A Collection of Masks

The blanket is light and soft, airy and thin. Blood is splattered everywhere, and I grin. How stupid he was to think I had forgiven him. How stupid he was to ask for a place to stay after he had gotten kicked out by his ex. How stupid he was to think I was sane.

The guest room was large and oval-shaped, with a large crystal window that took up almost the whole wall. I breathe in the scent of jasmine and gore as my fingers itch for something, something to pull and tear and rip apart into tiny little pieces.

It happened so long ago, hadn’t it? On that day, my sixth birthday, when my father murdered my mother and I murdered him and my aunt tried to murder me and I ran away.

My family had always been…unstable. I grinned again, standing there in the shadow of a murder with the crisp, fresh wind blowing through the windows, the white and silver curtains dappled with drips and puddles of fresh red blood. I ran my finger along the edge of the knife I had used for the dirty work. My finger, soft and delicate after so long of nothing to kill, was cleanly sliced open, and I cackled at the pain. How beautiful death was. How soulful and good it felt!

It had been much, much, much too long since I could do this. How horrible it had felt to be ensnared in love, how horrible it was to leave yourself vulnerable to ache and heartbreak. Oh, how much better it was to be like this. Alone. Without. Strong. Powerful.

I wander through the closet of the apartment, my hands and fingers still dripping with blood as the thick red liquid, so pure and gorgeous, leaves a shining trail on the wooden floor. Blood. It excites me, makes everything tint red. The pure thought of it makes me giggle, but holding it in my hands…I felt like I was going to faint from pure joy.

I stop. I think I need to put on a new face. This face, this mask, is dirty and used and horrifying, and will too quickly reveal me.

Closing my eyes, I simply hide this mind away, gently placing it in a far-off corner I will visit later, and mentally shuffle through the other ones I have. No, no, no, no…ah, perfect. I slowly pull it out, making sure the nose fits and the eye hole is wide enough and that my fingers are all clean and the apartment is bloodless and I put it on, letting the fractured soul that had momentarily slipped out disappear and a new, fresh one fall into place.

She doesn’t quite know what she’s doing. Why she’s here. What is happening. But this happens a lot to Georgia. She will wake up in her bed and then a moment later it will be lunch time and she is at work. She doesn’t know why. Perhaps her brain is tired and falls asleep from the long, painful hours at the office working for Mr. Clark. Or maybe this is her body’s way of helping her escape from her boring life, speeding it up a little so she doesn’t have to live through all of it by herself. Often she can feel other things, other thoughts and people and souls in her mind, slithering and whispering and shouting and pounding.

She doesn’t mind. Of course she does. But she doesn’t really.

Her hands are shaking. She looks down. Why are they shaking? Did she touch something too cold or too hot? Did they knock something down? The gaps in her mind are getting wider and wider. Sometimes she feels like a jacket, being used and shared and given away, and those times when she’s ‘not there’ are getting longer and longer.

Georgia shivers. It’s hard for her to think about things like this. Things like this that she can’t control nor share. Things like not being able to remember her father or mother or any family or any childhood. Things like people acting like friends around her, even though she has never, ever met them. Things like men casting sly or flirty looks at her even though the only thing she knows about them is their name. It all made her constantly clumsy and tired and confused and different, and she could never focus on anything for longer than a few minutes.

Suddenly she goes rigid. She can’t feel her fingers. Or anything else, for that matter. This is the first time this has happened, but she doesn’t panic. She has learned that there are some things in life that you have no control over, things that can change you and hurt you and warp you, and you just have to go with it.

A voice, a voice of cold and frost and blade, a voice she has heard whispering and scheming in her mind, starts to stir.

She’s too unstable. I have used her for far too long. The effects are taking place. Perhaps it is time to fully dispose of her.

The words are scary and disorienting, but once again Georgia lets them fly around her without trying to push them away.

She finds herself moving, but not really herself. Her feet and arms and fingers and legs are moving, yes, but not her. She tries to make her fingers wiggle and touch her cheek. They don’t listen.

The voice in her mind cackles. Trying to fight back? This is new. Yes, I do think this little mind is ready to be killed.

It’s hard not to panic now. Something horrible and evil is happening, something not quite magic and not quite human. She tries to struggle and tries to scream, tries to stomp her foot and stop her body, but it doesn’t work.

Let’s see…this is the second time a mind’s time has run out. Last time it was a little too messy. This time, though, I’m fully prepared.

Georgia-not-Georgia moves to a cabinet, one of marble and gold that she always admired but never opened for a reason she could only describe as ‘her hands not letting her’. Her hands, this time, though, open it, and it is filled with tiny little pills in tiny little clear plastic containers with tiny little labels on them.

Killing a mind is difficult work, see. You have to inflict enough pain to kill the mind, but not too much to kill the body. Last time I had to read up on acupuncture and muscle vulnerability and temporary death. But that was much, much to…gory. The voice laughed again, old memories beyond Georgia’s reach seeming to wake. No, no, this is a much better method. Lucky you, little Georgia Hickerson. You’ll be the first one to die like this.

I placed a hand on my wrist, trying not to double over from the pain of the pill. It worked, it worked perfectly, but the pain is still horrible, nauseating, murdering. I grit my teeth. Georgia is gone, and it brings me something almost sad. She was a cute little one, always perfectly oblivious and confused. She didn’t have many friends, no boyfriend or anything, that was Rachel’s feature, and after the first incident and after killing her, I decided I didn’t need it anymore.

Georgia had a job, though, so I probably had to go clean that up. Maybe with Maya. She was always so sweet and likable, the second personality that I had created, and the best thing about her was how I could control her without any fuss. I had never been able to re-create a half-half soul, the best I could muster was temporarily taking control of their bodies or whispering to them for a little. My anger washes away the pain, and I close the marble and gold cabinet I always have admired.

This game has gone on forever, and while it was fun to play with souls and hide from them and create minds and personalities, I knew the time when I could be rid of them was coming soon. I just had to bide my time until something horrible happened. I could fester on that wound and use it to create the perfect personality, one I could control like my own body, but with everything I needed so my crimes wouldn’t be discovered. But now…now I was done waiting for the blow to come. Now…it was time to cause some trouble.