The Mask

The mask was weird. He looked loathsome. But I thought he loved his mask and it appeared that the canker was eating into his soul.

We could never forget that only a few years back he was such a sweet, innocent and precocious person who was in love with everything beautiful. Life for him was a beautiful bouquet of roses; and he was too nice to mind the thorns.

But we could not sense when and why his burgeoning innocence was nipped in the bud. He now moved like a thief, face covered by a fearsome mask, his sins stuck to him like dried mud.

We had met after a long time. The mask unnerved me, I was afraid to even look at his face. But then something in his eyes disturbed me. There a mute plea in those eyes.

‘You think I am wearing a mask?’ the voice was full of pain and agony. ‘No one is willing to understand the pathetic fate that befell me.  I am not wearing any mask; it’s me as I am.’

I was stunned. I could feel the pain dripping from his eyes.  I felt ashamed; like everyone else I too had condemned him without giving him even a semblance of opportunity to tell his story.

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A post for Sunday Whirligig and Sunday Photo Fiction.

Word count 213