A room of masks

A dark room stands before you. It smells sweet, sickly sweet as if someone had poured sugar in every crevice to disguise the hidden, rotten contents. Shelves line the walls, dim lights above them to flaunt their wares. You walk in. They call so sweetly to you. Slowly, you edge closer, a shelf singing to you. As your eyes take in the object you flinch, it’s not that it’s gross… it just, wrong. Masks, from left to write a colourful array of disguises.

“Pick one,” a deep voice says. Your heart races, skin sweating as you feel pressured to make a choice.

“Pick one,” the voice says again. Which one? The half mask with the golden swirls sing of elegance and expensive meals. The blank circle that steals your features hums, a deep thumping that seems to rock your body.  What about the one that covers you from hair to neck,  silky pink fabric a breathable alternative.

“I’m actually good, thanks though,” you reply, walking out the door.

 

Impression

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