Help me, Cram, my face cracked!

[Shit]

This is the face before I was born.

[La Terrorista]

This is the face before I was born.

The monkey or Jack Nicholson?

[Shit]

This is the face before I was born.

The monkey or Jack Nicholson?

Jack Nicholson!  Christ, I didn't evolve from the monkeys.

[Cainad (dec.)]

This face will not last forever. I will leave school and tolerant friends and I will have to get myself a nice, inoffensive face so that other people will be able to look at me long enough to give me a paycheck.

But I've been shaping this face for a few years now, and what's underneath has been slowly changing as I have matured into adulthood. This mask, this face has shaped what is underneath, although I've always been unsure as to what exactly was underneath to begin with. I have grown into this face, and it is actually rather comfortable by now.

I do not know if I will be able to take this face off when the time comes. Even if it cracks, what's underneath is so similar that it will be essentially the same thing, only with a bit more sensitive flesh and oozing fluids. But I will have to do something, won't I? Maybe one day I'll have to layer another face over it, another mask. The eyes won't quite match up and it'll be slightly off-kilter, but hopefully I'll only need to wear it during the day.

Or maybe not. Maybe I'll eventually stop being a silly youth, strip off this face and put the new, workplace-friendly one on good and snug and let it break in what's underneath. It'll bruise and restrict my movements in odd ways, but you get used to that eventually, right?


Right?

[Cramulus]

   

They will hear about it by the water cooler. Their thoughts will return to it as they stand in the shower, between the Waking World and the Dreaming. As the traffic backs up bumper to bumper, they will look out the window and see a sea of scowling faces. They will feel the scowls lapping at the shores of the mind like an unrelenting tide. These are the faces of primates in kill mode. There are only two possible responses: fight or flight. They will hear about it from a friend, about the day his face cracked. As they turn the story over in their mind, as it ripples through the Dreaming, something begins to grow. Something fresh and wild stirs, and it is hungry. It must be fed. He looked at the clock that day, watched the minute hand slowly come full circle. I can't leave early, he thought, I'll get written up, I'll get fired, and this will be the end. The next day, instead of the tap tap tapping on a keyboard, they heard the whirr of the vaccuum. The cubicle would need to be cleaned thoroughly before someone else was interred there. Someone walked by and raised an eyebrow at the old hispanic woman. "Feathers," she said as she pushed the vacuum. She didn't say more because she was mostly in the Dreaming. He watched the hour hand that day, the minute hand, the second hand (almost time to go home now), he looked past the hands into the clockwork behind it. And he felt the cogs and springs in his mind pushing against one another, making the whole human machinery move. A memory bubbled to the surface, a snippet of an old dream. While he was in the Dreaming, he made a new gear. He installed it years ago. As the morning alarm shunted him from the Dreaming, the dream was gone. But now he remembered. As 5:00 approached, the springs pulled in every single direction. The gears turned silently, approaching the end of the work day, approaching the edge of the waking world, and then --- the shell cracked. A tiny beak poked through, hatching. The baby bird must fight its way into this world, it must crack the veil and push its way past, it must prove to the cold material universe that it is an unstoppable force. The office was filled with the sound of birds, a whole flock of birds all singing. His body slumped back in the chair, relieved, the machine's dream was finally awake. They would hear about it by the water cooler. That day, his head exploded into a flock of birds, all singing. They would think about it in the shower. They would think about it in traffic. About the machinery, and the Dreaming. They would begin to dream of a new machine. The flock of birds did not clock out as they left the building.

[LMNO]

Oh, holy fuck.

Someone lock the thread.  Cram, that was fucking perfect.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Fucking WOW!  That was worth the wait.  Holy shit.

But we won't be locking these threads.  I want to hear from everyone with something to say.

[LMNO]

Apologies; I got carried away.

[Eater of Clowns]

For you, Cram:

[Cainad (dec.)]

NICE

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

WOW.

Cram, that made my nipples harden and all the hair on my arms stand up.

That last line was perfect. Absolutely perfect.

[Kai]

Holy shit.

Perfect imagery.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

In some weird way this video reminded me of this thread: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YEG_JXsyvG0&feature=related

[Pariah]

 

[Dr. Paes]

I haven't seen my real face.

The smile I see in the mirror is the same one I show to the world, and I cannot remember a time when it was not so. Things must have always been this way. I wear this mask even when I'm alone, because if I take it off, it's never going to go back on.
And to be honest, I'm afraid to see what's underneath.

I haven't seen my real face, but I know it's there because I can feel it, squirming beneath the mask. Struggling... and it disgusts me.
This mask is cool to the touch. And it's solid. More solid than anything I can imagine. And it's clean, and smooth. And other people seem to react positively to the expression it wears,

But the face beneath, it struggles so. The pressure builds and builds, and it's uncomfortable. It's painful.
It's painful, and the glowing box says that it can relieve a little of that pressure. I just have to stop thinking. I just have to stop thinking and let the box think for me, and my head won't explode.
The pressure builds as I flip through the newspaper, but I'm not reading the news. I'm aiming for the TV Guide, and the comics in the back. I'm aiming for the release that comes from any little distraction. I just have to stop thinking.

Sometimes, when even the glowing box isn't enough to let the air out of my head, when I smile and I want to scream, there's a tightness in my cheeks. A tightness in my cheeks, and it feels like someone is squeezing my lips, and I know that my face is pressing against the edges of the mask. And the pressure builds until I'm sure that the mask is going to shatter.
And should it shatter, it would explode outwards, violently bombarding those nearby with deadly fragments, as the face beneath lifts its gaze to the sky and gives a barbaric howl. And it doesn't stop howling, because it's been silenced for so long.

I don't even think anyone would notice, because they're all wearing masks as well. They're all wearing masks, but unlike me, they don't know it. So the fragments hurtle towards their heads, and they ricochet off, and bury themselves in the dirt. And they'd exchange glances with each other as I scream, and scream, and scream but by the time they've left the room they've already forgotten the screaming.
I don't even think they would notice, unless their faces had already cracked. Unless they'd already felt that pressure themselves, they'd remain numb.

It doesn't crack, though, this mask.
It doesn't crack, and sometimes that makes me feel safe.
What would everybody say, if I went to work without a face?

It doesn't crack. This mask.
And sometimes that makes me feel trapped.