The Masks We Wear
When life imitates art
recently posted an image of a mask that she drew and asked writers to tell a story inspired by it.
Here's my story in response to the image. Please enjoy…
CW: Self-harm
When Mira first laid her eyes upon the painting, she felt an unseen force tear the air from her lungs. She opened her mouth to speak, but words failed her. Her eyes burned at the sight of it, like she was staring directly into the sun.
It depicted a simple mask, set against a patterned background. The eyes were deep abyssal pools of inky black. Despite the lack of color, the painting possessed depth and nuance. It was truly a magnum opus. A masterpiece.
She had never seen anything so beautiful.
“You have a good eye! This piece just came in a few days ago. Remarkable, isn’t it?” the gallery owner asked, her eyes darting between Mira and the painting like she was solving a math equation.
Mira blinked and finally broke eye contact with the painting.
“Yes, it’s truly stunning. There’s just something about it that I can’t quite put my finger on,” she said.
The gallery owner nodded. “Indeed. Are you interested in purchasing it?”
Mira’s gaze returned to the painting. “Yes. I’ll take it!”
Mira took the painting back to her apartment in Midtown and carefully hung it on the wall above her bed. She took a few steps back and admired it from across the room as the afternoon sun filtered through the sliding glass door on her left.
Before she knew it, the sun had fallen below the horizon. She had been standing there for hours.
She walked to the bathroom on the opposite side of the bedroom and flipped on the lights. She bent down to wash her face in the sink. When she was finished, she stood up and reached for the hand towel hanging to her left.
She froze as she looked in the mirror.
In her reflection, she was wearing the mask. The one from the painting.
It looked incredible on her, and it had a similar effect as before. She was enraptured by her own beauty. The mask brought out her best features in ways she couldn’t describe.
Then she blinked and it was gone.
“No! No, put it back!” she shouted.
Mira dove back into the sink and shot back up again, hoping to repeat her results, but all she saw was her own face.
She turned and ran back out to her bedroom. When her eyes met the obsidian orbs in the painting, she felt a relief wash over her.
And that was when Mira had the most wonderful idea:
She would paint the mask on herself.
She gleefully ran back to the bathroom and dumped all of her makeup and brushes on the countertop. She wore a grin almost too wide for her face as she went to work reproducing that perfect sight.
She was careful, intentional, and purposeful. It wasn’t enough, though. When she looked in the mirror, she didn’t feel that same sensation as before.
It wasn’t right.
“No problem, I’ll just try again!” she said with a wink.
Mira washed off all the makeup with hot water and remover. She sat back up, frowning at the sight of her puffy red skin. She always hated how sensitive her skin could be. It was fine, though.
This time she would get the mask right.
She stole at glance at the painting above her bed and stared for several moments to capture all of its rich details before heading back to the bathroom. She went to work, carefully blending, contouring, and blotting until she was convinced she had it right.
She closed her eyes for added effect and opened them with a smile.
Nothing.
“It’s all good! Third time’s the charm,” she said.
The false joy in her voice was starting to crack, but she vigorously scrubbed her face again using the makeup remover and hot water. She dried herself off and looked in the mirror once more.
Tiny drops of blood were forming on her cheeks. She had scrubbed so hard that she tore her own skin. She smiled.
“You know…red has always been my color,” she said, her smile returning once again.
She went into her kitchen and grabbed a steak knife. She set down the blade on the counter and used her finger to smear the blood from her cheeks across her face. When she ran out, she picked up the knife and used it to make tiny incisions below her jawline where the cuts couldn’t be seen.
She painted the mask on her face with her own blood until she was convinced that she had it right.
But nothing happened.
Her blood mask was beautiful, but it didn’t quite capture the spirit of the painting. It was close, though. So very close.
Mira picked up the knife and ran back to her bedroom. She leapt onto the bed and dove toward the painting on the wall. With frantic slashes on her blade, she cut the mask itself out of the painting.
She held the piece of canvas in her bloodstained hands, marveling at its perfection.
“You’re coming with me,” she whispered.
Mira ran back to the bathroom and placed the canvas on the counter so she could refer to it as she continued to cut and smear blood across her face.
She kept trying. Kept cutting, but it still wasn’t right.
She could no longer fake a smile. Rage had replaced her joy. She would chase that high as long as she needed.
At whatever cost.
Mira picked up the canvas from the counter and held it over her face in the mirror. When she lowered it again, her devious smile returned.
She had the perfect idea.
When Mira didn’t show up for work or return calls from her friends, police were sent to her apartment to perform a wellness check several days later. No one answered the door.
With the help of the building’s owner, they unlocked her door and entered the apartment.
What they discovered would haunt them the rest of their days.
They found her lying in her bed beneath a painting with a hole cut in the center of the canvas. Blood stained the sheets around her. All the skin on her face had been removed, leaving jagged ribbons of flesh dangling beside her ears.
The missing canvas of the painting, which depicted a mask, covered what remained of her face.
When they lifted the canvas off of her, they were greeted with an even more chilling sight.
Her final expression was frozen in place.
She was smiling.
Thanks for Reading! Here’s Your Musical Pairing
Listen to this after reading, like pairing a glass of wine with dinner.
That was a truly gruesome and enthralling story. I have always had a thing for masks, both delightful and horrifying. Masks are the face that aren't a face...or are they. Thanks for the adventure, Bradley.
Cool write