Unmasked

Masks

By Charles Inkman

I sighed, taking a deep breath, calming my nerves. Tonight was the big night. I had everything prepared, everything planned out. The decorations were in place, the musicians had been selected, the speakers chosen. Everything was almost perfect. Simple dandelions would line the stage adding a sense of playful youth, but gentle enough not to detract from the main spectacle. All my tools were laid out beside me, my brushes, my powders, my lucky shell and my paints to bring the last, and most important features to life.

Pat, pat, pat. I dabbed the brush firmly into the concealer, a nice pale skin tone to cover up all the blemishes, cover up the flaws, the imperfections. Though, if I was being honest with myself, there were few imperfections. Perfect skin. Beautiful. The brush pressed softly against the skin, the slightest hushing sound rising up as each bristle deposited it's treasure of beauty upon the skin. A dab here, a stroke there, and with a steady, methodical and well practiced hand I guided the brush over the skin, hiding each tiny blemish.

I sighed, taking a deep breath, calming my nerves. After this, I'd be done. Once and for all. This was it, the grandest finale, and it would be perfect. Not gaudy, not flamboyant, but simply perfect. With a puff of powder I dug the wide finely bristled brush of the foundation into the lightly scented, chalky powder. It tickled my nose, the scent accentuating the cold air that clung to me. Soft pulls of the brush over near perfect skin, steadily laying a beautiful, smooth foundation over the entire face. The face. It had to be perfect. Flowers could wilt, the stage could burn and all would still be fine if the face was beautiful. I had to make the face beautiful.

Dolling up. There was really no other way to phrase it. People might not like the term, indeed I wasn't a huge fan of it myself, but there was little better phrasing available. Other people might put on a good show, people might like to pretend they don't 'doll up', but they do. In the end we all do, in one form or another. Whether it be muscle, hair, make up, clothes or something else, we all doll up because in the end, that's all we are. Dolls. Puppets. Puppets on the stage of public opinion.

I sighed, taking a deep breath, calming my nerves. No point in getting emotional now. It wouldn't do me any good and would just make my work more difficult. I felt a knot in my throat and swallowed hard, choking down my emotions as I had always done before. As I had always been taught to do. No point in changing now. It was too late now anyway. It was my own hands that brought me here, and it would be my own hands that rescued me from this hell. My own hands, steady as I picked up the eyeliner. A quiet part of my mind rebelled against me, mortified at what I was going to be doing, but with more practice than even the brush in my hand, I pushed that quiet part of me aside. The quiet parts of my mind were quiet for a reason. As I brought the liner to the eye I froze, catching my own reflection in the metallic gleam of the table before me, the look in my eyes was as dead as I felt. Death and I were far too intimately acquainted. Yet as always I pushed on with steady hands. The gentle strokes of the brush to cold skin highlighting it in perfect accentuation, followed quickly by deft painting of the eyebrows.

Many folks wear masks in their lives. Indeed, it is my belief that all men and women and all others wear masks of one form or another. Some wear the mask of beauty, others wear a mask of ugly bitterness. Some wear badges while other's wear balaclavas. In my experience, I have realized that the mask is less useful than the person who wears it. Even one marked with ugliness, a face pocked with marks and warts and boils, even a face such as that can be wielded to great affect if the user is intelligent. No matter how deftly wielded a mask may be however, there always comes a time when the mask becomes indistinguishable from one's true self. What happens then to the person beneath? Have they faded away, broken down by the mockery or praise of public opinion? Have they repeatedly been repressed again and again, squashed and pummeled into oblivion by the self-hatred and loathing that revels in the hearts of all? Or is there a truth that lies beneath it all, a heart that remains young? A heart that remains pure, and yearns to be seen and known and heard in all the fullness and completeness of it's existence? Or is that just petty, whimsical thinking?

I sighed, taking a deep breath, calming my nerves. Next came the blush. It is important with blush to ensure you apply the right amount. Too much blush and it looks cheap, like the fading mask of a well used whore that presents only a mockery of love and affection, but is as shallow as the sex itself. Too little blush, and the rest of the makeup is not held together in a perfect balance. The eyes would look bulbous and the lips would pop too brightly and everything would be ruined. Having always taken a professional pride in my work, the blush was perfect.

I hold no explanation, no excuses, no reason, to try and explain away the events that lead me here. I acted foolishly, and I behaved irresponsibly. I did not believe that men were capable of such horror. I had heard of stories such as this, and the depravity of mankind, but I hadn't grasped the reality of what that meant. I did not know the lengths to which a man might go simply to reclaim a few thousand dollars.

I sighed, taking a deep breath, calming my nerves. Next was the lips. Lips that should have one day known love, and compassion. Lips that should have one day spoken tales in quiet confidence to another. Lips that should have one day laughed brightly under the noonday Sun, or kissed softly in the moonlit nights. These lips had never known such joy. Nor would they ever. I pressed the lipstick to the lips and drew it gently across them to leave a perfectly thin layer of rouge upon youthful lips. That damned knot in my throat refused to go no matter how hard I swallowed, as I gazed upon my handy work. It was beautiful. A mask to hide the death beneath. I growled in frustration as tears came unbidden to my eyes and rolled down my cheeks, splashing lightly upon the metallic table before me. I had thought this part of me died long ago, and that nothing and no one could ever uncover it. It frustrated me that I wept as I did now, before the big debut, but there was no helping it. I took a step back and picked up my shell, twisting it around in my fingers as I silently wept, gazing upon my work. Her face was as beautiful as it always should have been.

My work was done, but better yet, my mistakes would never plague another being ever again. I loaded my lucky shell, and snapped it into place. My masks had led me here, to paint the face of my own daughter. I would never paint another face again. Nor would I ever wear a mask again.