The Mask We Choose

Plastic molds to the broken exterior of this lonely soul. He caresses the grooves that hide his contorted and decayed visage. Clinging on to something lost years ago, his mind races with the possibilities of this alter ego. Time has been cruel to this man, and his mind has become twisted and directed towards revenge.

This remnant of a since long lost man is adorned by a knife as sharp as the beak protruding from the glistening mask. Light bounces off the opalescent mask, and the hooked nose casts a menacing shadow. Beneath it lies a grimace running from cheek to cheek and gaping open. The mask appears to float as the man bathes himself in a feathery black cloak.

While the man beneath the mask may appear harmless and complacent, the hands and mask are an entirely different story. The thick black coals of the mask's eyes that men taking their last breath peer into are nothing short of gateways to a painful and wretched life, and the gnarled hands that grasp the blade as it plunges deep into the flesh seem more at home clasping a bottle of pills or resting in the lap of a wheelchair bound man.

As the light from the moon crashes against a backdrop of old brick buildings are cracked pavement, the figure glides down a solemn and lonely street. Peering into the windows of deceivers, rapists, and violent offenders, his gaze fixates on the misery and hate that plagues humanity. Seeking little more than to remove the cancerous filth from the world, he fears not the human emotions that coincide with the taking of a life. Guilt and remorse are two things that have never accompanied the cold eyes and wrinkled face of this man.