I always knew there was a chance that I would one day run into one of my masks on the street. I expected it, actually, and I’ve often searched the faces of the people who passedthe ones who skim my shoulders at bars, the ones in the back of the room at parties. I know I only saw a small portion of their faces, heard their limited tones and accents, in spite of having had full access to their bodies. But my craft has made me observant; I stare, I assess, I memorize so I can capture every unique detail and recreate them once I have a brush in my hand. That’s why I knew that all it would take was a single distinguishing detaila hint of cologne, a tattoo. A voice.
Well, it happened.
But not in a way that I could have accepted and moved on from.
I realize more and more that the mansion will always cast its shadow over me. It will continue to haunt me and affect me every day, appearing in my thoughts and my actions at the most inopportune and unexpected moments. There isn’t much I can do about it now. But it’s not fair for the shadow to fall across the people I care about and infect them with its pain. They didn’t ask for this; they shouldn’t be forced to deal with it just because I have to. That’s why I need to go. I would rather carry the pain than expect them to.
Maybe I’ll never be free of that house of horrors. It was my choice to enter; it was my choice to destroy it as well, and I accept whatever comes to me as a result.
But I refuse to let anyone else be dragged under because of my decisions.
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