The Mask.

It was a mild day, though gusts of wind made it cold. The overcast sky loomed over the city, as forecasted so many days ago. How come the world couldn’t forecast deaths? Sudden grief struck me as I exited the hospital. I’d spent the past day simply gazing at an immediate family, wishing they’d come back into existence.

The sun was setting, as I walked alone, letting my legs take me wherever they wanted. Wishing that all the worries and burdens that now followed me would simply vanish, I ran, hoping that I’d be able to outrun them all, in a race to the end. Life isn’t that straightforward. I lurched forward, instinctively putting my hands out to cushion my fall. It was only a small stone in the gravel. The skin tore, leaving vulnerable, open flesh. The pain still couldn’t match the hurt that was etched in my heart. It simply added to the list of things to do.

“Why God” was all I could manage, before I collapsed into a world of darkness.

I began to stir. Sunlight began to filter through the trees, pouring abundantly over my feeble body. The hope that it was all a dream vanished when I found the death certificate in my pocket. “Use sparingly”- A note attached to a thin wooden mask lying beside me. I smirked, remembering my question before I passed out.

With a few weird glances on the tram ride back home, I looked at my reflection. Ruffled hair and heavy bags under my tired, bloodshot eyes; surely this wasn’t me. How easily affected I am. Toughen up, I thought. Allowing a few days to compose myself, I rested up; preparing for a friend’s twenty first, themed ‘Masquerade.’ Perfect, perhaps I’d be able to use that wooden mask.

The day arrived. I was a show-stopper, winning ‘Best Mask.’ I approached the birthday boy with a hug and a customary ‘Happy Birthday!’ With the mask in my hand, he looked at it and looked back at me.

“I love your mask… and also you seem to be coping really well with that tragic… passing.”

“Thank you.” With that, many others also said things similar to what the birthday boy had said. By midnight, I was exhausted. Placing the mask in my bag, the most peculiar thing happened. My worries had seemed to have disappeared.

In the morning another note seemed to have attached to the mask ‘It works.’ I understood what it meant. It was a mask- one that masked insecurities and worries.

Only a week later, I was passing through a shadowy laneway, when an urge to use the mask happened. Perhaps it was to keep me from feeling insecure. Wanting to look like a person with a funny personality in front of my friends, I wore the mask. Sure they cracked up laughing, but I noticed a blood red number fixed in their heart, with a strange symbol located next to it.

I made a mental note of the symbol and asked a friend of mine, who was a creative artist, who was into symbolism. She took her time, but finally sucked in some air and remembered.

“Estimated Days Left to Live. That’s what it is. Viking doctors used it for their terminally ill patients.”

I gasped. Incredible.

I was excited. Now, I’d be prepared for the death of a loved one, not to mention my own.

Arriving home, I ran upstairs and locked myself in my bedroom, telling mum that I’d be down for dinner soon. It was now or never.

I stood in front of the mirror nervously with the mask in my trembling hand. As I raised it up to my face, I saw a single digit ‘0’