Madman

All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.

- William Shakespeare

“Put this on,” said a father to his son.

The boy turned the strange object over and over in his small hands, studying its textured surface. He didn’t like the way it looked. It made him feel afraid.

“I—I don’t want to,” he stuttered, shrinking back towards the bare wall behind him.

“I said,” his father uttered sternly, “put it on.” 

The boy hesitated, gazing up at his father, who stood stiffly, waiting. Slowly, he brought the object up to his face, shakily pulling the strap around the back of his head.

“There, now. Doesn’t that feel better?” his father said with a smile. “Your very first mask.”

The boy didn’t like the way it felt on his face, the way it scratched and gnawed at his soft skin. He didn’t like the way he could feel the heat of his breath reflecting off the back, or the way the world looked smaller gazing through it. 

He went to take it off. “I don’t want it…I don’t like it!” he cried.

His father clenched his immense hands into fists. “You know the rules, boy! You’ll wear it, and that’s final,” his father barked angrily as he forced the mask back over the boy’s face.

The boy ran to the bathroom to look at himself in the mirror, and began to weep. He gazed at the mask’s flat, smiling reflection as hot tears streamed down his skin, hidden from view. He hated his mask. He hated that he had to wear it. He hated everything about it! But he knew he had to…this is just the way things were.

***

As the days went by, the boy slowly began to adjust to his new mask. Day by day, one at a time, the kids at school began showing up wearing theirs, the classroom slowly filling with eerie, fabricated smiles.

Before long, the boy hardly noticed the mask anymore, and slowly began to forget the hidden faces of his friends. Eventually, the mask became part of him, and he forgot his own face.

As he grew, he collected new masks here and there…some came as gifts, some as a reward for a job well done, others as part of a new sport or hobby, and others simply because it’s what he was supposed to do. Like everyone else, he carried his masks around in a sack loaded onto his back. He hardly noticed as the sack grew heavier and heavier with time.

By the time the boy was grown, his sack was so full that it was bulging at its ragged seams. And his back had come down with a dull, nagging ache, but he simply couldn’t comprehend any longer that the cause of this pain was his overfilled sack. For he had not only forgotten his own face, but had also forgotten the existence of the sack as something separate from him.

He had a mask for every occasion — work, friends, intimate relationships, children, family, social outings. He even began to change them when he was alone, as a way to keep himself occupied.

***

The boy, now a man, was one day walking home from work, minding his own business, when he noticed a madman sitting on a bench nearby. He knew that the man was mad because his face was…well, it was the face of a madman. It was animated and he had a crazed wildness in his eyes. And everyone knew that such men were mad and not to be spoken to. 

“You there!” said the madman as he passed by.

He paused for a moment, nearly continuing on, but instead turned to face the madman. 

“Yes, you! Come, sit down,” the madman muttered as he patted the bench with a grizzly hand.

He looked around nervously, worried that someone might see him talking to a madman. He took a shallow breath, stepping closer to the madman, and the madman reached up and pulled him down to sit.

“There we are, boy,” the madman said in a low, husky voice. “Won’t you take off your sack? It must be quite heavy.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean, sir,” he replied with a gentle condescension, as the madman was obviously mad and making little sense.

“Your sack,” the madman repeated. “The place where you store your masks,” he motioned towards the man’s sack. “It looks awfully heavy, and must be causing a dreadful ache in your back.” 

He looked at the madman curiously, wondering how he knew of the ache in his back.

“Do you remember getting your first mask? When you were just a boy?” the madman inquired.

There was an air of familiarity in the madman’s question, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. “I—I’m…I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?” probed the madman. “I remember mine,” he smirked. “Horrible, itchy thing. I didn’t take to it like all the others…locked me up for it, too. And now,” the madman gestured at the street corner where they sat, “I’m the madman.” He laughed.

The man sat quietly, wrestling with the dull pang of truth inside his chest.

The madman continued. “Don’t you get tired of all the masks, boy? Changing them out, one after another, day and night? Pretending? All to hide from the truth…” he paused for a moment, then continued in a whisper, “...that they’re a fabrication, a lie. That who you think you are doesn’t actually exist.” The madman’s eyes twinkled with delight at the words.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” blurted the man defensively. “You’re mad! Why should I listen to you?”

“Hmph,” sighed the madman, shaking his head. “How you do it, I’ll never understand. Hiding…always hiding. You don’t even notice them anymore, do you? Here you are lugging around a sack full of masks, and you can’t even see them!” the madman began to laugh. “And I’m the mad one!” he cackled loudly. “I’m the mad one!”

Feeling uneasy, the man stood up from the madman’s bench, wishing he hadn’t sat down in the first place. 

“You’re all the same…” grumbled the madman under his breath. “I’m the mad one...teach you a lesson…”

Just as the man began to walk away, the madman lunged at him, and all went dark.

***

The man was back in his childhood living room, watching himself as a boy standing in front of his father, holding a strange object in his hands. It all felt like a dream. He watched his young self lifting the object to his face, and he gasped — a mask! 

The man was propelled back into his body, and his eyes flung open. As he came to, he felt the cold hardness of concrete under his hands, and he realized that he was lying on the street corner. He must have lost consciousness.

He struggled to his feet, his legs wobbly and unstable. He felt strange. Disoriented. His head was spinning, and beads of sweat gathered on his brow as a wave of nausea came over him. He looked around. The madman was gone.

He noticed a woman walking down the sidewalk, coming towards him.

“Ma’am…c—can you help me?” he managed to beg as the woman neared. She seemed not to hear him. “Please! Please, I need help!” He reached out his hands towards her, desperately.

She backed away. “Madman,” she hissed under her breath, walking quickly away.

The man looked around, searching the street for the madman. Suddenly, the man remembered his vision…he remembered the mask. He ran to the nearest store window, inspecting the glass to find his reflection.

Staring back at him — maskless — was a face that the man did not recognize. It was the face of a madman.