《melancholy Fox》


 Act 1: A house of misery

    The clock reads five O¡¯three. The bed is warm, comfortable, and seemingly separated from the rest of the world. Life has yet to start for the day, and Sarah knows it. Sleep once again eluded her. Nonetheless, she wishes to remain in her cozy cocoon. Should she leave it, Sarah fears she won¡¯t be able to return. Should she set foot on the floor, Sarah¡¯s day will begin. She will lose all this comfort, all this peace; and for what: friends, who can¡¯t see her, a father, who can¡¯t love her, and a future, which can¡¯t save her.


    Five O¡¯Four, Sarah watches as time moves past her. Would it leave her here? Could it leave her here? Would it be so bad if it did? Wrapped away in her burrow of blankets, Sarah finds it hard to think not. She pulls herself deeper into the sheets until only her eyes are uncovered. The warmth weighs on her sleepy eyes; though no matter how long she keeps them closed, somehow they always rise.


    ¡°It¡¯s not fair,¡± Sarah says to herself, ¡°just let me sleep.¡±


    ¡°Nothing is forcing you to rise,¡± says a voice. It¡¯s a man¡¯s voice; deep, calm, tired and sad, with just a hint of noble pride. ¡°You could stay here. You could let it end here. It would not be a bad place to end.¡±


    ¡°It is nice,¡± she replies, ¡°perhaps I should. Why not here?¡±


    ¡°Why not, indeed,¡± says the voice, ¡°many dream of fading quietly in their sleep; however, you may not find it as comfortable in a few hours. Life has its ugly ways of pushing one out of bed.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re contradicting yourself again,¡± Sarah sighs, ¡°could stay, can¡¯t stay, make up your mind.¡±


    ¡°There are two sides to everything, Sarah,¡± the voice states, ¡°and I speak them both.¡±


    Five O¡¯Five, life begins with a pop of static. A high waling follows. It grows more ear biting with every passing second. Sarah doesn¡¯t even try for the clock. By her own design, it lies well out of her grasp. Only by rising, only by starting, can Sarah stop this pain.


    Yes, it is a pain. Sarah¡¯s life is full of such pains. Pain moves her and guides her forward when nothing else can. Sarah knows this and so fills her world with little pains. She needs them or rather can¡¯t live without them. If not for pain, she may have stayed there forever; as things were, Sarah rose from her cocoon. She walked over to the table and turned off the alarm.


    In the silence come the whispers. The soft, faraway voices of lost souls echo through her room. Their shadows dance in the grey moonlight upon her bedroom walls. The air is crisp and chilled to a near frost. It nips at Sarah¡¯s frail, naked frame. She rubs the goosebumps on her arms and looks into the night from beyond her window.


    The moonlight silhouettes the deep forest, which surrounds Sarah¡¯s home. The beams pass through the cracked glass of her window. Fresh snow gathers on the frame. Sarah sighs as she thinks of the painstaking walk to the bus awaiting her.


    Reconsidering her day, she looks back to her bed. Shoved into the top-left corner of her room, it rests completely stripped. Sarah looks down at the floor. A rainbow of grey blankets lie spiraled across it. In her comfort, she must have pulled them off as she got up. A clear sign her body wants to return to bed as much as her mind. Picking them up would be a pain; although if she did, Sarah could just wrap herself back into her cocoon and drop straight into the bed. Of course, it would not be long until another of life¡¯s inconveniences forced her out.


    ¡°Another lovely day,¡± Sarah sighs. She turns to the darkest corner of the room. ¡°Is it not, Sam?¡±


    In the shadows sits a man. His long thin figure slumps up against the wall. One leg stretches out before him, while he uses the knee of the other as an armrest. In his hand, he holds a long black opium pipe. At its end, does not rise smoke, but light. It is a beautiful aurora of magical lights, though what leaves his mouth is not. With every puff, a thick grey smoke flows out from the cracks of his face; and cracks there are.


    A skeleton¡¯s grin has been carved across the man¡¯s face. It reaches from ear to ear. Black thread holds the crack together, like a dead man¡¯s jaw. If not for it, the face would depict the perfect features of an angel. The entirety of the man¡¯s head seems to be carved from some mysterious white stone. If seen from a distance it may be mistaken for a skull.


    His eyes lay half closed. Behind those lids, glitters of gold swim in an ocean of emptiness. Like stars to a black hole, they gather into galaxy-like irises. Deity and devil all in one, this man dresses in fine black clothes. He wears a silver chain, like a tie around his neck; and a black high hat rests upon his head.


    ¡°Indeed, I believe today will be especially lovely,¡± the man replies.


    With that, Sarah leaves the room and walks to the bathroom. It stands only two doors to the right of her own. The door between the two is her old room. The door hangs ajar; its handle quite broken. A year now, that door has stood ajar. I¡¯ll take care of it later Sarah keeps telling herself.


    As Sarah passes the open door, she glances in. The room is rather empty, only her old bed remains. That and a large bloodstain on the floor. In the grey moonlight, the stain appears black. Sarah rests herself against the entrance. She stares deeply into the stain.


    ¡°Thinking of old memories,¡± Sam asks standing over her. Sarah looks up at him, ¡°Sam, what¡¯s today?¡±


    ¡°December 8<sup>th</sup>, I believe,¡± he answers. Sarah looks back to the stain, ¡°tomorrow¡¯s our anniversary.¡±


    ¡°Is it? And here I am without a gift,¡± Sam jests. Sarah pushes herself from the frame and continues to the bathroom, ¡°it¡¯s alright; I don¡¯t have anything for you either.¡±


    She shuts the door behind her and wastes no time undressing. Sam walks through the door, like the ghoul he is. As Sarah undresses, he takes a seat on the toilet. She starts up the shower and jumps in long before the water is warm. The frigid rain pierces her flesh, like tiny ice sickles. Through clenched teeth and wide eyes, Sarah endures. Shivering, she begins to feel alive. She holds her arms close to her body. She looks down at the cross-shaped scars on her arms.


    ¡°How should I die this time,¡± she wondered out loud.


    ¡°Why does it matter,¡± Sam asks, ¡°death is death.¡±


    ¡°I think it should be peaceful this time,¡± Sarah answers, ¡°don¡¯t you.¡±


    ¡°Why,¡± asks Sam, ¡°It was hardly peaceful the first time.¡±


    ¡°But it¡¯s different this time,¡± Sarah states, ¡°This time, it¡¯s not about me hating the world.¡±


    ¡°Is it not,¡± Sam asks.


    ¡°No,¡± Sarah argues, ¡°I don¡¯t hate the world anymore; I just don¡¯t see a reason to stay. It¡¯s not even about the world anyway. It¡¯s about us now. It¡¯s about me always being with you.¡±


    ¡°are we not already,¡± Sam states.


    ¡°No,¡± Sarah says, ¡°We¡¯re not, not really. There¡¯s a veil between us. Can¡¯t you feel it?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Sam answers, ¡°But it is a thin veil. Is removing it really worth the rest of your life? After all, we are promised to each other. It makes no difference whether you live one year or a hundred. In the end, we will be together, so try not to be so impatient.¡±


    The water finally warms. Sarah grabs the bar of soap and begins cleaning herself. She rubs the soap over her arms, as she continues to contemplate the different ways to end. ¡°I want to look beautiful for it. I think pills would be the best way.¡±Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    ¡°One pill at a time,¡± Sam chuckles, ¡°it may take awhile, and you will most likely end up vomiting all over yourself.¡±


    Sarah groans at the thought of being found covered in vomit.¡±Why is it so hard to die pleasantly?¡±


    ¡°Because life¡¯s a bitch,¡± Sam states, ¡°Why not drowned yourself? It can be peaceful if you let it.¡±


    Washing her legs, Sarah can¡¯t help but see the soap scum coating the tube floor. She looks over at the wall, where several tiles have either cracked or completely broken off. ¡°In a better tube, I might, but not here.¡±


    ¡°Besides, I want to die in your arms, Sam,¡± Sarah continues, ¡°if it¡¯s my choice, I¡¯d like to die in one of your dreams.¡±


    She soaks her hair and lets the shampoo sit. She gives the steam to fill the small room. When she leaves the shower, Sarah finds the bathroom fogged in a humid mist. She wraps herself in towels and sits before the sink. With one towel, Sarah wipes the fog from the mirror. In the reflection, she observes herself. Her classmates often compare her to a doll. It¡¯s meant as a compliment. She doesn¡¯t see it. All she sees is a weak, sickly pale little girl. The sight of her bones so prominently outlined by her flesh makes Sarah feel sick.


    She brushes her long straight white hair and applies a protective cream to her fair alabaster skin, another of life¡¯s natural pains. Though from the sight of her window, the sun would not be too harsh today. Next, Sarah applies contacts to her eyes. This is a difficult matter as they are hidden behind a mask.


    Made of the same white stone as Sam¡¯s, her mask takes the shape of a blind fox. Even though there are no eyes, Sarah¡¯s vision is unhindered. When she first saw the mask, it was cover with cracks and chips. Now, the mask is nearly flawless. Only two small cracks remain. As Sarah¡¯s hand approaches the mask, it fades beneath her fingers.


    ¡°When I die, will I feel it,¡± Sarah asks placing the other contact.


    ¡°When you die, you feel nothing,¡± Sam answers. He had moved to the corner of the tube. Sarah finishes by taking a razor to her scars. She rubs it across her wrist, not enough to break, just enough to remember.


    With her morning rituals finished, Sarah returns to her room. The cold once more embraces her. Again, she passes her old room. Even while chilled and wet, Sarah can¡¯t help but look in. Like driving past a car crash, she finds herself slowing to a near halt. Her gaze fixates on the stain of her past. When she can turn her head no more, Sarah looks back to the hallway and returns to her room.


    When she enters, Sarah finds Sam already slouched against the same corner as before. She gathers her school uniform, a white dress shirt, a pair of black wool stockings, a bra and panties from her closet. She places them on her bed. Sarah removes her towel and dresses quickly. The winter uniform lessens the room¡¯s chilly burn, but cannot extinguish it. She brushes a black headband into her hair.


    Sarah glances at the pile of blankets still spiraled across the floor. She thinks to herself I¡¯ll take care of it later. As she leaves, Sarah grabs her school bag, which rests against a desk next to the door. One more time, Sarah passes her old bedroom; and one more time, she glances in at the old stain.


    She walks down the stairs leading to the first floor. At the bend, the dent covers the wall. Bits have fallen off revealing the stud behind. Sarah ignores it. Straightforward from the stairs is the front door. She throws her school bag next to it. On the coat rack, Sarah sees her earmuffs. She plucks them off and presses them against her ears. They help immensely to warm her. She also sees her scarf and coat. She considers taking them; but, decides against it. It wouldn¡¯t be good should she make a mess of breakfast.


    For now, the earmuffs will have to do. Sarah heads right from there, through the dining room, and into the kitchen. There, she prepares a simple breakfast of oatmeal and tea. She sits with Sam at the dining room table.


    Plain and tasteless, the meal serves only the purpose of filling her. Sarah tosses her dishes into the sink, with all the others. She thinks to herself I¡¯ll take care of it later. She prepares a second identical breakfast. This one, she places on a tray.


    Before heading upstairs, Sarah puts on her shoes. She carries the breakfast up to the second floor. She heads right to the last door of the hallway. This door leads to her father¡¯s study. Rot spreads out from the door like a disease. Much of the paint on the frame has chipped off. The wallpaper surrounding the door has pealed. Behind it, the wood molds. Sarah stands before the door. The putrid stench of decay already burns at her nose. Her eyes grow wet from the sting. She sighs as unpleasant thoughts grow in her mind. With a deep breath and a forced smile, Sarah opens the door.


    The room¡¯s aroma wafts over her like steam. As she enters, it clings to her like slime. Moonlight from a single window illuminates the room. Piles of canvases, blank and painted alike, clutter the room. Their corners, nibbled and torn, are clear signs of mice. From the smell of things, Sarah is certain several of the rodents decayed within the clutter. Clothing of Sarah¡¯s late mother envelope the walls. They are hung by strings.


    Sarah never enters the study without shoes. Even with them, she walks carefully, so not to step on anything unsavory. The floor is wooden and creeks with every step. Sarah hears skittering as mice flee from the canvases surrounding her. She moves through a cleared path; she made long ago. It was not too much trouble to reach the center,


    At the center of the room, Sarah¡¯s father sits atop a stool. He is a tall, bony man. Shaggy old cloths seven sizes too large hang from him like robes. He Hunches over his stool like a vulture. His attention fixated on the blank canvas before him. He holds a dry brush in one hand and a wooden palette in the other. Dry paints coat the palette.


    A small wooden table, covered in drips of paint, stands to the man¡¯s side. On it is a cup of nearly black water, a cup of stale milk, and a plate of leftovers. The two cups sit uncomfortably close to one another. A filthy bed mat lies behind the table. With the moon to his back, Sarah cannot see her father¡¯s face. Grateful, she observes the plate of leftovers. It holds a half-eaten meal of pork chops, peas, and potatoes.


    ¡°You hardly touched the pork chops,¡± Sarah says cheerfully. She exchanges the leftover dinner with the breakfast, ¡°but you ate most the peas and potatoes.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± he murmurs. Sarah continues, ¡°Tonight, I¡¯ll make something softer; a stew perhaps.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± he says louder now, ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Tonight, I¡¯ll make something softer; a stew perhaps,¡± Sarah finishes. She pulls away from the table. A cold hand grabs her. The sound of his paintbrush hitting the wooden floor echoes in the silence. He holds her by the wrist. Loose flaps of skin dangle from his bony arm. Her father turns to her. His face emerges from the shadows, ¡°Where is she? Where¡¯s my little girl?¡±


    A horrific lopsided mask stares lifelessly at Sarah. It takes the shape of an ashen grey sun with a sunken in face. A light hue is all that remains of a previously rich sky blue vigor. Once, vibrant blues and violets panted flames, which framed the mask. The flames danced and spun around it like Ferris wheels. Now, the wheels stand still, their flames left in ruin, and the colors just as grey.


    In the past, passionate pink eyes stared widely to the heavens. Now, all but closed and black as coal, they stare down at the floor. Only the mask¡¯s wide cartoonish grin kept its form; though the cheerful, chubby checks, which were speckled with gold, have sagged. They hang from the face like those of a bulldog.


    Worst of all, a large crack splits the mask in two. Black ooze, as thick as blood, drips from it like a gaping wound. The same black blood falls from the eyes, nose, and gums of the mouth. The ooze pours from the mask and vanishes before hitting the ground. Sarah¡¯s smile fades, as she pulls the steak knife into her hand. She looks up at her father with a cold, threatening gaze. Clear and concise, Sarah says, ¡°Let me go.¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes, there she is,¡± her father says with a sick sense of glee, ¡°there¡¯s my little girl.¡±


    ¡°Let me go,¡± Sarah says again. The man releases her. He picks up his brush and dips it into the cup of dirty water. He rubs it against the dried paints on his wooden palette. They mix into a dark, dirty grey. He begins to paint. The whole time, he repeats those words, ¡°There she is, there¡¯s my little girl.¡±


    Her heart racing, Sarah rushes out of the room. Furiously, she kicks any canvas blocking her path. She slams the door shut behind her and rests up against it. She slides down and pushes the tray to her side. Sarah pulls her knees in close. Her heart throbs as she gasps for air. ¡°Why must it hurt, Sam?¡±


    ¡°Life always hurts,¡± Sam answers. He sits against the wall across from her. He puffs on his pipe as he speaks, ¡°It is life¡¯s nature to hurt; It is the cost of pleasure. Though the pain you feel now is one of choice.¡±


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t feel like it,¡± Sarah argues. Sam exhales a great gust of smoke, ¡°Is this not what you wanted? He sees you now. He knows what you are. Was that not the purpose of all this?¡±


    ¡°No, not entirely. I thought,¡± Sarah searches for the words, ¡°I don¡¯t know, alright. I did want him to see me, but I also wanted him to love me. Is that too much to ask? If I just had one person, who both sees and loves me, I think that would be enough.¡±


    ¡°Do you,¡± Sam asks. Sarah nods her head, ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Your mother saw you and loved you,¡± Sam States. Sarah laughs, ¡°My mother thought I was broken.¡±


    ¡°I did not say she was wise or right for that matter,¡± Sam explains, ¡°In her own foolish way, she was trying to protect you. She thought the world would be too cruel to someone like you. Her mistake, a mistake made by many mortals, was not realizing the world cares for no one. To the world, we are all equally nothing. Best to accept it.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what I want,¡± Sarah says ignoring most of Sam rambling, ¡°I want to be accepted. My mother did not accept me.¡±


    ¡°Acceptance,¡± Sam puffs, ¡°a hard thing to get when you hide behind a face of lies.¡±


    Sarah pulls more into herself. The two sit there in silence. Voice whisper around them in the dark hall. A small black beetle crawls on the rug before Sarah. She watches as it moves along the rug¡¯s withered pattern. She wonders if it knows of pain or pleasure. How simple the life of a beetle must be. As it moves under her feet, Sarah crushes it. ¡°Right then, no more lies.¡±

 Act 2: A Return to Society

    Sarah gets to her feet and takes the tray to the kitchen. She tosses the leftovers and places the dishes in the sink with the others. At the front door, Sarah dresses for the cold weather outside. She takes her black wool double breasted overcoat and grey wool scarf off the coat rack beside the door. Her black mittens lie in a basket next to the coat rack. She slips them on and tosses her book bag over her shoulders. Ready as she¡¯ll ever be, Sarah heads out.


    Her home rests deep in the woods isolated from the rest of society. She must walk for the better half of a mile just to reach her bus stop. Overnight, a blanket of snow has enveloped the forest floor. On days like this, Sarah¡¯s father would drive her to school, but that was a whole year ago. Now, Sarah walks and prefers to walk. She also prefers to think she has a choice.


    When Sarah steps into the snow, she finds her foot buried. The snow collapses over her boots. With every step, it feels as if small hands are holding Sarah to the ground. While no one grip is hard to break, the sheer number of steps quickly begins to weigh on her. As she walks, Sarah tries not to think of the trudge still between her and the bus stop.


    Sam walks beside her. Lighter than the snow itself, he leaves no footprints as he glides along. He does, however, walk with a limp and uses a cane. Sarah has never asked about his limp nor does she hold any real interest in it. She simply finds it odd and wonders if it¡¯s fake.


    ¡°Did I ever tell you I hate the winter,¡± Sarah says huffing. To which, Sam asks, ¡°Is there a season you don¡¯t hate.¡±


    Sarah thinks for a moment, ¡°Well, I guess fall is the least annoying. Really, there¡¯s nothing annoying about it. Except the people; they¡¯re my only problem.¡±


    ¡°How so,¡± Sam asks taking in a deep breath of lights.


    ¡°Their fascination with the changing leaves,¡± Sarah answers, ¡°People see these leaves changing colors and find them beautiful. I don¡¯t think it even dons on them that the leaves are dying. They fall from their trees, only to be covered by winter¡¯s snow, like a white sheet over a corpse. And yet people find it beautiful. They watch all those leaves fall; but, I doubt they see a single one die. It doesn¡¯t even cross their minds. Fall is the season of dying, you know, but to them, it¡¯s just pretty colors.¡±


    ¡°So you believe color has blinded them to the season true nature,¡± Sam clarifies, ¡°How ironic.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I guess,¡± Sarah answers. Gasping for air, she stops walking and presses up against a tree. She drops her book bag in the snow beside her. Huffing she complains, ¡°Yes, I¡¯m quite sure now, winter is my least favorite season. The sun might suck in the summer; but at least, I can ride my bike to the bus.¡±


    ¡°Really, what a shame,¡± Sam says, ¡°I find winter to be my favorite of the four.¡±


    ¡°That figures,¡± Sarah says, looking at Sam unsunken feet, ¡°I¡¯d find it beautiful too if I didn¡¯t have to deal with the snow.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s more than just the beauty of it,¡± Sam insists, ¡°The winter is so familiar to my nature. The duality of clean white snow over a black forest simply radiates with me. I never cared for pigments. Look at a rose through the eyes of thousands, not one will agree on its color completely. Sight, I have found, is as opinionated as taste. The only truth is in the shades and shadows.¡±


    ¡°Is that why the world¡¯s so grey through your eyes?¡±


    ¡°Do you regret it,¡± Sam asks, ¡°losing the colors of the world?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Sarah says, pushing herself from the tree. She retrieves her bag and continues, ¡°for what I got, it was well worth it. Besides, I didn¡¯t lose all color; there are the masks.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Sam puffs on his pipe as he follows Sarah, ¡°those colors are true. No matter who sees them they are always the same.¡±


    ¡°It is pretty,¡± Sarah says, gazing into the forest. The trees slumber naked under the moonlight. Frost sparks on the branches and clumps of snow take the place of leaves. ¡°I think it would be peaceful to die out in the woods, to just be another leaf buried beneath the snow.¡±


    ¡°Freezing to death may not be as pleasant as you think it is,¡± Sam states, ¡°It is a slow, painful, and maddening way to go.¡±


    ¡°I could take the pills then walk into the wood,¡± Sarah argues, ¡°This would just be the place, not the method, geez.¡±


    Sarah takes another rest about two-thirds of the way. This time, she plops up against a tree and sits in the snow. Her bag soaks beside her. ¡°Damn, this snows a pain. I should have just stayed in bed.¡±


    ¡°I think the winter would agree with you,¡± jests Sam, ¡°For the trees and many woodland creatures, winter is a time of slumber. It asks us only to slow and rest. The cold seeps the living of their strength and pushes them to seek comfort. When mortals think of winter, they think of shelter, fires, thick clothing, and warm, hearty meals.¡±


    ¡°Please stop talking,¡± Sarah sighs, ¡°God, if I miss the bus, I¡¯ll have to walk all the way back home. This would all be for nothing.¡±


    ¡°Best hurry then,¡± Sam says. Sarah rises and once more trots through the blanket of snow. The two walk in silence. Sarah watches the forest. She searches it for lantern spirits. Soon, she begins to see one after the other. They are shadows in the forest. Bright orbs of light float before them like lanterns. The forest quickly fills with these wandering lights.


    ¡°They¡¯re so beautiful,¡± Sarah says.


    ¡°The colors only coat a core of mediocrity,¡± Sam states with a puff, ¡°Their souls, like a piece of gum, hold far less flavor than you would imagine.¡±


    ¡°I doubt my soul is any sweeter.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t care for sweet,¡± Sam states with another puff, ¡°I am a ghoul of bitter tastes, and your soul is bitter to its very core.¡±


    ¡°I should be offended,¡± Sarah jokes, ¡°calling my soul bitter.¡±


    ¡°No insult hearts quite like the truth, aye.¡±


    ¡°I guess. So, what will it feel like,¡± Sarah asks, ¡°becoming part of you?¡±


    ¡°You will feel nothing,¡± Sam answers, ¡°Souls have only one sense and that is telepathy. Our mind will merge and become one. You will lose yourself within my domain.¡±


    ¡°What is that like?¡±


    ¡°It is a limbo of a place,¡± Sam puffs, ¡°A quiet, colorless city of shattered memories.¡±


    ¡°That sounds about right,¡± Sarah says before asking, ¡°Do you care if I live a long life, Sam?¡±


    ¡°Not at all,¡± Sam answers, ¡°It is the quality of a thing, not the quantity.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± Sarah says. The silence resumes. Before long, Sarah reaches the bus stop. To her dismay, she arrives just as the bus does. The bus driver beeps at her. With a sigh, Sarah rushes the rest of the way. Gasping for air, she reaches the bus. Ted, the bus driver, opens the door. Sarah holds herself up on the railing as she climbs up the stairs. Noticing her struggle, Ted asks, ¡°you alright, snowflake?¡±The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    ¡°I¡¯m fine Ted,¡± Sarah replies. Ted¡¯s mask is a unique one; Sarah has yet to see another like it. It¡¯s made from tree bark and molds to the face beneath it. His eyebrows are thick and made from moss. A similar moss forms his wild beard and long hair. Both are decorated with red and white berries. A woven crown made from twigs sits atop his head. Sarah is unsure of the masks meaning. She knows little of Ted other then he always smells heavily of tobacco, which masks a fainter scent of marijuana.


    ¡°You don¡¯t look alright, deary,¡± an elderly woman says. She sits in the first seat of the bus. Her mask forms the head of a crow with large bulging eyes, like those of a chameleon. The head is made of black stone and well polished. The eyes resemble fist-sized black pearls. A shallow cavity has been carved into both eyes. A ring of gold around the inside of each cavity forms an iris. Both eyes fixate on Sarah. Her mask is rare too; though, Sarah has seen features as it¡¯s in others. The woman pats the seat next to her, ¡°Would you like to join me?¡±


    ¡°No, but thank you, Ms. Bishop,¡± Sarah answers, ¡°I prefer to sit alone.¡±


    The bus lies nearly empty. Aside for Ms. Bishop, there are only six other passengers. Their masks are all pretty common. They are all grey masks. Some have a few splashes of color here and there but nothing spectacular. Two are made of stone. The other four have the thin, frail texture of papier-mach¨¦. All of them take the appearance of animals, three birds, a bunny, a frog, and a wolf. Sam is nowhere to be seen. He does not accompany Sarah in public, but she can feel him. His presents lies in every shadow, both beyond the bus and within.


    Sarah walks to the very back of the bus. She takes her place on the last seat of the bus. Sarah rests up against the wall and stares into the window. Dawn is breaking in the winter. Sarah sees one of Ms. Bishop¡¯s eyes still watching her. She tries to ignore its gaze as the bus begins to move. Sarah closes her eyes and fades into sleep.


    A crowd of grey masks begins to form by the second stop. A crying boy wakes Sarah. She sees the small boy, no older than five, accompanied by his father. The dad has a stone lion for a mask. Black tears fall from its eyes. Sarah wonders if his wife has passed. The boy¡¯s mask is little more than just an imprint of his face. It shifts quite rapidly from stout, to sad, to board, to sad again. Tears form only to vanish seconds later.


    On the third stop, Sarah is surprised to see her childhood friend Abigail. Sarah sees Abigail as she crosses the street. Sarah slouches down in her seat and hopes the crowd will hide her. Only moments later, Sarah hears, ¡°hey, what are you doing way back here?¡±


    Abigail, clearly searching for Sarah, has wormed her way through the crowd. Propping herself back up, Sarah answers, ¡°This is where I always sit. The bus only gets full after my stop, and I don¡¯t like people walking past me. So I sit back here.¡±


    ¡°Wow,¡± says Abigail, sitting next to Sarah, ¡°you had that prepared.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the truth.¡±


    ¡°I believe you; it¡¯s just I didn¡¯t actually think you had a reason to sit back here.¡±


    ¡°Well, I do. Anyway, why are you here? Don¡¯t you usually get driven to school?¡±


    ¡°Well, yeah,¡± says Abigail, fiddling with her fingers, ¡°but I kind of lost my riding privileges.¡±


    ¡°Is it because of last week¡¯s math exam?¡±


    ¡°Ahaha, kind of, yeah.¡±


    ¡°Figures.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that suppose to me,¡± Abigail asks, ¡°I tried really hard to pass that test.¡±


    She isn¡¯t lying. Sarah knows all too well the number of tutors Abigail has to put with. It doesn¡¯t matter though. There¡¯s nothing special about Abigail. She¡¯s a perfectly common person. One look at her mask and anyone could see it. It¡¯s a grey peacock. Its colorless feathers flow down the back of her head like hair. It has the fragile texture of papier-mach¨¦. The only colors it does have are in the gold teardrops, which hang from emerald eyes.


    Like Sarah¡¯s, Abigail¡¯s mask only covers the top half of the face. Sarah has often wondered about this similarity. To her best guess, it is because they both are liars. Both of them hide behind fake smiles and rehearsed opinions. Neither considers their mouths a part of themselves; rather, it is a part of who they¡¯re suppose to be. The only person Abigail doesn¡¯t lie to is Sarah. Sarah does not share this honesty in return.


    ¡°I know you try,¡± Sarah comforts her. Wearing a fake smile, she places a hand atop Abigail¡¯s own and says, ¡°All I meant was I knew they weren¡¯t going to take the C well. So it figures that¡¯s why you¡¯re here.¡±


    ¡°I guess,¡± Abigail says. She chews her lower lip as she looks down at Sarah¡¯s hand. Sarah pulls her hand back, ¡°All we can do is try harder next time.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know if I can try any harder,¡± Abigail weeps, ¡°I¡¯ll just have to get use to riding the bus, I guess.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t say that; I know you can do better,¡± Sarah lies. Abigail looks over at her and gives a weak smile, ¡°Thanks.¡±


    Sarah continues to console Abigail, to the best of her teachings. On the fourth stop, Sarah¡¯s friend, Lily gets on the bus. She waves at Sarah and rushes past the other passengers. Her mask is a gold sun. It is made of metal, the rarest of materials, and holds a kind motherly face. Crimson tears run down from clear sparkling eyes. Gold and copper flames fold over the back of her head.


    ¡°Good morning, Sarah,¡± Lily says with a cheerful expression. Her tone shifts as she notices Abigail next to her, ¡°what are you doing here?¡±


    ¡°Well, a good morning to you too,¡± Abigail says sarcastically, ¡°If you must know, my dad is running for mayor. He wanted to show the Fosters aren¡¯t above public service; so I volunteered to take the bus.¡±


    ¡°How humble of you,¡± Lily mocks, ¡°so, uh, are you going to move or what?¡±


    ¡°Well no, of course not,¡± Abigail laughs, ¡°we would still live here.¡±


    ¡°No, I mean out of my spot,¡± Lily corrects.


    ¡°Oh, well, still no,¡± Abigail says, ¡°you can sit next to me.¡±


    ¡°Abigail, just scoot over,¡± Sarah says, ¡°I¡¯ll sit in the middle if it means that much.¡±


    ¡°But you like sleeping against the wall,¡± Lily states.


    ¡°Yeah, well, I don¡¯t think I¡¯ll get much sleeping either way.¡±


    ¡°So what, you just watch her sleep,¡± asks Abigail, scooting one seat over. Sarah follows, and Lily sits against the wall. ¡°No, I usually sleep up against her.¡±


    ¡°Oh my God, that so cute,¡± Abigail says, ¡°I totally need a picture of that!¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be a perv,¡± Lily snaps.


    ¡°But you two must look so cute together.¡±


    Annoyance passes over Sarah as she listens to the bickering. Tired, her head bobs slightly. Lily asks, ¡°Are you alright, Sarah?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Sarah lies, ¡°I guess I¡¯m just a little sleepy.¡±


    ¡°Well, maybe talking about the Christmas dance will wake you up,¡± Abigail suggests, with such glee in her voice. Sarah forces a smile and says, ¡°Yeah, I can¡¯t wait.¡±


    The Fosters Holiday Ball, as it¡¯s formally known, is a party Sarah does enjoy; if only to see the remarkable masks of the elites. Powerful figures from all over come to the ball, in hopes of an audience with Abigail¡¯s parents. Though many of them are as common as Abigail, lots of them have amazing metallic masks, like Lily¡¯s.


    Just to see Mr. and Ms. Fosters masks again would be worth the party. Mr. Fosters is a green dragon with ruby and a rainbow of feathers falling down the back. Mrs. Fosters is a gold and silver phoenix, which covers only the top half of her face. Its long tail of iron and copper feathers wrap around her neck like a scarf. They are both quite spectacular.


    ¡°You still have to pick out a dress,¡± Abigail says, ¡°we should go this weekend.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Sarah replies. Her eyes grow heavy at the idea of looking through dozens of grey dresses. ¡°sure, should be fun.¡±


    ¡°Man, I wish I could go,¡± Lily adds. Abigail looks over at her, ¡°If you want I can get you an invitation.¡±


    ¡°Oh, but I don¡¯t have a dress,¡± Lily says. She looks down at the floor, ¡°And I don¡¯t think my dad would let me.¡±


    ¡°I can buy you a dress,¡± Abigail says, ¡°that¡¯s no big deal.¡±


    ¡°My dad wouldn¡¯t like me taking charity,¡± Lily replies, staring at her feet.


    ¡°You could wear one of my old ones,¡± Abigail offers, ¡°I¡¯m sure I have something that would fit. That wouldn¡¯t be charity; after all, they¡¯re just collecting dust.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think my dad would agree,¡± Lily states.


    ¡°Your dad works for Foster¡¯s Mining Company, right,¡± Sarah asks. To which, Lily replies, ¡°That¡¯s right.¡±


    ¡°Well, what if Abigail¡¯s dad invited him and his family,¡± Sarah suggests, ¡°I doubt he¡¯d be able to say no to that.¡±


    ¡°I guess,¡± Lily says. Her tone still seems unsure, but her head props up a little at the suggestion. Abigail, on the other hand, claps her hands together in approval, ¡°That¡¯s perfect, Sarah. I¡¯ll ask my dad tonight.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure, tonight,¡± Sarah asks, ¡°We get back our history exam today.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± Abigail says with a hint of worry, then with a burst of enthusiasm, she continues, ¡°That¡¯s perfect. He¡¯ll be so delighted after seeing my good grade; he¡¯ll have to say yes.¡±


    ¡°So, my fate rests on you getting a good grade,¡± Lily sighs. Abigail laughs, ¡°It¡¯ll be fine¡­ fine, fine, fine.¡±


    ¡°Hey speaking of dads, is yours coming this year,¡± Abigail asks, looking at Sarah. Her voice is calm and reeks of concern. Sarah smiles and answers, ¡°Oh, I don¡¯t think he¡¯ll be up to it.¡±


    ¡°How is he doing,¡± Lily asks. To which, Sarah lies, ¡°Much better. He¡¯s even started painting again.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s great,¡± Abigail says, ¡°Maybe my family and I could come by and take a peek.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so,¡± Sarah answers, ¡°At least not yet, he¡¯s still working through his depression. I think he¡¯d feel uncomfortable around company.¡±


    ¡°Well, maybe just my dad could come and see him,¡± Abigail offers, ¡°It¡¯s been awhile since they last talked. Dad¡¯s been worried about him.¡±


    ¡°Maybe,¡± Sarah answers, ¡°Let¡¯s talk about it later.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, okay,¡± Abigail accepts. The girls fall silence for a while. Eventually, Abigail starts asking Lily what kind of dresses she likes. The two talk as Sarah slowly fades into sleep. Lily wakes her with a gentle nudge when they reach the school.

 Act 3: A Day of Socializing

    Sarah¡¯s first class is gym. It¡¯s a horrid way to start the day and leaves her exhausted for the rest of it. She hates undressing in front of the other girls and refuses to use the showers. Sarah has tried to get excused from this particular class. In the end, she only got excused from any events that involved the outside.


    Today¡¯s class isn¡¯t too bad. The teacher decided dodgeball would be fun. Sarah hangs out in the back with the rest of the girls, who don¡¯t want to participate. Resting up against the cushioned gym walls, Sarah watches the other kids. Their masks are as dull and grey as the balls they toss. There are no special students in Sarah first period; though, some are interesting. A boy, whose name Sarah can¡¯t remember, wears a mask with a female face. A girl, who Sarah believes is named Jessica, has a nearly shattered mask. It bleeds much like her father¡¯s.


    Sarah¡¯s second period is physics. It¡¯s an easy class, but can be repetitive. The class seems to go over the same laws again and again for weeks. It leaves Sarah to her thoughts most days. Recently, she¡¯s been thinking of gravity. There seem to be two rules of physics at competing points in this subject. The first is that everything falls to the earth at the same speed, while the second is everything has its own gravitational pull based on its mass. The second rule dictates the more mass something has, the stronger its pull so the first rule can¡¯t be true. Sarah assumes what they¡¯re trying to say is everything appears to fall to the earth at the same rate due to its overwhelming size; even though technically, someone heavier than Sarah would fall faster to the earth than she would. Sarah supposes it¡¯s no big deal. Seeing that the earth¡¯s accelerating is only nine-point-eight meters per second cubed and she¡¯s not even a trillionth of the earth¡¯s size, her gravitational pull wouldn¡¯t even be one trillionth of its. But if you tossed the moon and Venus at the earth, Venus would diffidently hit first.


    Sarah has considered bringing this up to the teacher but knows she never will. There¡¯s really no point; either he knows, or he doesn¡¯t. From the plainness of his mask, Sarah assumes the latter. Regardless of which, it will make no difference to any of the students or the lessons. In the end, a trillionth of a second is pretty ignorable.


    Today, the class continues preparing for mid-terms. The teacher is currently going over the laws of tension. Sarah spends the class spacing out. She eventually starts doodling on her paper. She ends up drawing the forest around her home with the lantern spirits. She doesn¡¯t bother drawing the orbs themselves since she has no colors. In the end, the picture looks more haunting than beautiful, with only their shadows between the trees.


    Next is history, which she has with Abigail. The class has arranged seating; so, Sarah doesn¡¯t sit next to her. Instead, Sarah has a lovely seat in the back next to the window. Her gaze fixates on the park across from the school. It¡¯s been coated in a sheet of snow, the same as everything else. Mr. Abrams, the teacher, pulls her from it when he calls out her name. Sarah walks up to the front of the class.


    Mr. Abrams wears a steel mask with the face of a lion. Bright blue and white hairs decorate its mane. Though metallic, the mask has no shine, and its eyes seem rusted around the corners. Mr. Abrams hands Sarah her practice exams. The score is an eighty-six out of one-hundred. It seems many of her dates were off, though the events were correct. She returns to her seat, folds the test over and again looks out the window.


    History is one of the few classes Sarah enjoys. Mr. Abrams, who has served in the army, treats the students with a level of respect Sarah doesn¡¯t see in her other classes. He has a passion for history both the good and bad. He openly comments on how much of what¡¯s in the textbooks are more a fairytale telling of actual events, rather than facts. Polished and selective, the books make sure to paint events in a favorable light toward one¡¯s own country, right down to the images of important figures. He even offers extra credit to students, who researched subjects in greater depth and provided their findings. Sarah has neither the want nor need of this, but respects Mr. Abrams¡¯s desire to show the world as it really is. Most students respect him and when he speaks even Sarah is sure to listen. It¡¯s no surprise he¡¯s considered one of the best teachers in the school.


    After history, Sarah walks with Abigail to the cafeteria. Abigail sulks over her practice exam, which shows a seventy-three over one-hundred.


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s still better than last time,¡± Sarah offers, ¡°so at least you¡¯re improving.¡±


    ¡°Aw, do you have any idea how hard I studied for this,¡± cries Abigail, ¡°It¡¯s not far. I tried, I really tried.¡±


    Sarah doesn¡¯t respond. She can¡¯t think of what a person should say at a time like this. It seems almost cruel to tell Abigail she just has to keep trying. Abigail would also probably start complaining to no end about all her tutors. Sarah can¡¯t say it will be alright. That would give Abigail a reason to complain about how she¡¯s going to be punished. Honestly, Sarah just wants to tell her, this is clearly her peak, and she should just accept it. Sarah¡¯s training tells her that would be mean, but would it. Abigail is going to torture herself over this. She¡¯s going to wonder what¡¯s wrong with her and if she¡¯s broken in some way. Sarah knows these feelings, but there¡¯s nothing wrong with either of them. They are what they are and deserve to be accepted as such. Sarah feels she should say this, but the words never come. Instead, the two walk in silence the rest of the way.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    In the cafeteria Sarah and Abigail find Lily. The three sit together. Abigail mopes over her test scores, ¡°I don¡¯t think I¡¯ll be able to ask my dad for any favors after this.¡±


    To which, Lily sighs, ¡°It¡¯s okay. The point is you tried, and that¡¯s what matters. I¡¯d feel really acquired at a big ballroom dance anyway.¡±


    Sarah can¡¯t tell if Lily means this, but she does seem relieved not to be going. The three eat their lunches. With her class in the opposite direction, Abigail splits off from the trio. Lily walks Sarah to her classroom. Before taking off, Lily turns to Sarah and asks, ¡°You¡¯re still up for tonight, right.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± Sarah answers as she opens the door to her fourth period, English. She takes her seat and waits for class to begin. Today, the students share their thoughts on Mary Shelly¡¯s Frankenstein and turn in their accompanying essays. When Sarah is asked to share, she focuses mostly on the different forms of writing used for each character. She explains how Victor¡¯s parts focus mostly on objective facts with feelings and actions rarely portrayed. His chapters often come off long-winded and sterile. This style is made more apparent due to the monster¡¯s, which uses simpler words and focuses on feelings and actions. Captain Walton seems to be a balance of the two.


    After the class ends, Sarah heads to her fifth period, drawing. It¡¯s a pleasant enough class; the only art class, which doesn¡¯t require colors. For most days, Sarah does quite well. She only really struggles on days when the class practices faces. With no better way around it, Sarah simply draws the person¡¯s mask. Fortunately, the teacher is ¡®eccentric¡¯ enough that she praises Sarah¡¯s creativity.


    Finally, Sarah has Trig. It is one of her more boring classes. Much like physics, the class focuses on the same rules for far longer than Sarah feels is needed. Worst of all, she is stuck in the front of the class. The teacher, Mrs. Evans, calls on her often forcing Sarah to pay some level of attention. Feeling the day¡¯s end, Sarah focuses most of her attention on the ticking clock.


    ¡°Almost free,¡± she thinks to herself. Thoughts of crawling back into her bed cloud her mind. When she is called upon, Sarah finds it difficult to answer correctly. In the end, she found herself apologizing not once, but twice to Mrs. Evans. She was less forgiving for the second time than the first. She didn¡¯t call upon Sarah again.


    With the school day over, Sarah meets Lily in the art study. A chair is set in front of a curtain. Sarah has been told the curtain is crimson. The chair is small, wooden and uncomfortable. A male manikin rests behind the chair. Lily stands waiting next to her canvas. A sheet is pulled over her painting. She holds a bouquet of fake roses. Sarah takes the bouquet and sits in the chair. She holds the bouquet in her left arm with her knees to the right.


    ¡°Where you waiting long,¡± Sarah asks as Lily begins filling her palette with colors. She responds, ¡°No, I was finishing up some other stuff before you got here. Your timing couldn¡¯t have been more perfect.¡±


    Pulling off the sheet, Lily pauses before adding, ¡°Really, even if I had been, I wouldn¡¯t mind. I¡¯m just grateful you agreed to help.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s no problem,¡± Sarah says, and she¡¯s not lying. Even though it keeps her from her bed a bit longer and the chair is uncomfortable, Sarah enjoys Lily¡¯s company. Sarah sits in silence, while Lily works. After an hour, the two take a break. Lily hides the painting, ¡°No peeking; I want it to be a surprise.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I know,¡± Sarah says. Almost a week now, Lily has hidden her work and not once has Sarah tried to ¡®peek,¡¯ but every day Lily reminds her not to. The break is short, and soon Sarah finds herself back in the chair. Sarah watches as Lily¡¯s head moves from her to the canvas again and again. More and more, Lily¡¯s gaze focuses longer on the painting, until minutes pass without her looking once a Sarah. Before she asks, Lily steps away and says, ¡°It¡¯s done.¡±


    ¡°So, I can see it,¡± Sarah asks. Lily nods her head. Sarah gets up from the chair. Her legs feel like they¡¯re cramping. She does her best to hide the pain as she walks over to Lily. Standing beside her, Sarah examines the painting. It depicts her, without her mask. Only half open, her eyes look heavy. Sarah wonders if she always looks so tired. Her painted self wears a frilly Victorian dress with a matching shawl and bonnet. The outfit reminds Sarah of a doll she once had.


    Beside her stands a tall, dark man. His hand rests on her shoulder. The man¡¯s likeness to Sam is nearly uncanny. Lily portrayal of him from Sarah¡¯s descriptions is impressive, to say the least. She has captured his skeleton grin, cosmic eyes, and silver chain necktie perfectly. The proportions of his figure are a bit off. Sam''s arms are inhumanly long, with the fingers reaching close to his knees. The painting has them more natural. Neither she nor Sam smiles, ignoring Sam¡¯s forced grin. In Sarah¡¯s eyes, the two resemble a couple in an old black and white photo. They don¡¯t seem happy, but content. Sarah wonders if that¡¯s enough.


    ¡°It¡¯s beautiful,¡± Sarah says. To which, Lily replies, ¡°I¡¯m glad you think so. I have a name already picked out for it.¡±


    Sarah looks over to Lily, who says, ¡°I¡¯d like to call it Death and the Rosemary Doll.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡± Sarah replies turning back to the painting, ¡°yes, that sound about right.¡±