《Masks and Other Things》


 Masks

    I only forgot my mask once before, when I think I was 13 or 14. Mother and Father made such a fuss, that I tried very hard to remember it after that. Father¡¯s wrath was terrible, but Mother¡¯s anger hurt more because it was expressed as disappointment rather than as rage. I could hide from Father, but the guilt and shame at having disappointed her was inescapable. ¡°Remember what happened to your brother, Ella.¡±


    My brother Paul had forgotten his mask one day while he was away and had never returned. I still kept his last letter in a box under my bed along with a drawing I had made of him just before he left. He was immensely proud of that picture, and said it was a perfect likeness. I could see his love for me every time I looked at it, especially in the brown depths of his eyes.


    ¡°My Dear Ella,¡± He had written. ¡°I will be home soon. Give Mom and Dad a hug for me. Tell them that they were right, the outside world is a scary place, but it also has its charms. I¡¯ve met a wonderful girl, and I am looking forward to bringing her for a visit. I also found something I think you will really like and will bring it home for you when I return.¡±


    That was the last we ever heard from him. After that, Paul became more of a cautionary tale than anything else. I¡¯m sure my parents both grieved his loss in their own ways, but they never mentioned his name other than to remind me to make sure I wore my mask anytime I stepped outside the house.


    The house was a two-story Victorian on Bank Street, in a neighborhood of otherwise unoccupied, rundown houses. Many of them had been vandalized, but that stopped after a while. Destruction loses its thrill when no one appears to care about what is being destroyed.


    Our house was originally a painted lady, adorned in pastel shades of spring, but Father had covered it in a riot of vinyl and aluminum siding, whatever he was able to salvage in his travels through the city. He could only stay out an hour or two at a time, it was too dangerous, otherwise.


    In the end, the house resembled a house designed by a cubist, its squares of contrasting color confusing the eye from realizing that it indeed was looking at someone¡¯s home. This may have been the reason people were prone to keeping their distance.


    The roof was much the same, with asphalt shingles of multiple shades. It might have looked odd to some, but we were dry, even in the strongest storm. The house was our nest, our castle, our shelter against the outside world.


    The outside world was a scary place, Mother told us, full of dangers that we were ill-equipped to handle. Mother kept the curtains closed most of the time, in order to block the view. Paul and I both believed her, as we didn¡¯t know any different.


    She insisted on us homeschooling rather than letting us leave the house, not wanting to submit us to the risk that our masks would slip and expose us to danger. ¡°Some parents aren¡¯t afraid to let their kids be exposed to the poison outside, but I am unwilling.¡±, she told us. ¡°You must stay here, inside, safe with your father and me. Even he only goes out when absolutely necessary.¡±


    When we became teenagers, normal adolescent rebellion made us question this. Was it really that bad outside? Were the dangers posed really so hazardous?Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    Paul resisted more than I did. His readings of the books in our library seemed to make him more curious about what lay beyond the confines of our home, which was not what was intended at all. He started sneaking out, waiting until Mother and Father had gone to bed and slipping out the back door to go exploring. He would return an hour or two later, telling secret tales of parties and gatherings which painted gossamer pictures in my imagination, and made me wish to escape as well.


    It was three months later when he left and didn¡¯t return. I hid in my room for the next few weeks, not wishing to face either Father¡¯s anger, or Mother¡¯s anxiety. I was worried too, but at the same time, I envied Paul for having the courage to escape.


    We started to get letters. Paul had gone to the city, had found a job, and started working. He seemed very excited by all of it. The final letter sounded so hopeful. Mother had largely stopped worrying. Father had begun to even joke and laugh occasionally. Then we heard the news. Paul had forgotten his mask one day and would never return home again.


    ¡°I told him. I told him not to forget it, didn¡¯t I tell him?¡± Mother sobbed as she collapsed on the floor. Father just shouted about Paul being a stupid fool, and that he had known this would happen.


    My freedom was greatly restricted for the next month. It took me some time to persuade my parents that I was trustworthy and had no desire to wander from the safe haven they had created. But I was lying to them and to myself. I still desired the world that Paul had told me about. I still felt the pull of the outside world, drawing me out of our cloistered existence.


    I started sneaking out, much as Paul had, meeting people my own age and making friends. That¡¯s how I met Eric.


    Eric was a little older than I was. His hair was the most beautiful shade of red. He wasn¡¯t a ginger; his hair was more auburn than the brilliant shade of red most gingers seem to have. His eyes were the same shade of brown as my brother¡¯s, and as we came to know each other, they began to hold the same concern and caring that my brother¡¯s had.


    I remember one night, we managed to find one of the few movie houses still open after midnight. The Varsity was a throwback to the old Art Deco style of movie theatre with neon lighting on the outside and elaborate scrollwork in the lobby. The owners had painted huge murals on the walls depicting all of the movies that had been shown in the theater. Each time we went back, the mural would be updated to reflect whatever was showing. It became a fun game of ¡°Where¡¯s Waldo¡± to find the latest addition.


    The crowds at the late-night showing were usually small, unless a cult classic like ¡°Rocky Horror¡± was showing, then the place would be packed. Most of the time, the midnight showing were older movies, the kitschier the better.


    One night, we watched a double feature of the 80s film ¡°Cat People¡± followed by ¡°An American Werewolf in London¡±. We laughed ourselves silly at how bad they both were, and I think I started to fall in love with him, just a little.


    Other dates followed, and I started to imagine what a life with Eric would be like, even children. These were thoughts that were new, almost disturbing, in the narrow confines my parents had defined my life.


    We were at another double feature, this time it was the ¡°Mole Men from Venus¡± and ¡°Invasion of the Ant People¡±. For some reason, it was a full house that night. It might have been because there was convention at the hotel next door, and people were looking for something to do.


    Eric looked at me and said ¡°Ella, I¡¯ve been meaning to tell you something. We¡¯ve been spending so much time together, and I have to admit I¡¯m falling in love with you. But it wouldn¡¯t be fair for us to go further without letting you know the real me.


    ¡°Eric, I¡¯ve been feeling the same way.¡± I answered. ¡°I have wanted to let you know my true self so badly.¡±


    He kissed me then, and everything just felt right. As if my entire life had been leading up to this moment, where I could truly be myself, free from my parents¡¯ fears and my own insecurities.


    We took off our masks and revealed ourselves to each other there in the theater. That¡¯s when the screaming started.

 Essential Worker

    Essential Worker


    Hospitals are one of my favorite places. The daily drama and the strong emotions are what keep me coming back. This is as opposed to the nursing homes and hospices I sometimes work at, which tend to be less exciting and consist of waiting for the inevitable, rather than attending the unexpected.


    I was working a shift at Broadview, the city hospital. It is an old building, on what used to be the city¡¯s well-to-do side. But it has steadily declined along with the city¡¯s fortunes, until it resembled a corpse, slowly crumbling into dust, but unaware of the transition.


    The exterior is mostly brick, with an occasional white streak where workmen had replaced missing mortar to reattach the crumbling fa?ade. The windows were mostly dark during the day. At night they shone like a prizefighter¡¯s smile. Some rooms remained dark and shown like missing teeth, conspicuous by the absence of light. Often those dark rooms represented a patient who had not survived the night. The only ward where the lights shone bright regularly was the maternity ward on the south wing. There life began and the rooms were lit in response. I don¡¯t do much work in the maternity ward. That is reserved for those who specialize in that sort of thing.


    The wards I work in are usually darker, older, dirtier. They contain those that have been forgotten by their family and the city. The homeless, the immigrants, the poor. There is often no one who will take care of them, and so it is left to me. Some days my presence is welcomed as they know I am there to care for them and give them relief from their pain and suffering. Other times, I am greeted with derision and contempt. It makes no difference to me, as I must go about my work in either case.


    I do not enjoy my work, so much as I have resigned myself to it. It must be done, no matter how I feel about it. I have known nothing else for so long, I do not think I could do anything else, even if I was allowed.


    I had a conversation with one of my charges one afternoon. They sometimes become conscious of my presence as I do rounds. His name was Charlie, and he was in the end stages of throat cancer. He had stopped caring about his appearance long ago, as he had no family to visit or even to say goodbye to. His grey eyes were sunken in deep sockets in the skeletal remains of his face. He reminded me of the fa?ade outside. Though he was well aware of what was coming, he seemed to have resigned himself to it.


    ¡°Why do you do what you do?¡± he asked me, wheezing his words out around the trach tube that delayed the inevitable. His voice was little more than a whisper, barely audible over the machinery keeping him alive.


    ¡°I guess, it¡¯s just my lot.¡± I said. ¡°Someone has to do this work. If it wasn¡¯t me, it would be someone else, perhaps someone who does not feel the need to be gentle and kind, but rather harsh and abrupt. I prefer my approach.¡±Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    ¡°But why do it at all?¡± he asked. ¡°Why not leave it up to fate or random chance, or nature?¡±


    ¡°Fate and random chance have already had their opportunity with you. They created the opportunity for you to get sick, and you took it. Their job is done, I am only here to finish what they started.¡±


    He looked uncomfortable at that, realizing that he could not blame what had happened to him on anything other than his own actions. I tried to comfort him.


    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t blame yourself. The pieces were put into place long before you even came into this world. You were simply part of a bigger puzzle. Your fate was sealed the first time an an invading Spaniard was offered a pipe long ago.


    The pieces of your life do not present themselves for your inspection until long after they have been placed. Life is too short for you to consider even the implications of even one action before you take it. You would be paralyzed with fear of making a wrong choice.


    With that, I left him for a while, letting him consider what we had talked about. I got the feeling that he was not happy, but I am not always there to give comfort, sometimes all I can do is provide hard truths.


    There were others, some who seemed to welcome my visit, only to be disappointed when I did not take them with me, but left again to continue my rounds.


    ¡°You son-of-a-bitch! Get back here!¡± one yelled. ¡°Don¡¯t leave me!¡± She sank back into the bed at that point, unable to even summon the energy to curse me further. Her gray hair lay in sweaty wisps against her parchment skin. The hate in her red rimmed eyes followed me out of the room. I was not sorry, there are rules I have to follow too.


    I was called to the Maternity ward later, where my coworker was quite busy. She always makes me feel uncomfortable, for some reason, as our work is quite different, and we rarely venture into each other¡¯s areas of expertise. In this case, she asked me to attend as there was work for both of us.


    The bright colors and forced cheerfulness of the labor rooms always make me uncomfortable somehow. They fail to tell the whole truth of about what awaits the people there. They give hope, when perhaps caution would be a more appropriate feeling. But again, without hope, there could be no action. Caution tends to lead to stasis.


    I saw my her at the end of the bed, standing behind the doctor who was performing the delivery. As was her usual practice, she observed, a beatific smile on her face as she waited for her task to be completed.


    The child, red and screaming, greeted the world with a howl of triumph at greeting the world mixed with agony at being taken from the warm confines of the womb.


    His mother lay back in the bed and panted with her recent exertions. They put the baby in her arms. She smiled with utter joy, then suddenly turned pale.


    ¡°She¡¯s hemorrhaging! I need forceps. Now!¡± The surgeon glared at his nurses, working quickly to try to find the source of the bleeding. It would do him no good.


    It was then that the mother saw me waiting, her eyes filling with tears as she realized she would not see her child again. Then, I took her away, as her place was no longer in that room, but with me.


    When my work was done, I went back to my rounds. There were others in the hospital who needed me, even as others needed my counterpart who worked in the Maternity ward. We each have our roles in caring for those that await our visits.


    We make up the welcoming committee. She welcomes the living, I welcome the dead.