In this place everything is porcelain and leather and crystal, marble and silk and mother of pearl; sweeping staircases, delicate chandeliers, vaulted ceilings. Everything is the finest, the rarest, the most expensive. Everything is beautiful. Elegant. Superior. Untouchable and untouched.

This is not a home. This is a doll house. This is make-believe. In this place every room is a ballroom and every moment a masquerade. Never let the mask slip. Never speak out of character. A doll has no wants or wishes of its own; a doll is a blank slate. Remember that and you will draw no attention.

Is it no wonder a place like this would raise a beast, not a man? That it would mold a monster who at once craves for, yet chafes against, the collar and leash? Perfection and sterility provide nothing to feed a starving soul, so the soul devours itself to survive.

I don’t belong here. I never did. But I learned to wear my mask well.

8 thoughts on “#1549

      • My sense of the character was that he/she didn’t respect the fake world and only wore the mask because that is where he/she was. I thought that it was meant to be a sad statement about having to wear a mask because what was fake was surrounding them. Maybe I read it wrong, lol. I actually meant to express respect for the real person under the mask who was crying out against the fake world.

        • Oh no, you read it right. I was just projecting your comment onto the character as a whole, not just in this instance. Sorry, that’s my bad. :)

          On Wed, Mar 4, 2015 at 11:55 AM, Only Fragments wrote:


  1. I once lived in a beautiful neighbourhood, with lavish houses. Some of the houses looked a bit like mansions, and those places were usually inhabited by Indians. That’s what this reminds me a bit of.

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