One-Thousand Faces

 

One-Thousand Faces

School time beckons, and so, I put on my mask. Mother wants to have a coffee date, so I put on another

mask. My best friend wants to know why I am upset, I conceal my face in yet another mask. 

I never see anyone, or do anything, without one of the thousand trusty masks that I hide within me on my face. 

To do something without a mask, would be revealing the true me, me and my feelings would be exposed, and I can't let that happen. 

I have a different mask I wear when seeing different people. When I am with my parents, the mask I place on my face portrays me as an always-obedient, sensible child. When I am with my friends, I wear my stuck up-gossip lover mask which much too often is the mask I have upon my face when trouble knocks on my door. 

People say they know me. But they only know whatever person I become when I am around them. They don't know the real me, no-one does. Because, infact, my masks turn me into a separate person. I look like one person, but really, I am one thousand different people concealed in one body. 

                                                                       ***

I take a deep breath before closing the front door behind me. Mother and Father sit, solemn faced at the kitchen table, sipping cups of coffee that are enclosed in their snowy white hands. 

I nod them a good morning, before slipping into the frosty morning, and walking a boot trodden path that winds through the churning snow. 

Ice bites at my reddened nose. As I trot to school, I change masks. Taking my mask off that I had for the brief interaction with my parents,, and placing my school mask on. 

It is my least favorite mask. My teachers have always had such high expectations for me, as do my parents. At school, I have to try and convince myself and my teachers that I want good grades, and not a good time, like all my friends. 

So, as I place my school mask on, I take on the fake personality of myself, the one who wants to achieve things and impress people. 

The mask slips onto my face, and I am ready for school. 

Seating myself at my desk, I pull out my notebooks, which have inspirational study tips and quotes written all over them, in order to make my fake self more realistic. Not that my teachers have any suspicions. I have mastered the art of fake personalities and wrong impressions. It's my skill, I might say. 

“Good morning Hazzel.” Crows my English teacher, who has such high expectations of me, I don't know if my school mask is enough for her. But, It fools even her. 

“Good morning Miss, did my results come back from the past few exams?” I ask. The question is perfect, perfectly...fake. 

Truely, I couldn't care less about past exam results. But, being my fake self, I have to pretend, and effectively pretend, that I am as interested in my grades as I am in life itself. 

My English teacher grins, glad to have at least one student who is interested in their education. For a fleeting moment I feel bad pretending. But I soon come back to reality, everyone would be disappointed if I didn't pretend. 

“Your grades shouldnt be too much longer.” She then pranced away, dotting on the fact she had the most perfect student. Or so, it seemed.

My best friend comes and sits beside me. Even she doesn't know the real me. But no matter what mask I wear, she loves me, and can sometimes, on rare occasions, even see through my mask to the real me. 

She smiles at me, knowing I am not the talkative type, and pulls her own books from her bag, and we sit in silence together. Friends united by soundless communication. 

Class starts, class ends. I continue meddling in my fake tasks, pretending to study extra hard. Teachers nod their approval in my direction, and with my head down I try and not feel guilty about the fake lies of which I serve them, and which they eat up with eager approval and satisfaction.

The school bell chirps loudly, ringing in my fake ears and announcing the end of another school day. As soon as the school gates lay behind me, my mask flicks off, and I place another mask on. 

This mask is the one I wear when with my friends. It portrays me as a gossiper, a preppy girl, and mainly, someone who goes with the flow, good or bad.

It's a dangerous mask. This fake version of myself pulls me into bad situations like metal to a magnet. 

With this mask covering my face, I make my way to the skatepark, our signature meet-up spot. Already, I can tell my fake identity will lead to trouble. As it always does.

                                                                        ***

Mothers face has horror written on it to its very core. She stands, shell-shocked, watching me and my friends squirm around in our prison cell. 

The cell door creaks open and i Run into my mother's arms; having already switched my mask to the one I wear when around Mother and Father. 

Mother, not having sympathy, strikes me hard across my masked face. Tears brim and sting at my eyes, knocking at the door, wanting to be let out. But I lock the door, not wanting to cry in front of my friends. 

Mothers eyes penetrate my mask. Almost as if she can see through the lies that crowd my pained face. 

Mother whisks me away, out of the police station and onto the gloomy streets. Cloudless rain starts to patter at my feet, I puzzle a while before realising it isn't rain. It's my own fake tears. Are they fake? It's almost impossible to tell

At home I am ordered to sit at the dining table, and I silently wrap my face in my ‘Story telling’ mask. This mask helps me get out of trouble, or at least tries to. I always seem to be wearing this mask whilst my parents yell at me from their slouched positions at the table. I always wear this mask proudly, as my parents hurdle punishments at me, and my fake hands catch them from the clustered air. 

                                                                     ***

Grounded. My parents' words bounce around in my ears, even though everything around me is silent, and my parents left for work long ago. 

For six weeks. Grounded. Being grounded is the very definition of humiliation, at least that's what I realised this morning, when I sent a text dripping with sadness to my friends, informing them that I was grounded. 

They laughed, teased, mocked me even. 

They of course, were not grounded, even though they were the ones who landed us by the police station, not me. 

A thumping sound echoes from my bedroom door, and I shuffle to my feet and swing the door on its hinges. 

It’s my friends. 

I stifle a gasp, as I swiftly slide the mask over my face.

“What are you doing here?” I hiss at them, they recoil from my angered, snake-like self. 

“Bustin’ you out. Grounded? Heck, that couldn't stop our daily park hang. Not in one million years!” 

I shake my head, already imagining my parents shouting at me from across the table…

“Where we headed?” I chime. 

 And once again, I was being someone I wasn't, in order to please others...making huge mistakes. 

                                                                       ***

“Please, I beg you. Just let me out!” I cry, tears streaming down my masked face. I hate crying in public...or in private. It shows that I have feelings, that I care, which is something I don't like letting other people see. 

But the officer just stares me down, his beady eyes penetrating my tear streaked face. I feel uneasy, so I cover up my face, hiding it, with my hooded arms. 

The cell’s walls tower above me intimidatingly. The bare concrete that stares at me with its penetrating eyes. 

I have been here before, many-a-times, but every other time I was in-circled by my gang of trouble making friends. This time, I am alone. 

They of course made the trouble, they were the ones pickpocketing, not me. I was just, laughing along, pretending to be interested, and carrying the stolen wallets that they had passed over to me for safe-keeping. I didn't want to steal. But they did. That's what mattered. 

Before I knew it, the police had been called, my friends had left without me, and I was accused of stealing. 

Then, this cell. 

It was a nice place to die, I suppose.

“Miss, if you would follow me for a moment, now.” cooed the officer. 

Still crying, still pretending, I follow the officer down the winding hallway that's so familiar...which leads to my parents. 

Instantly I want to disappear, get away, be anywhere, anywhere but here. 

“Hazzel!” they scream, rushing towards me, throwing their arms around me, crying, shouting, scolding, all under the careful eye of the officer. 

Already having changed my mask, I resent my parents. 

I know my fate lies at the kitchen table...where much more scolding and screaming, crying and shouting will take place. 

Having your parents find you, in prison, when you were meant to be at home grounded, is really the worst-case-scenario. 

Punishments rushed from my parents mouth like a mighty river. And I was sinking in it. Drowning. Gasping for last breaths…

That's when I realised, whilst at the table, re-thinking everything, that something had to change. 

Taking deep, steady breaths, I take the mask from my face.

I can't remember the last time my face was free. Un-masked, and with my true colours, my feelings and real self...out for anyone to see. 

                                                                       ***

The next day, I run to school. Without a mask. I sit through class, speak to my teachers and my best friend...whilst being my true self. 

And that afternoon, when my friends come, knocking on my door, telling me we are going to the skate park to do some graffiti...I shut the door in their face. With my last goodbyes and closing words to my fake friends still ringing in the air.

“No thanks. I decided to do the right thing now, not pleasing people, but being true. So have fun, but not today.”

I would never go back to prison, never do crime, and never wear a mask or cover my face ever again.