The Property of Hate
A Mask of My Own Face
by BeeBumbleRosebud
The problem with a mask is that eventually, you can’t take it off. All those small things you try to cover up. How much you care. How sad you really are. That you aren’t “just tired”. Not in the literal sense. A sort of tired that goes deeper than just needing sleep. A deeper need. A need for catharsis. For some kind of sign that you’re on the right path. The pile of bodies behind him said otherwise. It builds up like plaster. The mask either cracks, or it soaks it’s way into your pores. Becoming a sort of exoskeleton. A defense mechanism. One that he was still learning to peel off. Little by little. Scraping away at the odds and ends of what used to be him. All with the help of a little girl, and his new family.

