Mask Unlifted

Acrobat, as the world chose to call Sylvia, was everything the city needed her to be.

The press drew the unbowing hero with a cape as dark as night. Its thick fabric flapped behind her, indenting her neck as it tugged her back in the wind.

They drew the hero with thick boots. Sleek and dark as night, they weighed heavily on her feet, scuffed with memories of brawls past.

The utility belt they sketched was never purposeful. But it still cinched tight at her waist—just as they wanted her to be.

Beams of sunset weaved through the skyscrapers. Sylvia reflected against every window she flew past. Her silhouette burned into her gaze with the fleeting light, an image of her future and past alike. Tomorrow, the next newspaper will fly from the booths, Acrobat headlining as she always did.

Breaths came easily. Air created its rhythm, a serene ebb and flow that kept fueling her forward. Wind snaked its way under her mask, through her lips, brushing against her forehead. Laughter whistled a melodic tune over the city’s new park. For now, she felt alive.

Her hand slid into her pocket as she circled the edge of the bridge, just past city hall. An invitation brushed against her fingertips, paper still creased from its envelope—another ceremony at dusk for the fearless hero, Acrobat.

Sylvia painted a smile onto her face. Rallying, lively cheers echoed upwards, vibrating through her skull as she drifted into view. Her boots pressed into the solid stage, creaking as she relaxed herself into her thick soles. Thin cotton curtains separated her from the racket, a minuscule shield compared to the chaos held just beyond.

She fumbled with the corner of the invitation again, letting the edges sink against her palm. It stuck to her fingers with each touch, her pocket slowly growing moist. As her breathing became heavy, she peeled away part of the mask plastered to her face from the long day, tucking away the hard mouthpiece. On occasion, she presented herself more exposed, a treat to those she saved. On occasion, she allowed herself to be almost seen.

Flashing lights flickered through a cotton sliver. Sylvia allowed herself to peek, skulking through the shadows as though the whole city missed her descent. A podium stood in the center of a stage, awaiting an inspiring speech from her. In time, she would be welcomed on, with her picture-perfect suit and charming smile.

The mayor’s assistant came stumbling forward, clipboard tucked neatly in her arm. “You’re here!” She marveled, eyes sparkling behind thick glasses. “You will go on in five minutes.”

Sylvia’s lips parted into a pearly grin. “Thank you,” she said, bowing her head slightly.

“Yes, of course.” The assistant stood in awe, dumbstruck by the woman standing before her. Her gaze only became heavier as she scrutinized every inch of Sylvia, as though she didn’t believe the news articles to be true. She managed to extend a shaky hand, eyes wide with wonder.

Sylvia brushed her hand against her side as she reached out, smearing away the beading sweat. She shook the assistant’s hand briefly before the woman shuffled back towards the array of cameras and microphones behind the curtain. Her heels clacked against the floor as she went, her curious nature giving way to the measured precision of someone in charge.

Tonight, Sylvia would spend hours with reporters, microphones, cameras, and groups flocking to see the spectacle that was their savior. Hundreds of photos awaited printing and plastering, papers awaited autographs, and the night awaited rest.

…

Sylvia deliberately drifted back to her apartment through shadow, her mind foggy from hours of endless questions and praise. As the sky fell silent, the familiar beating of helicopter blades faded off into the distance. Sun knelt to Mistress Moon in all her glory, dragging his silks from the sky in brilliant purple hues, making way for her cover of night.

Her breath fogged against her window as she pried the ledge open. Her fingers worked slowly, numb from the midnight cold. Paint peeled in her palms, falling away from the brick wall. Broken webs caught slivers of moonlight as Sylvia brushed them away. She added dusting to her never-ending list of chores she never had time for, another bullet point weighing down her mind.

Her expression fell flat as she tumbled through the old window frame, graceless and uncaring.

The window squealed shut behind her, the wooden frame nearly breaking free with another crack. The lamp she forgot to turn off flickered dimly, illuminating the room just enough for Sylvia to make out her feet.

She untucked the new medal stuffed into her suit. It glinted gently in the light, its ribbon harsh as she tugged it away from her neck. She inspected it for a moment, then brushed away the streaks of sweat from her chest.

The Fearless Hero, it read, the city’s seal engraved just above. Her eyes glazed over the word fearless over again, until the fiery remains of the press’ flash faded away. She laid it to sleep in the case with the rest, sighing as the cabinet creaked shut.

Sylvia tugged the lamp’s cord until the room dimmed to a muted glow. Her gloves slipped away from her hands, falling limp against the table. Her cape draped over the edge of the couch, hiding the tufts of cotton filling. Her mask followed, landing on the table with a hollow thud louder than any cheer.

She stared at it for a long while, her tired eyes fixed on the mask. The city’s hero, the Acrobat, waited there on wood, staring up at her with a perfect smile. But in the darkened window, only Sylvia looked back.

She slumped back into the couch by the sill. It groaned under her, old but unloved. Dust clung to her hands, coating her in reminders of everything she would never outrun. Her neck ached as she tenderly caressed the lines left behind by her cape.

Tomorrow, they would call again.

Tomorrow, she would answer, seen only as the one they called Acrobat.