you have all the time in the world to take care of the problem tomorrow. Right now, you’re too out of it, shaken up by a force beyond your control. Right now, you’re exhausted, by work, by Alex, by yourself.
You have every right to go to bed and curl up and get some rest before facing all of this.
(Though, you’ll have to be careful, you can’t just lay there and try to sleep the day away, you fucking lazy thing, denying that you’ve caused this, you’re in trouble now--)
Your foot aches. How long were you standing there, stamping your shoe to the ground?
It doesn’t matter. The shaky pain riding its way up your shin brought you back to Earth. That’s what’s important and you don’t need to worry about anything for a couple hours.
Your tingling leg drags a bit as you let yourself into the house and step into the dark entrance hall. The television flashes from the corner of your vision, attracting your nervous attention. You step into the living room, not entirely sure who to expect.
Jay sits on his lonesome in his chair, laptop snapped shut beside him. He’s awake, though just barely, with the gleam of the late night cartoons in his wincing eyes. It takes him a moment to realize that he isn’t alone, and, maybe once upon a time he would’ve jumped at the sight of sudden company.
Instead, though, he peels himself from the chair, unsteadily bringing his feet to the floor. Pointing at the chair, he beckons you to sit with a nod of his head.
(You can’t remember the last time you came home to a Jay that wasn’t already asleep. It would depress you, if it weren’t for that excited smile he puts on once he realizes you’re there with him.)
As sore as your back is, you give into his silent request. The chair sags beneath your weight, groaning in time with your bones. Tiny and nimble as ever, Jay scampers onto the arm of the seat and plants himself in your lap, legs thrown over the other arm and head against your neck.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come pick you up,” he murmurs into your skin. The softness of his mouth is nearly enough to make you forgive him. Nearly. You’re still stuck in the car, held down beneath Alex’s glowering eyes.
You don’t say anything; luckily, Jay’s too lost in dreams to pester you for anything more than an acknowledging pat on the back.
“Alex wanted to, anyway,” the man yawns, hot breath spreading over your shoulder. “He wanted... wanted to talk about something important, what-- what was it? Tell me.”
Though you may be staring at the television, you haven’t the faintest what might be playing on it right now. You’re clinging to Jay’s words, puzzled. Alex made it seem as though he was being forced to come get you, but from what Jay’s saying, he went out to that hated shelter of his own accord.
The only conclusion you can draw from those combined explanations is that Alex didn’t want to appear threatening to you by coming out for you on purpose. Or he’s still going slightly insane. Maybe you’ll never know.
“It’s nothing important, he wants to help me get rid of some old stuff of ours,” you answer once you’ve wrapped your mind around a reply that wouldn’t be a lie but wouldn’t frighten Jay either. Your effort goes to waste, though; Jay’s shoulders rhythmically rise and fall against you with every slow breath he takes.
You look down at him and frown. Did he have to pin you to the chair like this? Maybe it doesn’t matter, especially when your own head is falling against the chair’s cushy back, dark specks flickering before your vision.
With Jay’s weight in your lap, you’re that much more grounded, forced to keep your head for his sake. It’s easier to rest this way, and, anyway, it’s not like it’s the first time Jay’s presence has forced you to keep calm for his sake.
You suppose there’s truth in the idea that there is comfort to be found in familiarity.
--
They move slow, holding Their weight on one leg, the other dragging behind Them. as much as They fight to keep from leaning on that leg, They can’t help it sometimes, and They scream from the inside, ripping into your brain and leaving both of you heaving for breath. for several moments, all the two of you know is pain and dark, crawling through a room you can’t see and splinters cutting through your fingers.
sunlight streams in through the ceiling, pouring in without warning and striking you blind. They yelp and you feel your head turn away, not of your own will.
you blink away the pain, shapeless figures sliding over your eyes and vanishing to reveal that you’re lying upon the floor of a ramshackle house, dust all over your palms and muddy footprints imprinted all around you.
this place, you’ve been here before. you, once, a camera strapped to your chest. Them, well, They have been here as well, though with far more purpose. if you peek back into the memory that isn’t yours, you can still smell the gunpowder, fresh and floating through the air, ironically peaceful.
in fact, you smell it now, see it on your clothes. looking down, you see something strange, something you don’t entirely understand at first glance-- then you stoop down (with your good leg), and you see it’s a gun. not just a gun, /the/ gun.
except, it’s not what it was, with the barrel melting into a silver puddle that drips through the cracks of the wooden floor. a soft clatter from nearby steals your attention, beckoning you to look up and see several empty casings rolling away. they fall, one by one into some hole in the ground you can’t see from here.
“look by where he and the girl were.”
Their voice rings clear in your head, clearer than you’ve ever heard it before. you’re used to static hanging heavy upon every word, rendering them until there’s nothing left but a garbled mess of threats and omens.
you obey Their order, turning your puzzled gaze to the corner that two frightened people cowered away and stared down the barrel of a raving madman’s gun-- the same one that lies dying upon the ground.
They lead you, taking control of the legs you’re sharing. it takes only three steps before you can see what They want to show you: a camera.
you don’t need to be told twice who it once belonged to. it’s been months since you’ve been beneath its stare, with it taking in your every move and word, but you might as well have just seen it yesterday.
the recording light gleams through the shadows, blinking, on and off. instinct directs your hand and stoops your good leg’s knee, bringing you close. the face that is reflected in the camera lens isn’t your own, but a smeared and painted version of it, lips bruised and eyes dead.
before you can get a closer look, the camera gives out a soft defeated beep, and it too dissolves, turning to bright grey liquid. you try to dip your fingers in the odd puddle it leaves behind, but it drips away through the floorboards, as though fleeing from you.
“it’s not so easy.”
They speak again, though they could be standing right next to you for how loudly their words meet your ear. you turn, and indeed, a figure stands at your side, bearing the face of the person you saw in the camera.
the Other You. Them, the one who has taken not only weeks, months even, of your life, but your identity, shaping and molding it into something that is more Them, not You, not human, not alive or dead.
just Something, Something that was part of you but now stands by you with sagging shoulders and limp limbs, a body that matches yours but is not yours at all.
“it’s not so easy, is it,” They repeat, turning their head at an unnatural angle that should’ve broken Their neck. you inch over-- on the leg that was once aching but may as well be brand new now-- and see They are looking where the camera once was. “giving up something without life is easy. getting rid of it. no guilt. sentiment, maybe, but no-- g-g-guilt.”
there-- the static returns to Them, just as Their head flickers and then it’s somehow turned to look at you again. you try to be discreet about it as you take a step back, putting more space between the two of you.
“What’re you saying to me?” you ask, pretending your voice doesn’t crack (not from fear you’re not scared you’re not scared of Them anymore, no, no). “What’s... what’s the point of bringing me back here?”
when They smile, it’s as though They’re an alien learning what the human sign for pleasure is. those darkening lips twitch, up, down, then up again, and Their razor-like teeth gleam when They manage to open Their mouth.
(you ignore the black bloody strands that hang from the inside of Their mouth, implying that there were once stitches sewn into the flesh.)
“you are dreaming, Tim. you are home. i did not take you anywhere.”
They look away from you, and you give yourself permission to breathe at last. those black eyes rake across the ceiling, examining the gashes within the rotted wood.
“would it be easy-- e-easier,” They begin, clamping a hand over Their broken lips when Their voice mutates into static once again. Their throat bobs, like They are swallowing the static. “would it... help you to feel better if i told you it is okay?”
“If what was okay?” you snap, resisting the urge to stomp your foot like a child and send it plummeting through the decrepit floor. “You’re not making any sense.”
a huge exhale heaves through Them, making it seem like breathing is a huge effort. They run a long fingered hand through Their hair, moving the bangs from Their eyes and giving you a clear view of the face you don’t want to see. you look away instantly, heart thundering inside of you.
“Tim. you cannot kill something that does not have a life in the first place.”
They take a single step toward you, hobbling on a single leg. you don’t dare to tear your gaze from the floor, as hard as it might be.
“any life i had was not something i could call m-mine. all of it, it was yours. and i will not lie. i enjoyed every second of life that i took from you.”
anger flares through you at that and it takes Their hand gripping your wrist for you to lock it back down, fear quickly taking its place. cold fingers rub across your erratic pulse, squeezing longingly.
“but i apologized to you and... words are only words, an apology cannot mean much without actions to back it up, is that right?”
you put all your energy in keeping your body still, praying that They can’t feel the trembles riding the length of your arm.
“Y...yeah. But I still don’t get what you’re saying to me.”
tingles flutter through your neck, and for one last time, you are moved against your will, head lifting to see the inhuman smile that stretches across Their face. there isn’t a single hint of you left to be found in Their eyes, Their lips, those sickly pale cheeks, hair that falls down to Their shoulders.
nothing.
“you have done nothing wrong to me. please don’t fret anymore.”
and as it did before, the substance that ought to be blood but absolutely refuses to be drips from mouth, dribbling down Their chin and staining the floorboards an inky black. it falls from Their eyes as well, streaming down Their face and joining with the puddle forming at Their feet. the drips become fast flowing rivers, soaking Their front and turning that tan jacket you don’t even own anymore dark.
in an instant, the hand that’s wrapped around your arm cracks at the skin, allowing more of that peculiar substance to come flowing through. you cry out, ripping away from the creature’s hold and-- to your horror-- Their arm splits from Their body, coming with you and flopping uselessly to the floor when you flick your wrist just right.
if it weren’t a dream, you might be able to chase your nausea from your stomach, but it is a dream, and you’ve got to remind yourself of that as the Other You-- Them, the one who no longer could be called a part of you-- becomes nothing more than a pile of rumpled clothing on the floor, all hints of the original wearer gone save for the pitch-black marks left behind by Their blood.
And-- and it’s definitely a dream, no doubt, because when you next open your eyes, you’re looking at an early morning news show, air heaving in and out of you with every haggard breath you take. A weight within your lap rocks back and forth constantly, and then there are hands on your face, running across your five o’clock shadow and disturbing the stubble growing there.
Instinct overpowers you, and before you can stop yourself, you’re shoving at the something seated upon you, sending it toppling to the floor with a-- a yelp? Yes, a yelp and a whine of your name. You blink the sleep from your eyes and squint at the stranger on your feet, waiting for their features to come into focus.
“Tim! Why’d you do that? Th-that really hurt...”
You regain a grip on your senses, holding on tight enough to realize the voice whining at you is /Jay’s/, and, shit, you pushed Jay to the floor and probably woke him up in the process. Of course, now you remember passing out underneath him while sitting in the living room chair big enough for two. Bit late to be recalling all of that, with Jay rubbing at his likely-to-bruise backside.
“I didn’t mean it,” you sputter immediately as you reach out and take his arms in your hands. You pull him back up to your lap and hold him, trying your best to be soothing when your head isn’t completely awake and aware yet. Jay sighs and leans into you, and you think that maybe you’re forgiven. For now, anyway.
“Lemme guess,” he murmurs while running his fingers up to your neck. He presses them into your pulse, earning a slight wince. “Nightmares again.”
Well. You don’t think he’s wrong. Not like you have a more appropriate word for what happened to you.
“I guess,” you say, gently taking his hand and removing it from your neck. He gives you a sleepy frown and searches your face, though you don’t know what for.
(Maybe he wants to make sure you’re not lying. Heat spreads across your face, though you have nothing to hide-- thank god it’s too dark for Jay to see the color in your cheeks.)
“You haven’t had a big nightmare in a while,” Jay observes. A worried crease forms in his brow, and his hand comes to paw at your unshaven face. It comes up to your forehead, checking for a temperature. “Are you feeling alright? Like, did you catch some kind of animal sickness?”
You bite the inside of your cheek at that. How... Jay-like. Again, you grab his hand and steer it away from your face, though this time you don’t let go.
“I’m not sick, Jay,” you assure him, squeezing his chilled fingers. “You really think I’m such a bad employee there that I’d let the animals get sick in the first place?”
The man’s shoulders shudder with a giggle.
“Oh, how rude of me, assuming you would let such a thing happen, please forgive me.”
“Damn right you’re sorry.”
His smile is hauntingly soft beneath the gleam of the television and the faint glow of the sunrise behind the couch, peeking in through the shades. At last, your chest is calm and still enough that you can let yourself lay back and close your eyes, though sleep lies far beyond your reach now.
“You never did say what the nightmare was about.”
That definitely wakes you the rest of the way up. You crack an eye open, taking in Jay’s bright curious gaze.
(How does one put that into words? ‘Your other boyfriend started harassing me about the fact that I still have the old mask and considering the mask used to be alive in a way, I’d feel like a murderer if I got rid of it! And so I had a guilt-fueled dream about the mask, and it was alive and talking to me and I’m completely not crazy, so don’t go thinking that, nope.’)
(Not the easiest of tasks, but you’re not going to get Jay off your back until you actually tell him the truth-- the full truth, too. As much as you might hope otherwise, liars are people who withhold the truth from others, and even if you’re not right out telling him the wrong story to his face...)
You shake your head. Breaking such a horrible habit-- defense mechanism, more like, for fear of losing those important to you but you’re no psychologist here-- it’s a process that takes one step at a time.
This is as good a time as any to start.
“...come with me,” you say just as Jay opens his mouth, likely to ask why you’re being so quiet. You wrap your hands around his hips and effortlessly lift him from your lap, propping him to stand on unsteady feet. He keeps his balance by clinging to your arm; the man manages to slow you down through his grip, prompting you to pause and turn back to him. “C’mon, I need to show you something.”
“Aren’t you going to tell me what you dreamt about?” he says around a frown.
“This has-- well, basically everything to do with it,” you assure him, and only then does Jay allow you to guide him through the living room, careful to keep from bumping into the tall floor lamp. Dawn may be creeping up upon Alabama, but it’ll be a while before the sunlight will be bright enough to illuminate your path.
Jay squints at the front door as you rattle the glass doorknob, apprehensive, but he doesn’t say anything against you taking him outside. Morning dew dampens both the wood of the front porch and the neatly trimmed grass you both walk across. A chittering squirrel flees from the roof of your car once it realizes it’s no longer alone.
You release your hold on Jay’s waist, letting him sleepily lean against the car. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch him flinching away immediately, caught off guard by the chilly raindrops all over the back door. Was it raining the previous evening and you hadn’t noticed, too trapped in your terror to even look at the world around you?
No wonder Jay wanted you to sit with him. You must’ve looked fucking pathetic.
“It’s cold out here,” he whines, hugging his thin form with uncovered arms. You ignore his undercover plea to go back inside; this is too important.
In your terrified haze the night before, you must’ve left the passenger side door unlocked, because it comes open without a fight. Luckily, nobody with ill intentions looked inside the window overnight and thought the mask would be a nice goodie to make off with. You stoop over and take it from the footwell.
You go still and glance over your shoulder at your shivering companion.
(It’s Jay. He forgave the man that attempted to murder him-- twice. He cares about that man, shows him tenderness and affection and will stretch the last bit of sanity he has left to make sure he’s okay.)
(You take a deep breath and force it, like tearing off a band-aid without warning. You straighten up, holding out the mask and closing your eyes.)
(Nothing. Not right away.)
(One, two, three Mississippi, four...)
Crickets fill the wordless air between you and Jay. Birds soon follow, awakening and stretching their wings to go searching for worms poking out of the softened dirt.
You have to look. He might not even be standing there anymore with how quiet he’s being.
Of course Jay is still right in front of you when you pry apart your eyelids; you surely would’ve heard him fleeing. The man isn’t speaking, though, with his eyes glued onto the painted bit of plastic that you’re presenting to him. You attempt to dissect what might be going on in his brain, picking apart his expression and coming up short; he could have fallen asleep on his feet and you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.
“Jay,” you croak out, his name more of a cough than a word. You clear your throat, ignoring the tears welling up inside of it. “I dreamt about this. But it wasn’t some weird dream out of nowhere. It-- it’s because I still had-- have this and Alex... he found out and it’s not like I’ve been /trying/ to keep it a secret from you guys, but I haven’t been sure how to get rid of it or if I should or if-- shit, if I’ll even be able to, but...”
None of that makes sense in your head, and so how is it meant to make sense to Jay? You exhale sharply, reaching out and holding onto his shoulder with your free hand. The tension that forms beneath your touch spawns a painful tightness that radiates from your chest to every one of your limbs, but you ignore it in favor of shaking Jay from his trance.
“Please say something,” you ask him-- beg him--
(Please don’t be afraid of me again--)
Those ocean blue eyes you wake up to every morning now grow huge, pupils becoming pinpoints. Jay doesn’t rip away from you, but the message is there now, written in the trembles that course through the man’s body.
“If it wasn’t supposed to be a secret, then how come you never told us anything about it ‘til now?”
Jay’s voice cracks, not from-- (thank god thank all the higher powers maybe you’ll become a priest just to make it up to them)-- fear, but confusion. You throw the mask onto the ground, where it splashes in a thin puddle and goes brown at the edges with grime.
“Because I didn’t want to scare anyone. Because I knew it’d make me less trustworthy, and, and I don’t want to lose that when I worked so hard for it,” you heave through lungs that can’t find enough air in this humid morning. Tears continue to prickle your eyes, fighting your stubborn attempts to wipe them away. “I never intended on... using it, or anything like that. B-but that doesn’t matter much, I guess, since there’s that fucking history of losing control and all.”
Jay presses his lips together, holding back. He looks to the mask and stoops down, sending ripples through the muddy puddle when he takes the white face by its string.
“I do trust you,” he confirms, careful fingers chasing the flecks of filth from the mask and ever so gracefully drying themselves upon the front of his hoodie. “I believe you when you say you’re not going to use it and never intended to, but... you’re right, Tim.”
Tilting his head down to look at you with the eyes of a worrying parent, a frown comes to pull at his face.
“It makes me more than nervous to see it around since, yeah, you weren’t exactly able to control yourself in the past with it.”
(Alex’s words sit heavy in your mind. ‘I wish I was strong as you.’ He reminds you constantly of how strong you are compared to him, how you were able to resist the voices and the twitches that forced your hands to move in ways you didn’t want.)
(A person can be strong, they can be the strongest person on the planet, but they will wilt someday. Age will find them and break them down, crackling in their bones and in the muscles that seize up when they never used to.)
(Maybe you’re still as strong as you were when you first came out of the chaos that monster brought, bearing the broken body of your last friend. But you’re going to fall out of practice, too focused on normalcy, no practice, no thought given to the harsh waves that once swirled through your very being, poison in your veins and paralysis in your muscles.)
(The mask can’t stay here. Regardless of how peaceful your mind may be now, how void it is of static and that single whispering voice.)
You look at Jay, a wordless plea in your everything, in your submissive drooping shoulders and shining eyes.
“I didn’t mean to do this. I really didn’t. I’m sorry.”
Reaching out with fingers that shake against your will, you silently ask for the mask back. Jay peers down at you (and you always forget he’s taller, not by much but in times when you’re so small and frightened, it shows and you want to hide in him until this is all gone but that’s not an option here)-- and he hands it off without hesitation.
His fingertips brush yours when the string slides down to your knuckles, and you know then for sure that he still trusts you.
He doesn’t have to say a thing.
--
Funny enough, burning it is Alex’s idea.
You don’t mention why it’s funny to him, and you try your hardest to hold back the strange laugh that tickles away at your throat. Is it a metaphor to him somehow, to burn away unwanted fragments of the past? Or perhaps he has a secret fetish for burning plastic. You’d whisper the thought into Jay’s ear as a joke between the two of you if you weren’t choking back nerves-induced nausea.
Alex, graciously enough, is the one to seek out matches for the deed. You watch him search his bedroom, pulling drawer after drawer out and slamming them shut with a choice curse. When he does eventually recover the matches, he stares at them for a moment too long, face blank to lock away any hint that he might be lost in the past.
It’s obvious that this isn’t the first time he used them but you don’t ask him to confirm or explain. You already know that there’s a history behind the packet you now clutch between your sweat-slick fingers. Maybe it’d be better for everybody involved if you ‘accidentally’ lost these.
At first, you want to do the deed in the backyard, since it’d be nice and quick. But both Alex and Jay resist-- “Mom would fucking kill me if she found out I’d helped bury more burnt stuff in the backyard,” Alex says without the shame of most grown men when bearing the fearful respect they hold for their mothers.
Jay’s excuse is more one born of a need for comfort.
“I write in the backyard, I don’t want to see the dug up spot and know what’s sitting there in it,” he shrugs, blood spreading in his cheeks when he continues to speak. “And, uh, I don’t want the deer around here to come grazing and accidentally eat some ashes or something.”
Alex’s excuse is enough, honestly, you’ll always respect Christina’s wishes. But Jay’s is the one that gets a smile out of you along with a faint chuckle.
“Fine. For the deer.”
And so, the three of you leave that afternoon, stepping through the locked fence that sections off the Kralies’ backyard from the not too far off woods.
This wooded area isn’t remarkable by any means. It isn’t the thickest of forests, with many stumps dotted along the path, fungi and mushrooms hiding away in their shadows as signs of their age. A single off-color dirt path exists within, standing out from the rest of the soil as a sickly yellow that reminds you of the odd dust that janitors sprinkled on vomit made by the more anxious patients at the hospital. That path cuts off at a sparkling river bountiful with fish, vanishing into the water and leaving no choice for travelers but to wander aimless.
Neither of your companions have wandered into these trees since you all arrived at Alex’s childhood home, at least to your knowledge. You have, just once, carrying bottles that sloshed with liquids that burnt your nose with their stink. Since then, you’ve not returned, none too eager to go poking around forests after all you’ve experienced in them.
You’re guessing Jay and Alex aren’t much different in that regard.
Jay sticks close to you both, preferring to walk in the middle of your shoulder-to-shoulder stance. He doesn’t have to voice his nerves; it’s evident in his back-and-forth glances and his hunched back. Still, you don’t feel as though he’d go darting back to the house if you told him he didn’t have to come.
You don’t get that from Alex. He walks with his hands stuffed into his jeans’ pockets, spine straight and limbs stiff. He doesn’t speak for the entire trip except to warn you or Jay of thick branches threatening to trip unaware feet.
“Y’know, neither of you had to come,” you remind them, more so Alex than Jay. The smaller man shakes his head without an ounce of hesitance and clasps your hand in his. Unbelievably enough, his fingers are colder than yours, clammy even.
“I know that,” Alex says dimly, barely raising an eyebrow. “But I need to see you burn it. It’s-- never mind, it’s just a thing, it doesn’t matter.”
You think you get it. It’s something for you too, you wouldn’t want Jay to be the one to burn the mask because /you/ need that closure desperately.
That or Alex really does get off on watching stuff go up in smoke, but whatever.
With little sunlight to illuminate the area, the woods are darker than they usually would be, and it’s definitely not doing your pounding heart any favors. If it were up to you, you’d have chosen a spot way far back to bury the mask. It’s not your choice, though; instinct drives you forward, taking every step for you.
Coincidence, fate, or pure idiocy pulls your head to turn at the right (wrong?) moment when the sun is inches from touching the horizon. Surely what you see is the result of some prankster, a teenager that maybe once watched the videos posted online, or they have no idea what the symbol stood for and thought it looked cool.
Either way, you spot the infamous crossed out circle standing out against the darkened bark of a lone tree standing in the middle of a clearing. Burnt grass blades lay at its twisting roots, all the green that was once there sapped away in a wash of jagged black. The symbol itself is a searing white against the tree, as though it were drawn on, but it’s clearly marked into it through means of a knife or something similar.
You break from the unintentional walking formation and approach the tree. Alex and Jay linger behind, their eyes boring into your back with raised eyebrows.
“Here,” you utter aloud, dropping to your knees in the ashen dirt. Grey flecks appear beneath your fingernails as you dig into the ground, sweeping aside layers of earth. It isn’t long before the burnt pieces of dirt give way to a healthy layer of brown soil.
Jay creeps up behind you, stooping down to help you dig.
“Why here?” he asks, though you don’t need to answer him; he figures it out for himself when he tilts his head back and sees the mark cut into the bark. A high yelp of surprise makes it out of him before he can slap his hands to his mouth. “T-Tim--”
“It’s fine.”
Both you and Jay crane your necks to look back at Alex. He crosses the short distance between the three of you, walking with relaxed footsteps and a mildly interested glint in his eye. Extending a hand from his pocket, he runs it down the tree trunk, catching soot upon his fingertips.
“I did this,” he admits, rubbing his thumb along the smooth remains coating the whorls of his fingers. “It was ages ago, I thought somebody would have come along and cut it down.”
How is it you didn’t realize it was Alex in the first place? At least you weren’t exactly wrong; it /was/ a teenager, but one you know better than expected.
“We’re not going to accidentally dig up any tapes, are we?” you ask mostly as a joke-- though you have to hold back from adding ‘or something worse’. It’s not the best time for you to be finding out that Alex has a bigger body count on his head than you thought.
Thankfully, Alex shakes his head and comes to your other side, carelessly pushing aside a few more handfuls of dirt.
“I was being a punk and I’m not even entirely sure how I managed this, but I definitely didn’t leave anything here to dig back up.”
A deep enough hole (a hole that manages to resemble a grave, even with its small size) forms with the three of you working at it together. Alex and Jay back off, leaving you room to take the mask off your belt.
You hold it before you.
As old as this mask is, it never really aged. Every memory you have of the stark white face looking back at you from the mirror has it standing out from the shadows, forever new and unmarred by your constant trips into the dirty forest.
Recently, it’s as though the mask realized it wasn’t made yesterday, and it began to take on dust as it sat hidden in the back of your trunk. At some point in the last few days, between the three pairs of hands it was in, a crack emerged at the edge, zigzagging down the forehead and coming to a stop a few centimeters from the left eyebrow.
It occurs to you that it kind of resembles Harry Potter and his own magically crafted scar. Of all the most inappropriate moments, you’re laughing /now/, a broken piece of painted plastic in your hands and your only friends in the world standing behind you, uncomfortably shuffling about at the growing volume of your laughter.
“Holy fuck,” you choke out between giggles, ignoring the tear that trickles out of the corner of your eye. “Holy-- this is the worst timing, I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I... wow.”
“You’re not about to go rogue on us, are you?”
Turning your head, you see that Jay has gone to hide behind Alex, peeking out at you from over his shoulder. The bubbling delight in your chest pops instantly and you shake your head firmly, letting the mask finally drop into its final resting place.
“N-no, that-- I don’t know what that was,” you confess. Wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand (and when did the laughter-born crying turn into plain old crying?), you climb back to your feet and take the matches from your pockets. “I’m doing it.”
Alex glances between you and the mask. The temptation is written all over his face; he wants to be the one to toss the burning match into the hole. Luckily he doesn’t fight you. Instead, he steps back and clutches Jay’s arm, like he needs to use his presence hold himself back.
You return to the spot in the ground with several pairs of footprints worn into it, right in front of the mask. Silence settles over the forest; even the birds have ceased twittering, though that could be due to the setting sun. Snapping off a match from the bundle is far louder than it ought to be; you have to grit your teeth to keep from grinding them at the sound, too similar to bones breaking.
(And, shit, you are too familiar with /that/ sound.)
All those times you fell to your knees, stone digging past your jeans. Those moments spent rolling on the ground, dirt gathering upon your light jacket-- blood trickling down your head, soaking your hair, staining your jacket.
All of that, and the mask never got a mark on it. Now, though, the little bits of ash and dirt around it sully its once clean face, turning it grey, black, brown, burying it in neutral color.
Somehow, that’s what brings you to strike the match against the rubber of your shoe and toss the bold flame into the grave.
There’s nothing alive in there, fighting to stay perfect and bright.
Nothing left.
That one flame takes its time to spread across the plastic, inching along the chin. The string burns much more easily, glowing a faint orange.
You don’t look away, not even for a second. Your companions come up from behind, hovering close, but they don’t approach near enough to be able to peer directly at the mask. What was once clean fresh air goes pungent with smoke and burning plastic; you cover your mouth and wince as the cloud wafting from the hole expands and dances beneath your nose.
Jay coughs from behind you, stifling it into his sleeve. The heady smell gets to be too much. Using your foot, you kick mounds of disturbed dirt back into place, covering up the dying face. Hollow eyes melt and drip down, creating valleys and mountains that fold into themselves. You cover them first, suffocating it of oxygen and extinguishing the fire flickering across the eyebrows.
The last you see of the mask is its curling lips. Once upon a time, you would’ve been convinced that it was smiling at you, sharing one last farewell before being buried away.
You know better now.