Reflections of Masks (The Ramblings of Silence)

It wasn't me. My reflection. It just wasn't me. I couldn't look at it. It wasn't me that stared back into my own eyes, it was a demon, a ghost, a monster. A killer.

 I used to like getting a glimpse of it. But only a glimpse. I couldn't stare at it for too long or else I'd get the same feeling as I do constantly now. That's why I occasionally wore a mask at home. Now I can't take it off. Now, even a mere picture of a portion of my face makes that same feeling overflow in me. Just imagining it makes my blood boil in it's fire.

 What is the feeling? It's a shaking feeling. Literally and metaphorically speaking. Only I could feel it. No one I describe or described it to could. It wouldn't go away until I put a mask on. That's why I made so many. And that's why I still make them. Of course, it's still fun for me to make them after all these years, but it's also a necessity for myself.

 Without the masks, I would have already stabbed myself just to see and taste my own blood and organs.

 That is the feeling.

 Bloodlust.

 ...

 ...But why masks?

 ...Not even I can answer that. Not fully, anyway. I make assumptions, but no conclusions.

 When I put a mask on, I feel as though I'm putting on an oxygen mask. I can actually look at myself in the mirror without seeing a creature's eyes.

 I saved myself with those masks. I saved myself from my own hands.

 ...Yet it still was not enough to save other people.

 That feeling of bloodlust still came to me, even when wearing the mask, but it kept myself from thinking of my own flesh. One day, it would not go away, so I actually cut someone else.

 ...But then I had to kill them. So they would not tell anyone. They would be silent. And keep my secret. Their screams were silenced almost immediately, and I basked in it's sweet sound. The sound of Silence. The music of me.

 ...I was satisfied, of course. With my kill. With my other kills. My other murders. But I still can not get rid of the bloodlust. My eyes yearn for the Crimson liquid seeping from a gash caused by my blades. My tongue cries for the taste of it's metallic signature. My ears scream to hear that melodious music of the sound long after a victim's demise.

 But yet, my only weakness, my only setback, the only thing that can make me cripple....

 ...Is the sight of my own face.

 ...

 It makes sense, in a way. Being calmed in a lack of a sense, and being tortured in the use of another. An ear for an eye. An eye for an ear. A feeling for blood. Blood for a feeling.

 A tooth for a tooth. An ear for an eye. A raven for a writing desk. A pigeon for a letter. A sound for a bliss. A knife for a meal. An eye for an ear. A sanctuary for a prison. Freedom for chains. A life for death.

 An ear for an eye, an eye for an ear.

 ...It's just madness, isn't it?

 I don't believe so.

 When you live as madness, you'll question everything but ask nothing.

 Riddles~! Riddles~! Nothingness and riddles~! The Silence will kill you when you're playing with piddles~!

 Silence~! Silence~! Say nothing and shut up~! You're making me speak so I'll spill your blood into my cup~!

 Is this what you wanted, doctor? A look into my mind? You've gotten what you wanted, so won't you scream for me? As a part of our deal? I ramble on about what's on my mind, then I end your life as you're screaming to satisfy my feeling?

 ...Heh.

 That last part rhymed.

 So... Start your screaming so I can satisfy my feeling, you're... playing a game you're not capable of dealing. The sound I'm making, it's something that's stealing. It's stealing my feeling of not dealing with no screaming.