Face thief

Allegedly people get put off by the idea of tearing off somebody’s face. 

But then, which ultimately makes me wonder, why so?

Has society succeeded in depriving itself of curiosity? Are we no longer capable of engaging in anything, of not being completely absorbed by the very performance itself? Do we no longer have impulses, does nothing emerge from our darkest, most primal nature? Have we managed to tame those instincts? Have we over-humanized ourselves? Are we legitimized even to call ourselves humans? Or are we already someone – something – else entirely?

 If I were to decide, however, I would love to wake up in someone else’s life, steal someone else’s face. 

Guess that makes me utterly under-humanized.

I would rip it off, bit by bit, without rushing, intoxicated by the act of such downright sadism. Deliberately and methodically, letting myself savor the pleas skedaddling from the wide gap between the lips – ones that had been slightly parted a moment ago, only now to, full of dread and incomprehension, choking on its graceless demands, hold feebly, yet so dearly to my non-existent mercy – lips that anon be mine.

To consummate my performance, satisfy thus far ceaselessly famished yearn, I would separate the freshly torn face from that yolk-ish, gunky mass of meat and gore, the appetizing image of horror, the cloying sense of glee – and grant it with a brand new purpose. Let it be reborn, enhanced. Let it be mine. 

Wouldn’t you say that too? 

Isn’t the picture of such an act, however vague, however predictable, scrumptious? 

Aren’t we all – within a sweetly confined space of our minds – revere these deranged lusts we dare not to share anywhere else and with anyone, and hence secretly and rather desperately so we hold onto them at the loss of letting go? 

Don’t we all wish to, only briefly so, experience how it feels to be an entirely different person? 

Not to be me. Not someone with a similar life to mine. Similar face, lips, symmetry. All that feels somehow wrong, somehow vile.

But then again, if – with such a comparison of two separate lives, would I be able to come back to my previous self? 

Would I be willing to?

Beats me. 

Perhaps, 

Maybe not? 

But then again, yes, why not?

Maybe the new face would suit me better. No longer foreign but familiar and welcoming – it would invite me with its arms open, warm confirmation of the completed metamorphosis.

And I would accept it, put on a mask – or maybe take off the mask I had been wearing until now, only to finally free myself from it, only to finally find my true face. Maybe someone had ripped it off me long before I was cursed with consciousness? Maybe someone – piece by piece, despite my mad pleas – had taken away from me one by one: my eyebrows and eyes, wrinkles around them, my nose snotty from crying, my lips twisted in both confusion and helplessness. Maybe I am only taking back what originally belonged to me? Maybe it is my grizzled revenge? Maybe it is innate justice?

Maybe I was in a café once, and along with the ordered coffee I was given a cookie – the perfect combination of crunchy and buttery, filled with chunks of expensive, deeply flavored chocolate. And just as I was about to reach for it and bite into it with overwhelming pleasure, someone ran up to my table and stuffed it into their disgusting, greedy mouth.

Only now that my initial shock of such an act of impudence has passed, I am finally able to stand up from my chair (having previously taken a large sip of the now cold coffee) and pull the cookie out of this gut-churning mouth.

To rip out a cookie, and in retaliation, also rip off the person’s tongue, scratch their throat, and laugh victoriously at the sight of blood mixing with the remnants of chocolaty flakes.

And then, to the sweet-sounding melody emerging from those deservedly torn lips, I would order an entire box of cookies and stuff them inside me, one by one, humming jolly to myself.

***

I was drawing a bath – extremely listless, bummed out, burned out, on the verge – when it struck me. This peculiar thought, this unexpected need not to be me. To own a dissimilar background and upbringing. To think and feel not like I got used to. To look nothing like myself this or any moment whatsoever. To grit different teeth, grow unfamiliar hairs, pluck alien brows.

If you could choose what person you’d like to switch places with who would it be? 

If you were to steal a face how would you wish it to look like? 

Would you rather it be immaculate and sharp, cute and chubby, saggy and tired due to wonders of every unfavorable time?

Whatever face it will be, to steal it you ought to be oh-so, devilishly so cautious.

The water had grown tired of my naked body and made me shiver in its refreshing coldness. Grayish from the soap, it dreamed of throwing ostentatious glances at me. Yet in its cold hostility, I could only discover thoughts colder than the water itself.

Cold enough to warm my soul. To ignite, burn, and be reborn in a form devoid of purity, infected with deliciously repulsive possibilities.

Was I terrified by it? Or was it a delicately pulsating disorientation, or perhaps excitement, anticipation?

I could feel it on the tip of my tongue, I could savor the feeling, hold it, cultivate it. Master it. Let it master me.

If you had to rip the face off, would you do it with your own hands?

Or with an object, sharpened at the end so that it could make quick and precise movements? To take the form of a refined animal. A monster of precision.

Not for the beauty, nor the immortality but out of the luxury of free will. Out of the stubbornness of a kid who has everything or nothing and wants more. 

Can have more, dare to take more, act for more. Steal for more. 

If you were to rip the face off would you? 

I got up from the tube, with only my bare hands, naked and wet, piercing cold gripping and water dripping on the floor, forming stains that would eventually evaporate. 

With my bare hands, it was temptingly delicious to form stains that would prevail.