A Mask Everyone Wears

“Ah! Exquisite!”

The male voice echoed throughout the whole empty gallery. A euphonious voice, as many who complimented him for it said. Something about it caught the mind, and grabbed attention. It was low pitched , resonant, loud and passionate. A voice for an orator, but this voice belonged to no orator. It belonged to a clever man. An immoral man, some would say. He was standing in the corner of the gallery and painting his latest work, occasionally bending down to get his paint. He took a small step back to admire his creation. "Clearly, nothing can beat this one. But then again-” He smiled a crooked smile, “I outdo myself every time.” He lost himself in his brush strokes, hardly noticing that his paint was dropping and spilling everywhere. It was pitch dark. The antique pocket watch that he carried with him at all times showed that it was a little past midnight. He grabbed it in his back pocket and flicked it open in front of him briefly. Disregarding the time, he continued painting. He started humming. To him, the brush strokes were the hand of the Creator and the canvas, his world. He bent down again and noticed he ran out of paint. “Ah, just when I was getting to the fun part.” he mused. He checked the pocket watch again. “Oh well, I can always go and get some more paint. I have time.” He thought out loud. He started packing up and started putting his tools back in his bag. He left the gallery from the backdoor.

The man started walking slowly. He was headed for the park. Not many people are around this time of night. He might as well go there and enjoy the air a bit. As he walked and his loud footsteps echoed through the cobblestone path he took, he started to wonder where he should get his paint from. Ah well, he can decide that when he reaches the park. He wasn’t poor. Not in the slightest. Perhaps his mansion and pocket watch were enough to tell that he was not with the common crowd. His handsome face looked young and his clothes too flashy for the time. Yes, he was rich, but he knew that real beauty and pleasure lay not in material things, but rather in the sound of the ocean, the cool breeze in the night and art. Especially his art. It always got him excited. He was the person that old men saw and thought the youth still had hope left. No one really knew what his profession was. He often said that he never could let his philosophical and creative mind go to waste and also liked to pursue arts. He could have been anything. A lawyer. A businessman or a doctor. He never really told anyone his main career. All people knew was that he was almost 25 and a millionaire if not more. The artist smiled at the passing guard and bowed a little. The guard returned the smile back and continued on his way a little happier. After a few minutes, he finally reached his destination. He sat down on a park bench and crossed his legs. He kept his bag next to him on the chair and there were no guards about. The crickets made noise and all seemed right. Suddenly, he could hear footsteps behind him. He quickly turned around to see another man. He walked in a disoriented manner and staggered quite a bit. Our artist merely smiled and minded his own business. He was in his 30’s and looked like a beggar. It was a cold night. He saw the man clutched a bottle in his right hand. His hands white from the tight grip.' Perhaps…. But alas! He looks like the kind to have a family too’ the artist thought. He politely asked him, “Good sir. No need to drown your sorrows in alcohol. You have a friend to talk to here.” The beggar started sobbing and looked at him. “ No need to worry about me, laddie. I could never even start a family, much less a career ” The artist slipped a hand in his bag. “I understand sir. Life is tough. I’ve been through it too. I have family, but not my own children. I’m too young for kids right now. I need to get my life settled first, eh?” The beggar grinned and got suspiciously closer. “I reckon! You sure seem well to do lad. I have no one though. My ma and pa died when I was a wee lad and life did not serve me well I guess.” The artist smiled empathetically. He got up to face the man square in the face. “I understand.”

“What is that, lad?”

“I understand what I must do”

“And that will be?”

Suddenly, the beggar feels a hand cup over his mouth and something sharp in his belly. "No one will remember you, you say? Good. All the better. I oh so desperately needed more paint.” The artist broke into a maniacal grin. “Don’t resist, it will make it more painful. I need to put up a proper display by tomorrow. So terribly sorry.”

The artist made his way back to the gallery and threw the body bag next to the other. He started humming Nocturne and then opened the body bag. He moved the other severed corpse from the way and stared at the bloody wall where he was working. He immediately got to work on the beggar and let him bleed profusely while collecting his paint in a bowl. When the bowl was almost full, he went back and let the rest of the fluid decorate the floor. He continued to paint and hum. He had thought of his piece. He heard ambulance sirens outside. “Ah, must be for my other friend.” He thought. “I should finish quickly or I may have to leave this unfinished.” He mused forlornly. Very carefully, he started painting again. “Don’t worry, you will be my voice in this world, my means of creation, my sword, my shield and my poetry. You will inspire everyone who looks at you. What a privilege!” He said to no one in particular. “You. Will become my art.” He continued painting as if in a trance. After he had finished, he looked at the leftover paint he had left and thought of writing thoughts on the other wall. He had always wanted to do that. He never got the time, really. The street painting was too risky and the one in the paint supplier’s home was too congested. He should really plan more about the location rather than how to get away with it. He was already too skilled. He started writing on the wall.After he finished that, he suddenly remembered something. “Oh! I almost forgot. The decoration.” He looked at the bodies. Slowly he made his way to his bag and took out a saw and stitches.

The next day, the police and gallery goers were horrified at the scene that met their eyes. The two bodies were grotesquely malformed to represent trees. The limbs were made to look like branches and the other parts of the body used more…. creatively. Our artist was standing in the back row, as normal as ever and trying to see everyone’s reaction. Ah! Everyone was MESMERISED! It IS so beautiful, is it not? He wasn’t an idiot, so he never signed his work, but only if they knew that the artist was standing right behind them. The newspaper’s front headlines read “Killer on the loose! 11 Murders in 2 Weeks!”. A copy of it was neatly folded and put near his painting. The painting was, without a doubt, truly remarkable. Although there was only one colour, multiple shades were used, The shape, the strokes, the pressure, everything was calculated. It was a girl’s face. Intensely detailed. Darker and lighter shades were used to illustrate the lighting and differentiate different parts of her. He really liked children, he never harmed them. He often donated to charity and spent time in orphanages. He helped old ladies cross the road, but his obsession will stick with him. Nothing can change that. Some people started reading the writing on the wall and seemed moved. The artist was happy with the fact that his writings could change people. He looked at it, turned around and slowly exited the gallery. He smiled to himself as he saw the blue sky. Life is beautiful is it not?