Before you read on, I'd like to say this is purely an act of fiction, not meant to cause any upset or alarm anyone. I simply needed to write, as my hands were itching a great amount, so I wrote this. If you're reading this now, Cry, then I hope you enjoy it.
-Yours in Heaven,
Jessamine
"Behind the mask is the only place it's safe, mommy."
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Only now as I recollect can I fully understand what cruel words I would speak to my mother. I confined
in her too much for her own good, or rather, mine. My name is Cry, or ChaoticMonki for those of you
getting truly technical. I do livestream videos as well as let's plays on a site called Youtube. It's rather
fun and interesting watching the comments and replies I get from all those watching. It's so nice to see
such support and happiness I cause, and yet... And yet there's a limit.
You see, ever since starting my videos, I have yet to show my face. It's almost an ongoing little kick.
People say it's for mystery and fun's sake, but it truly isn't. There's a reason.. A reason I took upon the
mask, as well as my name. A very dark reason I will share with you now.
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I couldn't handle it, I was unable to handle it. I was often alone in school, drifting from classroom to
classroom. I wasn't much of anyone, just... Me. Nothing special or unique. Just young Cry. Sure, I had a
few friends, of course. Who doesn't have those types of people? School friends, they're called. No
friendship to get serious with. It was.. Lonely, to say the least.
That was how my childhood went. That was before the incident.
There was a small accident, a bike-riding trip gone wrong. At least, that's how I remember it. I guess I
may be wrong. Part of my face, the left half, was shredded. A small pothole caught my tire, sending me
flying down into the pavement. The doctors did their best, but it wasn't enough.
The skin took so many months to heal. I was to wear a blank mask, just a small circle of plastic on the
entire side of my face. I was devastated, the school days becoming longer with each stare I received I
would often excuse myself to the bathroom for most of my class.
My mother was informed. After she was made aware of my situation, I convinced myself that each time I
received a laugh or stare, I could count on her. She would arrive at the classroom, no hint of hesitation
in her eyes. She would smile, grabbing my hand as we walked into the hall. My loving mother, the one
whom I could always count on, was indeed being weighed down by me, and me by her. I became too
dependent, and soon, she was to stay clear of the classroom.
"It was for my sake." They said, watching as her smile disappeared. The woman was obviously shaken
by the fact that she was being shooed away from her crying child, and put up a resistance.
That act of a loving mother was raised to concern. A small action had separated my mother and I. They
had suspicions of such a rash reaction, thinking a stranger relationship was occurring between us two.
They had apparently had suspicions for quite a while, investigating every little bit they could about my
family. Nothing was abnormal, of course, but the trigger resulted in the shattering of my family.
I didn't understand what they were doing, not at all. Everything was so foreign. The woman taking my
hand as I my mother was pulled away told me that everything was going to be okay. It was the first
time I had seen my mother crying. I suppose it was one of the last times as well.
I was hammered with questions, such strange words and sentences. I was allowed to go to school of
course, as I was living alone with my father. They never told me where my mommy was. I think it was
months before I was allowed to see her again. I can remember it so clearly. It was.. So surreal.
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I was brought to a room with a large dark wall of glass. The woman taking me dropped my hand,
retreating out the door. I was left alone in a that room, finally realizing that there was indeed another
soul present. She seemed to notice me as soon as I noticed her, bolting to my position without any
hesitation.
The woman gripped me tightly, stroking my hair while repeatedly saying my name. I soon found myself
crying, realizing just who this woman was.
My mother pulled away, smiling at me, examining every inch of me with such tired eyes. She hadn't
slept for days, had she?
We were allowed an hour visit.
Just an hour.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
We must have talked for most of it, my hand becoming sweaty from the grip to which she was holding
it. I didn't complain, as my mother was back in my sights, and that was all I needed.
She explained the situation as best she could to a small child, and yet, I still asked questions. I asked
why they would do it. Why did they take my mother away?
Why did they think she was a bad person?
What did we do to deserve this?
She asked a lot of questions herself. It was mostly pertaining to my school life. My friend growth in
particular. I didn't lie, to which I now know I should have. It would have saved me from so much... So
much pain.
I was only doing worse after they took her away.
She wasn't happy.
My mother sadly smiled, grabbing a small marker from the nearby desk. She explained that I could no
longer depend on her for everything. She told me it was mean of her to baby me so much. More than
anything, she told me she was sorry. So very sorry.
The tears trailing down my cheeks were foreign, something so odd. They were warm, hot even. They
scalded my face, even my left eye joining in.
My mother grabbed my cheek, slowly bringing the marker to my mask. With a few heavy strokes, she
was finished. The woman rubbed my cheek, smiling a last time.
The doors opened, a man and woman walking with small steps. The man, uncertain of his authority,
wavered. The woman, on the other hand, made quick progress towards me.
For this time, I was being taken away from my mother.
She didn't cry, or make a rather large fuss this time, for what would she gain? Would it break through
the crowds of people separating us? Would it make everything right?
My mother sat there, sadly smiling and waving me goodbye. Somehow, I knew, deep inside, I should
have made some way to stay. I had never experienced such a feeling in my stomach, and yet, I knew
what it meant. I knew too well.
Did she say anything before I disappeared? I can never truly remember that part. Some part of my
mind, it's blocking it.
Was it possible she mouthed three simple words? Did she say something to her son? Something he
could understand?
I arrived home, having stopped my cries for long enough to make my way to the bathroom. It was a
short visit in that room. My vision became blurry again as I peered to the mirror.
It was a simple drawing with very few words. Probably the same words she had mouthed to me earlier
A straight face with eyes just descried as circles. A small slash at the top, presumably hair, stored the
sentence below it.
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"I love you."
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It was actually a few years later did they actually explain the acts following that evening. When they
told me why I was wearing a black suit. Why people were crying. Why my mother was in a box being
lowered to the ground. Why they placed dirt over her. Why I couldn't cry at all.
There was an accident. A terrible accident in which no one was charged with. A hit and run. Teenagers,
no doubt. It was weeks before they found her in that ditch. The sad trench just off to the side from the
highway. A pipe of some sort drove from the engine, ramming to her abdomen. She bled out in a matter
of minutes, alone.
It was freezing that night, I found out. The chilliest it had been in the fall.
The question haunting me still remains...
Was she cold?
Even as I stand here over her cold, broken down body, I can only think back on that night. It was all my
fault, all of it. Screw trying to save my feelings, just, just fuck all of it! My crybabyness had done
everything. It had driven her out in the middle of the night for a mere hour to see me.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
It had driven her home after that experience, teenagers hitting her dead on.
I can only place that mask over my eyes, that being the only fitting place for it. Holes have been cut,
though they offer little sight to the world. It's better that way. The injuries done to my face have long
since healed, yet my scars bleed. They bleed a deep red. They will bleed as long as that mask remains,
for which it will always. I could never part with it, with my mother.
With the cool fall wind blowing past my tux, the black seeming to fit the mood of the cemetery almost
mockingly, I make my exit. A small exit, no emotion coming from my face. The words on that mask,
burning through my skin, cutting into my soul. If someone were to approach, looking real close, they
could pick out a single detail from that scene. A liquid trailing down my left cheek. A hot, scalding liquid.
Now you know why they call me Cry.