I thought of all the consequences. They were callous, dreadful, and harsh. But I had to do it. So, while I sang an aria from Otello I reached for the mask, but swiftly brought my hand back. I could not do this to this poor unfortunate man. But I had to see it. So I congregated all my courage and lightly grasped his black mask and swiped it of his head. Horrors! Anguish! His dead, yellow skin was the sight of the devil himself. His eyes were nothing but red dots in a skulls head. And his nose…there was none! It was nothing but a living skeleton. Was it yet another mask under a mask? No. Was my daze blinding my sight? No. It was his real face. And then I saw the anger. The rage. The wrath of his anger was to be bestowed on me. He took my hand a dug it into is parchment skin. He dug my hand in so much I could feel my thumb with the opposite set of fingers on the other half of his cheek. He tore my hand out. No blood. My hands were clean. It was nothing but a skeleton with parchment strung over the bones! I wanted to scream. I wanted to shout. But I wanted to shed tears for the poor soul. He was crying. He had realized his rage. He knelt by me and kissed my hand. He plead for forgiveness and I gave it to him. But I could not help but to cringed in disgust at his horribly deformed face.