QOTD 3

"When you meet an extraordinary person, it’s like they get inside you, under your ribs, and shuffle everything inside you around until they find space for greatness to grow. But extraordinary people always get away. And when they leave, they take that little part of you with them. Suddenly you find yourself with a gap in your chest that you don’t know how to live with. Suddenly you’re frightened of being yourself without them..." - Nick Ellsworth

Divided and Conquered

They told me I had to leave him behind. They told me I couldn't bring him with me. I didn't care. I brought him with me anyway.

He lived in my closet; I fed him secretly. At first, he only came out at night; almost every night he would work his magic, do his thing, just like he used to in the glory days. But as the days wore on, the days got busier and the nights grew colder. Things got more complicated and he wasn't able to go out as often. Days, weeks, months went by without him working, practicing, performing. He grew sluggish, unresponsive, weak. They chained him to a chair, made him sit behind a desk and told him to study, learn, grow up, be responsible, make decisions. He stopped going out altogether.

When I brought him back, he was changed. Different. The things he used to do that were second nature before felt strange and foreign to him. He felt awkward and out of place in the space he used to call home. He wasn’t the same. He was worthless. I considered abandoning him, I told him to give up; it wasn’t worth it anymore. He had had a good run but maybe now it was time to call it quits. I argued and fought with him. I gave him until the end of summer to retire, to forget the dream, to look in the mirror and come back to reality.

It was that time. Summer was over. They told me I had to leave him behind. I considered it. And then I smuggled him with me again.

This time he was bolder, showing himself during the day. He was still weak and out of practice, but he was determined to regain what he had lost. In one week, he had made good progress. And then injury.

He was devastated. I had given him a second chance, a chance to prove himself and regain my trust, and the worst had happened. He could not go on. He had to stop, recover, start over. I shoved him back into the closet, angry and upset. Every week I would check on him to see if he was ready to return. Every week the answer was the same. He remained in the closet.

I went home to see my family. I brought him with me. Everyone was happy to see him, but he was only a shadow of his former self, it was plain to see. Nothing was the same.

I was leaving home again. They told me I had to leave him behind. So I did.

Broken Mirrors

Cold, white, plastic. Rosy cheeks, a painted smile on the lips, two holes for the eyes. The mask lay on the bed. He eyed it cautiously, not wanting to make prolonged eye contact with the endless darkness in its eyes, but he knew would have to face the music. What if he didn't wear it this time? Unthinkable at first. He had worn it for so long he had forgotten would it was like to be bare-faced in public. But the more he thought about it, the more it became a possibility. A small seed of hope grew into a monster that he could not shake.

Could he do it? Was he willing to step outside and face the mob without protection? Was he really  ready to brave the harsh world outside with the angry scars that distorted his face?

Scars.

It hurt to think about it. The burn marks on his face still hurt, after all these years. He reached up to touch his face and then thought better of it. He knew what they looked like. He had tried to forget many times. The mirror that used to hang on the wall now lay smashed and shattered on the floor for a reason.

School.
Crowded halls, noisy, public, exposed. Surrounded and alone. The cold plastic chaffed his wounds. He tried to make his voice sound cheery to match the painted smile that covered his lips. Short and brief in all he said, afraid if he spoke too much, his plastic falsity would become apparent. Eyes on the floor, avoiding conversation and interaction at all costs, slipping away as soon as the introductory small-talk had been exhausted.
"Hey bro, how you doin'?"
"I'm good."
"You sure? How are things?"

Smile, eyes up, fight the tears, don't let your voice break. "Everything's good."

Drained and exhausted but he knew the end of the day brought a false hope. Home was no better.

The mirror still lay in pieces on the floor. Ten million shards of glass and tears. The countless pieces scattered across floor. Each one a memory. Each one a fault. Each one a monster. Pain, fears, nightmares; they all came flooding back. His wounds burned as the tears began to flow. Fight the tears. Stop it before it erupts. Cover your mouth. Calm down, relax, breathe; drown them quickly, quickly. Recover. Deep breath.

He had put it off as long as he could but it was time to leave. The mask lay on the bed. The bus was pulling up outside. With trembling hands, he donned the smile. He knew why he had to wear the mask.

"I'd seen that look on your face before. It's the same one I taught myself.. I figured it out too late. You gotta learn to hide the pain, and practice smiling in the mirror. It's like putting on a mask."