𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐀 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝

XL

        Henry's pov
I am a man of many masks. It's all I've been taught to do, so much so that I don't think I can fully differentiate myself anymore.

I can be whoever I need to be, play any role I need to play, do whatever I need to do to get what I want. Each mask—no matter color, size, beliefs, or personality—has never cracked. But as I fanatically scrub at the stained skin of my broken hands, I realize that the threads of my veil are becoming undone, the clay fractured and worn out.

Liquid soap, bar soap, antibacterial wash, hand sanitizer, grove spray topped with clean wipes—and yet, it won't fucking come off. The ink of emptied-out pens run so deeply, that I fear the burning hot water is beginning to wash off the flimsy, shabby skin of my humanity.

Half an hour passes when I finally dry my hands on the towel—the irritated skin of my hands blemished with reopened scars, pink with the burn of the water. Both such simple senses, and yet, I can't feel them—having been too numb. But still, it won't come off. It never comes off.

I fear that I'm beginning to wipe away my illusion of sanity, of mercy, rather than just the splatters of black on my hands. And when I open the bathroom door to see the woman of my dearest nightmares leaning against the doorframe—I realize that yes, my mask is cracking, if not shattering completely.

I've been taught that instead of being fearful, to be something to fear. To be the predator rather than the prey. I've been raised as a weapon, a machine, a violent device. I'm a monster with no monsters of his own. So why, pray tell, am I starting to believe I'm the most petrified man alive?

How scary is it, to finally have something worth losing. To have a reason to want to wake up, to provide for, to live for. It was so much easier when I was just waiting for death, but now I find myself trying to hide from it. Because I'm starting to think that this woman staring back at me with tired eyes and a frown weighing down on her perfect lips is my own personal punishment for all the sins I've committed when she says, "What are you doing awake?"

"Just woke up," I lie, kissing her on the forehead. I can't I can't I can't tell her, and although it pains me to lie to her, the alternative—to have her leave me for something as stupid as the 'greater good', would kill me. 

So in the name of Jane Ivers, I commit another sin—as long as it means keeping her. She nods sleepily, walking into the bathroom and once I hear the shower running, I grab my journal that's still sprawled out on the dining room table before tossing it in one of the forgotten drawers. But before I close it fully, I eye the page it's open on, eye the neat cursive of my handwriting filling the entire page—ink stains on the page.

1/12/23
The examination of reincarnation, Entry four.                                            
written by Henry Eliott Vitiello.

Tonight's terrors were the bloodiest.

Mattheo & Rose: Death by overdose.
Elliot & Lily: Death by poison.
Kai & Adeline: Death by knife. 

The common denominator? Suicide.

Under that, circled over and over again—
Henry & Jane:

And underneath that—question marks fill the blank line. The paper is ripped as if the pressure of the pen was harsh, so harsh—as if in anticipation, to be answered. The grandfather clock ticks and tocks in the background, like sand from an hourglass, slowly emptying. Tick, tock, tick, tock—as if to taunt me.

I've always waited for death, prayed for it, even. I welcomed the damn thing with open arms as long as it'd stop all the pain. Now? I'm planning to run from it, to stay in this horrible world if it means staying with her. It's strange, to have a reason to stay. I had nothing to lose then, and everything to lose now.

So yes, how petrifying is it to have something worth losing.

And with that, I shut the drawer tightly—locking away any evidence of my bleeding brain before going downstairs to start breakfast.

~~~
first update of the double update :P sorry for yet another short thriller bare with me for a couple of minutes !!