A friend. A son. A co-worker. Cheerful neighbor, wise-cracking uncle, childhood bully. He sits back in his armchair, eyeing his costume collection. They call out to him, each of them, lips encrusted with dried blood, stretched out over their teeth, crumbling with age. Their skin sags, drooping around the eyes, revealing hollowed sockets that he can see right through. Their cheekbones bend to the sides, morphed into something else entirely: morphed into him. He watches them, leaning back into the cushions, grunting from the effort. He watches, watches, watches, but they never look back. They just stare, mounds of mottled grey flesh, no longer resembling anything human. He looks away.

The man stumbles out of a bar, a fine gentleman’s arm wrapped around him, stabilizing him. His mind is clouded with deceit. They reach his car and the fine gentleman sighs,

“You sure you can be driving?” His caterpillar eyebrows inch their way together, the skin in between wrinkling.

“Stop that,” the man orders in a clear voice, standing tall. The fine gentleman peers up at him through befuddled eyes. “You’ll ruin it.”

“Ruin what?” he asks, stepping back, flinching as he collides with a parked van. “What are you talking about?” His head turns a few times, surveying his surroundings.

“This,” the man puts it simply, lunging forward. One, two three, and then he watches as it all goes dark.

The man saunters through his kitchen, waiting for the fine gentleman to wake up. This part, this waiting part, this is the part that he hates. It drags on forever as they struggle to claw their way through unconsciousness and resurface as new, fragile beings. There’s nothing like it. Watching someone become somebody else entirely in an effort to save themself. Every other day of their miserable lives is spent pretending. Hiding behind a mask to conceal who every person is, deep down. The kind of person who would sell out their own family in an effort to save themself. Not that it ever works, anyway. But this? The waiting? He can’t stand it. He watches them while they watch nothing, and still he doesn’t see anything at all. He can’t. Not until they open their eyes.

The fine gentleman stirs, blinking away the fog as his gaze darts around the room in trepidation. The man watches from the corner and finally, finally, he can see what he sees. A mahogany desk to the right, scattered with papers and coffee mugs and chains. No chair in front of it. A fireplace to his left, small and unassuming, somehow radiating just as much cold as it is warmth. In front of it sits a single armchair, brown and slightly frayed along the edges. It’s almost inviting. The man tests out a smile as he looks at the fine gentleman, taking everything in. He stops; it feels wrong. The fine gentleman's eyes travel upwards and he vomits. It is instinctual. Then, he starts to cry. The man frowns. There, that’s better.

“Where am I? Why are you doing this to me?” The fine gentleman whimpers, trying to sound nonplussed but failing. The man doesn’t answer. He can’t answer. What would he say? “Please, I- I’ll give you anything. Whatever you want.” The man looks at him through cold, uninterested eyes. This too is the part that he hates. The fine gentleman doesn’t get the hint. “Money? You want money? I can give you a lot of money. Just let me go!” The man looks at his prisoner, chained vertically to the wall, face contorted with fear. Drops of spit reside in the corners of his lips and a layer of sweat covers his forehead. Offensive. At this point, he’s asking for it.

“What body part should I cut off first?” The man asks, just as much to the fine gentleman as to himself.

“Oh God, oh God,” he sobs, struggling against the restraints.

“Here,” the man reaches for his face, tsking when he jerks away. “What’s your name?” He asks him, arm still outstretched. The fine gentleman remains silent. “I already have you here. What harm could your name do?” He jests, eyebrows raised in sympathetic amusement. The fine gentleman must agree with him because he manages to meet his captor’s eyes as he responds,

“Ch-Charles.” The man follows the path of Charles’ tears with his eyes.

He smiles.

“Okay, Charles. I’m going to wipe your face now.” He moves forward with his already-raised arm and gently wipes away the tears with a tissue. Charles sobs even harder.

“Please,” he whispers, “please let me go.”

“Why should I do that?” The man questions, mirth in his voice. He lets his hand trail lower and he dabs away the spit bubbling at the corner of Charles’ mouth. Something flickers through Charles’ eyes, and then he’s lunging forward as much as the chains allow him, snapping his teeth at the man, managing to graze his skin before the man snatches his hand back. Charles spits at him then, too.

“Really?” the man asks, wiping his own face with the cloth before tossing it to the side.

“I’m sorry,” Charles rushes out, the last bits of defiance fading from his eyes, making room for desperation. “Please, just… you can’t kill me. You can’t. I have a family.” The man’s head snaps up at that.

“You have a family?” Charles’ face lights up with the closest thing he’s had to hope since he woke up.

“Y-yes… a wife. And two children. Please! They need me!” Tears prickle at the corner of his eyes once more. They rest there, suspended in place by the cautious belief that he’ll get out of this alive.

“You’re a father?” the man asks him, taking a few steps back.

“Yes! A father! Please, you understand! I won’t tell. I swear. Just let me go and I won’t tell.” Funnily enough, the man half-believes him. People do crazy things when they’re desperate. “Please. My children need me,” he pleads again, calmer this time. The man sighs in pity. He’s seen it so many times before. They always think they’re going to be the ones to be set free.

“A father…” the man hums, pleased. “I’ve never killed a father before.” A capricious grin takes over his entire face and turns it into something new. He watches the reality of his situation settle onto Charles, watches it crush his chest and knock the air out of him.

“Please…” the man whispers, his previously held tears spilling down the ashen slopes of his cheeks. “Plea-”

“What are your children’s names?” the man interrupts, reaching for a sleek paring knife.

“What?” Charles sputters, rapidly blinking the tears from his eyes.

“Their names,” the man repeats, turning to face Charles fully. He looks at the blade as he waits, staring at his own distorted reflection with bored eyes.

“No, I- I won’t. I won’t tell you.” The man smiles.

“No? You sure?” he asks before flicking his arm up and holding the knife to Charles’ throat. He scrapes it against the skin, ever so gently, scraping through his light stubble. He pauses when he reaches his jugular, and he holds it there, pressing it into him as much as he can without breaking skin. And then he presses a little harder.

“Please! Just- please, let me go…” The man ignores him.

“Their names,” he repeats, tired of the back and forth. When he is met with silence, he moves as if to slit Charles’ throat. Then,

“NO! Wait- please, wait, okay. I-” The man raises his eyebrows. Charles continues, “Th-there’s Cory, he’s the oldest. He’s ten. And then there’s Aria. She’s almost seven.”

“Good,” the man coos, removing the knife from his throat. “Do you think they’ll miss you?” He turns around to grab another tool.

“Oh God, oh God… Please! Please, you don’t have to do this!”

“That’s where you’re wrong!” the man corrects him, still searching for what he wants. “I do need to do this. It’s important.” Charles is blubbering now, close to hyperventilating. He’s stopped talking, too. Mostly, he is praying under his breath, over and over, but it is impossible for the man to tell whom he is praying to. Who is he begging? Who is he saying “please” to? God? His captor? Does it matter? Is there even a difference anymore when he has all this power?

When he turns, he’s holding a scalpel. It gleams in the light. The man watches as Charles takes it all in, and he waits for the moment that the fine gentleman will realize he is going to die. He sees himself through Charles’ eyes: the plastic gloves, leather apron, and the hungry, beady eyes. Charles faints.

“There it is,” the man smiles. “It’s inevitable.” He steps towards his limp body. The man brings his hand up and slaps it across Charles’ face. “Come on! You’ll want to be awake for this.” His left hand clenches Charles by the jaw, holding him in place. His right hand raises the scalpel and, before waving it around for dramatic effect, he digs it into his victim’s skin, just below his ear. Charles howls, and then he blacks out again.

“No, no,” the man shakes him, forcing him to wake. “Stop that. Look at me.” He uses the index and middle fingers of his left hand to reach across his face and press into the tops of his eyes, forcing them to remain open. He resumes the movement of his scalpel, bringing it up and around his face. He forces Charles to look at him the whole time, and eventually, the fine gentleman’s eyes stay open on their own.

A friend. A son. A co-worker. Cheerful neighbor, wise-cracking uncle, childhood bully. A father. He sits back in his armchair, eyeing his costume collection. They stare back at him through hollow eye sockets. It isn’t enough. It’s never enough. He needs to be seen. He stands up, stretches, and moves for the door. He grabs his coat and slinks out into the night. He walks to a bar.