Masks

Chapter V: The Man with the Twisted Face

Certain people, draped in cheap, shiny jewellery, are described as looking like magpies.

This is a falsehood.

Magpies, if they do collect reflective objects, do not make coats out them them. These people can therefore be said to look more like magpie nests; minus the twigs, which are dull and brown, and the chicks, which are more so. 

The Amazing Persephone, sitting down for breakfast, was not one of these people. She really did look like a magpie, or at least dressed like one: from the slender tuxedo down to the blue satin waistcoat. Ashley wasn't particularly organised, and so she kept several variations of her stage outfit lying around The Gutter and her home. If she lost one, she could always find another. With no time to change back last night, Ashley had left the dancer's outfit at home, and brought this one in.

She'd search for yesterday's costume, but only when she needed it. For all Ashley know, the dancer had stolen her clothes in revenge. No matter. This area was littered with charity shops, and ill-fitting dark clothes were ten-a-penny, or twenty-a-penny in the sales. The frequent style changes meant she would never build a brand identity, but then that had never been likely. If anything, not being recognised was positive. With a constantly changing image and a hard-to-remember name, people could very rarely warn their friends about how bad she was.

Whilst a magpie today, yesterday she'd been very much the blackbird. Of course, formal wear is typically attributed to the penguin, but this comparison would slander Ashley’s slim, almost elegant, physique. She’d been able to slip into a dancer’s costume, after all.

Her companion, though, looked more like a vulture, or a vulture’s dinner. He was sitting to Ashley’s left. This was just as well, because his own left side was missing. It wasn’t so much that it was covered in scars, as that it was one big scar, occasionally interrupted by thin streaks of skin. He was missing a chunk of his nose on the same side, and his left eye was visibly damaged. Hair grew in patches. 

From their physical closeness, it was clear that Ashley trusted this man. His strange appearance didn’t seem to faze her: their seating arrangement seemed to be more for his benefit than for hers. Even Ashley, though, didn’t know how he’d sustained his injuries. He had never spoken about his past. All that he’d revealed, in his years of knowing her, was a first name. Harvey.

They’d met here, in The Gutter’s canteen. She’d only recently turned to performing, whilst he’d arrived as part of a travelling freak show. At first Ashley had thought it demeaning, but eventually she came to realise that her own performances were no more prestigious. If anything, the confidence he had (to accept, and even embrace his appearance) was something to be proud of. It was a lot more than she had.

Besides, Ashley had no idea what Harvey had seen. The pain that he felt. The past that he'd lost. People staring at him was probably the least of his worries. Anyway, it happened whether he liked it or not. He may as well be charging them for it.

In time, Ashley had come to admire him. He had struggled with English, and their early conversations had been brief, but they’d continued to meet: in the same spot, in the same canteen, at the same time. Eventually, all barriers had been overcome, and today she regarded Harvey as her closest friend.

Today, she had needed somebody to talk to, and he had been first on the list. Never raising her voice above a whisper, Ashley carefully explained the events of the previous night, taking a break every now and then to pick at her meal. Gutter food tasted okay, if you squinted your mouth.

When she’d finished, Harvey raised his eyebrow.

“You know, for a moment there, I thought something interesting was going to happen,” he teased.