She sits on the dock, dangling her toes over the murky water, waiting.
Underneath her pristine porcelain mask her cheek itches relentlessly, but she doesn’t’ reach under to scratch. They could arrive any minute and she doesn’t want her mask askew. You never want your mask askew.
When you are a visitor in someone elses land, you abide by their rules, and you accept their customs.
She shifts in her spot, peering across the choppy water to the thick lushness of evergreen trees barely visible through the fog. Behind her she can hear the soft thud of footfalls. So she stands and greets her hosts. “Welcome to the Fey lands! We are thrilled that you are here!” Their smiles are toothy and wide. They each hug her warmly and send a chill up her spine. She tries not to shudder.
One with a slight dimple in his left cheek taps her mask, “seems nice and solid!” She nods. He continues, “You are allowed to decorate them you know, you don’t have to leave them in their polished white form?” She frowns, which her companions don’t see. “Why? It’s a mask. Why would you bother decorating it? What do you decorate it with?” The host shrugged, “your personality I guess.” The other companion chimes in, “Let’s get moving, we have so much daylight ahead of us.”
As they trudge to the vehicle parked in the lot, she considers the irony in decorating a mask with her personality. What colors would she use? Would the colors do justice to her rankling angst and simmering rage?
They drive in silence to a charming apartment. Filled to the absolute brim with things. All sorts of things. Most of them entirely useful and neat. All of them storied and important to the thing owners: her companions. “Welcome home” the male companion waves a hand across the space. She feels strangely drawn to the odd collection of furniture, art, and valuables. She tells herself its the making of societal culture, that in order to understand her hosts, she has to identify with their “things”.
She settles into their spare bedroom.
She shares meals with them.
She paints a tapestry on the wall in her gifted bedroom, at their request. She fills the swirls and loops with magnificent jet-streams of colors.
She begins to collect things, similar to thiers
They gift her some of their things to complete her collection.
Her compansions compliment her and uplift her with messages of kindness. They ask her why she hasn’t painted her mask, as vividly as she painted their wall.
Without warning, the wind shifts.
The air feels thick with unease.
She comes home everyday to hot tight air in the apartment and no one laughs over the magnificent collection of things anymore
The colors on “her” wall start to fade long before she drums up the courage to leave.
She stands on the dock feeling empty and hollow. Waiting for a way back out.
The water is calm and listless, like a sheet of lazy glass and the fog is too thick for her to see the other side of the lake
There are no happy endings.
And she takes her mask off just as the rain begins to fall.
cirque de la nuit 