Is There Still a Woman Behind the Mask?

I should have felt happy. I wanted to feel happy. My dressing room had elegant dresses hanging from all the racks, fancy scarves draped across almost every surface, and so many shoes dotted the floor that an obvious path led to my vanity mirror.

Numerous tubes of lipstick sat along the surface, some of them unopened, nail polish remained in their rainbow arrangement, mascara and eyeshadow waited impatiently to be picked up. All of them were the best brands money could buy.

Thousands of people were counting down my future appearance, which would happen within the hour. Thousands of people had paid to see me. Thousands of people couldn’t wait for me to emerge from behind the curtain to cheer me on as I took center stage.

I should have felt happy about that. I wanted to be happy about it. 

But all I felt was empty. 

I stared at the person in my mirror. She had dark hair curled like a princess’s with streaks of silver, hazel eyes that popped against the dark mascara, and metallic eyeshadow. Her lips were painted a dark purple, making them seem bigger than they really were, and bits of jewelry dangled from her ears and arms. 

I didn’t recognize her anymore. The person she was disappeared a while ago after the mask was painted on. I think she was gone long before that too. 

There was a knock on the door behind me before it opened, and a man peeked his head inside, his headset knocked a bit askew. I didn’t bother to turn my head.

“Onyx, sweetheart, you need to be in position soon, okay?” he said as his eyes met mine in the mirror. “You got ten minutes.” He emphasized this by tapping his watch. 

He was gone before I could say anything, the door slamming loudly as he did. 

Onyx. That was my name now. Sometimes I forgot my real name since few people used it, myself included. 

I can’t believe I used to want this. 

I finally got up and left, the heels of my shoes clacking loudly against the floor as I gradually made my way to the throng of people waiting for me. 

I let them attach a mini microphone to the front of my silvery flapper-like dress, directing me where to stand and how to pose as we all waited for the curtain to rise. I wondered if this is what marionettes would feel like if they were sentient. 

It felt like an eternity passed by before I heard the announcer’s voice say the words to begin the performance. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen, put your hands together for Onyx!”

The cheers that came from beyond the curtain were clamorous, so much so that my ears had begun to ring. I remembered the first time I heard the cheers of my fans, and the rush it gave me back then. I remembered how excited I was to show them exactly what I could do.

But now? Now, I felt nothing, really. This wasn’t exciting and thrilling anymore. I felt like someone who was about to go to their mundane office job, doing nothing but pushing papers.

The curtain finally started to rise, and the cheering increased in volume if that was even possible. I plastered a beaming smile on my face right before it rose completely, and suddenly everyone’s eyes were on me.

“Hello, Seattle!” I shouted, my microphone amplifying my voice enough that I technically didn’t need to shout.

The audience cheered.

“I can’t hear you!” I teased and put a hand to my ear.

The audience ate it up, cheering louder than before.

“Well, enough blathering from me; are you ready to get this started!”

The raucous answer said enough, and the band behind me took that as their cue to start up. I got into position, and as soon as the beat dropped, I was off.

I will be honest; that whole performance was a blur. I know what songs I sang, I could tell you exactly what dance moves went with what lyrics, but when I looked back, it was like I was remembering everything as a bystander. 

The woman who danced on the stage, who sang powerful songs with a strong voice, was a stranger. I couldn’t see the woman she used to be. The woman who loved to sing and dance with genuine smiles, not the fake facade she wore as she performed.

Where did she go?

I remember when she used to sit on a bench in the park and sing for herself. When she would only dance behind closed doors for family and close friends. Close friends that recorded her singing and dancing and posted the video online.

The same video that got her an offer to take her talents higher than she ever thought possible. 

I remember loving it at first. I remembered how much I loved the many people who appreciated my talent and clamored for more. I loved the expensive clothes and jewelry, the famous people I was introduced to, and the opportunity to travel. I loved the long hours I used to practice everything until I no longer got it wrong, until everything was as perfect as I could make it.

I had loved it all.

But all of that came with a price. The woman I was had begun to disappear. 

She first started to fade when her agent said she needed to dress differently to increase the number of younger audiences. Then even more when he said her new songs needed to change their tone, and the choreographers adjusted how she danced to fit the new image.

The woman I once was had been buried, and her hair stylists and makeup artists covered the hole she had fallen in, completing the job.

The woman I was had turned into ashes, making way for Onyx to rise from the ashes.

Safely enclosed in my dressing room after the show, I started the painstaking task of removing the pounds of makeup slathered on my face. Face wipes littered the surface as I wiped my eyes, lips, and everywhere else, stained with dark colors.

I shimmied out of the dress and threw it to the floor, not really caring where it landed, and my heels followed the same path. The earrings and bracelets were torn from my body and discarded haphazardly next to the discarded face wipes. I grabbed the t-shirt and jeans I had on earlier that day and threw them on, and pulled my long hair into a bun.

I took one last look in the mirror. The woman in it no longer had on makeup, no longer had on fancy jewelry, no longer had hair styled to perfection, and was dressed almost painfully casually.

I still didn’t recognize her.