Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be flayed alive. The feeling of my skin being peeled off of my body, layer by layer by anyone. Slowly and painfully, stripped to muscle and nerve spasms. I wonder how badly I would hurt. I wonder if that is how it feels to have a face taken off, or if it is the same as the prostitutes in the brothel down forty-third street that take off their makeup at the end of the night.
I've been told that it is a different feeling, almost feelingless. I've never asked the faceless, though. The Angels told me that it is just a mental block you have to get over to take off your own face, but to take off someone else's face is the same as taking a step, a thoughtless process. The Master of Faces told us that the Angels are not to be trusted. The master told us that to take off a face is a unique experience that is not for the gentle-hearted, but we should not have gentle hearts to begin with.
My slender finger almost tickles the edge of my jaw bone before my ear, right where my face ends. If I was brave, my finger would be able to at least roll the edge of my face a millimeter. I did it before, my body broke out into a cold sweat that soaked each layer of my skin. My body temperature dropped in fear.
My eyes dart through the small foggy mirror that hangs on a grey medicine cabinet in front of my pale body. The door handle behind me is still locked. No one has tried to open it yet: but my allotted shower time is being wasted with the hot water for the family unit. The shower water drowns out the noise of my mind as my blue eyes meet one another.
I could take my face off and it would be my own little secret that no one else would know except for me. I could have a secret just for myself and not keep everyone else's.
My thumb traces the face line in a weak effort to create any sort of traction. My lungs force out an exhale that adds to the mirror fog, but my eyes shut me out to darkness.
The pad of my thumb finally forces my skin to move forwards by a touch as my skin breaks out the same cold sweat as the last time I moved my face, so I hold my face tight to my skull with my thumb. Breathing shallowly my eyes open.
I look like an idiot pressing my thumb to my jaw bone, my face is not even distorted a bit.
A loud knock cuts the numbing silence of the shower water and my hand falls to my side instinctively. My eyes glaze over like fingerprint stained windows of an empty storefront.
"The shower has to be turned off in a minute," the loud and very monotone voice of father calls. He belongs to the proletariats, we all do, but him and mother especially. Monotone and almost laggy with words.
Obeying his command I get inside of the shower cubicle and start a countdown from thirty. The cooling water hits my hair first and my hand grabs the standardized grey bottle that reads "shampoo" in bold white letters. The shampoo comes out white into my opposite hand and then suds in my hair.
Fifteen, my head reminds me, as my hands quickly start to slide against my body with the same suds from my hair. Soap is a luxury that few can afford from the main supermarket and soap never comes in the monthly government-issued grant boxes.
With my last few seconds and a prayer, I let the now cold water wash away the suds before turning the tap off completely. Standing in the shower cubicle stark naked and dripping wet with a face that has never come off.
The room is grey, the towel hanging beside the shower is grey, my standardized proletariat, government-issued jumpsuit is grey. Yet my undershirt is white. The mother of each family unit is required to keep all undershirts completely white and bleached even though another grey garment would be easier. The only color is hair, eyes, and skin.
After I dry myself off and drop the grey towel underneath the sink for the laundry collection, I slide myself into my shirt and then my jumpsuit, making sure the zipper goes to my neck, and the buttons at the wrist are done up.
I know I shouldn't, but I allow myself to look back into the foggy mirror. My hand reaching for my face again. I could pull my face off, but like the Angels said, there is a mental block I have to get over before I can take my own face off to see how it feels. I won't let anyone else try to take my face, I wouldn't want to lose it and be one of the faceless.
