“The masks make us their slaves. They wear us.”
The youth looked into the cut out eyes of the bandana he’d home-brewed into a disguise. Did they look back into his?
“I put on the mask, and now I’m somebody else. A hero. A god. I’m a rock-star, adored, feared, loved, but I’m not me. I’m the mask.”
The kid opened his mouth, about to ask, “Why?” but then he remembered. He thought of his sister, his mother, at home, safely at home, and he thought about what would happen to them.
“The mask don’t age none, not like the man underneath.” The old hero looked out of his penthouse suit onto the city. Climbing out onto the balcony, he began to pull one leg and then the other over the railing.
The youth followed, “But who did it, the man or the mask?”
“I suppose,” replied the hero, “whichever of us survives.” And with those parting words, he leapt into the sky. It should be noted, however, that among the extraordinary feats he was known for, he had never been known to fly, and pavement had never been known to be anything but unremittent.
Pulling the bandana over his head, the boy teleported away, wondering if justice had been done.