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“Ya need to be quiet. Quieter than a mouse. Okay, my wee son? Promise me.”
The harder I try, the more predominant they become.
“How’bout a dance, Cara?” one of the men says, walking over to the radio to turn up the song. “C’mere to me.”
Elvis suddenly replaces the deep voice of Ma’s attacker.
Kiss me, my darling…
That song…it’s the song that was playing on the radio.
I scream, slamming my fist into the side of the sink, squeezing my eyes shut. This joyful song is the perfect oxymoron for what horrors the smooth voice of the King was concealing.
It’s now or never, indeed.
Jolting up, I race through my bedroom and turn on my laptop. I search for the song which is on a loop inside my head and press play. The moment it sounds, I stagger backward, clutching my chest.
I want to claw out of my skin.
I see my ma’s bloody face as she reaches for me, her twisted body as the knife cuts through her flesh with ease. I see it all. The memories I tried so hard to remember come flooding back, and I do the only thing I can.
My room appears ransacked as I hunt for them, and when I find them, they tremble in my hand.
With Elvis on repeat, I collectedly walk into the bathroom and sweep everything off the vanity. Staring at my reflection, I laugh maniacally, certain I’ve lost what small shred of sanity I’ve clung to.
Reaching for the container, I unscrew the lid, humming in happiness because I’ve come home. Picking up the brush, I dip the bristles into the makeup—appropriately named clown white—and commence spreading the paint across my face.
Before long, my face is slathered in white paint. The starkness concealing the red and purple bruises allows me to be someone else. But this is just a blank canvas, just like my mum needed to create the paintings which transported her away from this cruel thing they call life.
I swap the white paint for the black, and with a thinner brush, I draw a steady line from the apple of my cheek to my mouth. I repeat the same action on the other side. Once I’m done, I paint across the black line, so I have downward slashes along my cheeks. I then stroke vertically across my lips—silencing my screams. My grin is sinister.
But it’s not enough.
Coating the brush bristles in black, I color in my nose, paying homage to the white makeup I just applied.
My eyes are next.
With precision, I paint around them, accenting the darkness with strokes branching out from the blackness. They come out like tentacles, and when I join one with a single stroke to my nose, I smile, happy with the brutality.
I shade in the strokes, adding depth, adding carnage to the grotesque man beneath this mask. My skull face represents the demons inside of me.
It’s perfect.
The white container drops into the sink, going round and round, the imagery similar to what’s going on inside my head.
Reaching for the tube of black body paint, I unscrew the lid and squirt it over my neck and chest, where I run my fingers through it, coating my skin black. With the leftover paint, I flick it over my ear and down my face, envisioning it red as it resembles blood—the blood my mum spilled.
I leave black handprints on the white sink as I grasp it and lean closer into the mirror, studying my creation.Thisis who has remained hidden all these years. Hidden away in a wardrobe, waiting for the memories to revive him.
Now is that time.
However, there is one last thing I need to do. A mask is never complete without any wounds.
Unscrewing the container, I peer into the red paint, the slickness singing to the depravity which lives inside me—it always has. I smear three fingers in red and stare into the mirror as I slowly sweep downward across the middle of my forehead.
These signify the three lives who ruined mine. But after tonight, I wonder, how many more I need to add?
My hair is still wet from my shower, so I run my fingers through it, styling it so it’s tousled. The tattoo on my knuckles catches the light, and my ma’s name almost shines.
