Side Chapter 1:

 

“Hello there.” I said to the decrepit face.

 

The face of a man, with an expression as obscure as the symbols of the Wemyss Caves, stared at me. Whenever I parted my lips, struggling to find the words to break the eerie lull of silence that pervaded us, the haggard face opened its mouth too. When I scratched my head to alleviate the itch, that felt like a swarm of ants crawling beneath my skin - caused by the repulsive amount of dead skin and dirt, opening - so did the man. He mirrored my every move. When I glanced underneath my untrimmed nails, to see the accumulated dirt and grime and face oil, so did the man. With every breath I took… For every action I took, the man mimicked me.

 

Of course, he did. He was my reflection, after all. He was me.

 

“Hello there.”

 

I did not reciprocate the greeting to myself.

 

“Who are you?”

 

I did not respond to myself.

 

“Why don’t you talk?”

 

Again, I did not answer myself.

 

Then, I had a thought, an inconsequential, random thought, a product of entropy or chaos.

 

Why do I not hear voices? Why do I not see imaginary things? Why do I not have multiple personalities?

 

Then, another thought popped into my head.

 

Gross.

 

I already knew that having schizophrenia or dissociative identity disorder was a bigger struggle than whatever trivialities I’m dealing with right now, so why do I want them so bad. It’s so much more than “hearing voices”, “seeing imaginary things”, “having more than one personality”, so much more, but here I am, yearning for them.

 

Gross.

 

I’m trivializing the experience… I can only say that I want them, because I don’t know the pain associated with them, I just know what they sound like, and they sound like something to alleviate my loneliness to me.

 

Gross.

 

I know what I’m doing, but I still do it. Why?

 

I already know why. It’s because I’m gross.

 

I don’t want to be alone anymore. I have no reason to be alone.

 

Not only that, but I had a normal childhood, free of any bullying or traumatic experiences. I guess nurture doesn’t overcome nature, even if they’re basically an even 50:50 split. Is this constant feeling of despondence in my life truly a result of nature? Of my genes? 

 

To think there was a time people used to believe in me, in the potential I held… In the potential they thought I held.

 

I’m scared. Terrified. It seems like yesterday when I was still in school, progressing towards something, even if that something was and is seen by me as something useless. At least it was something. 

 

I lack something. Something others have and I don’t. I lack something. 

 

Passion? Happiness? Goals? Dreams? Aspirations? Friends? Connections? Luck? Soul? A job? A diploma? Money?

 

What is the difference between me and you? You people. What is it?

 

In this world, there are two types of people; me and you(s).

 

The distinction between me and you… Is what makes you human and- 

 

Me a shell. An empty and hollow shell.

 

At that moment, sunlight somehow found its way inside my dark room and showed me a brighter reflection of the man’s face, my face. Upon seeing my rough aged face, I wore a mask. Not a physical mask. No. A mask of emotion. Instantly, the room seemed to shine brighter after wearing my mask. A bright smile, a beautiful smile. Would be what people would say after witnessing such a smile, I thought I knew. 

 

I recalled the time when I poured every bit of effort, I could muster from my lazy self, to forge such a mask. I would look at myself in the mirror, for hours, as a child, imitating the joyful expressions of mankind.

 

The trickiest part were the eyes and cheeks of the mask. I would always forget about the curve a smile is supposed to have. Before crafting my mask, my smile was - deviant - with devilish qualities. Not devilish as in handsome, but devilish as in appalling, Japan's oni masks were similar to the smile I produced. Simply opening my mouth as wide as I could while showing clenched teeth and utilizing every muscle a face has.

 

Even after fixing the cheeks of my mask, my smile was not yet complete. I did not and do not understand why, but the eyes of a smile matter the most in a smile. I had foolishly got too confident in my mask and prematurely revealed it to my grade school teacher before completing it. 

 

At first, she responded in kind with her own mask, but later that day, I heard her and the gym teacher talking about my mask. They were worried, they thought a demon had taken possession of me. I remember wishing for it to be true. For a demon to be the reason why I could not smile. Why I could not laugh like other children. 

 

I did not wear my mask for years after that incident, unless I was in front of my bathroom mirror. In front of the mirror, I would try different masks, fabricating the faces of humanity. I copied the joy my sister displayed when playing catch with the dog. I copied the sadness my brother showed when breaking up with his girlfriend. I copied the stress my mother demonstrated when making dinner. I copied the disappointment my father exposed when talking of me.

 

Eyes are the windows of the soul. If so, what would you see in my eyes? 

 

I think, nothing.

 

A soulless body is what I am.

 

“Hello there.” I said to the man in the reflection.