Masks of Silver

Masks and Tears

       Line After Line appears on my canvas, the lead making its own indent. They say that noise s can be loud but silence can be louder. Muffled in the silence of my room, I keep drawing line after line. Warm tears roll down my face, like children on the dramatic drop of a roller coaster. I don't mind if tears fall from my eyes, they do what they do, I do what I do.
        The Loud noise of ambulance sirens interrupts the quiet comfort of silence. No one bothers to look out the window; no need to. All we need to know is that another person was beaten. No one needs to know why. No one needs to know how. But it happened.
        I look over to the table next to my bed, a beaten clock somehow working, ticking for time, serving my mind to know what the hour is. 3:34. Easily spent hours on one drawing, making every line worth my pencils lead.
       I sigh as I look two inches next to my clock at my mask. Everyone has one. Everyone except baby's and toddlers. They simply have tape over there mouths to keep our precious silence current. Everyone in our town wears a curtain masks. Whenever outside, in public, or with someone. It's incredible how I've never seen my mothers face under the plastic she wears.
       I look at the crack in my window, my only light source letting in the pale white skies. The blue cloaked in the white cloth of the clouds. Another year races down my cheek as I draw more lines on my nearly finished piece.
     Countless hours go by as I drown in my thoughts, letting them leak through a thin piece of wood embedded with lead that could snap at any given moment. My clock buzzes, warning me ten simple minutes to get to the town square. I hear our front door gently close echoing through our now empty house.
     I swing my legs over the edge of my bed. My feet touch the cold wooden planks as I put my weight on them to bring myself up. I reach my arm at a slight angle to pick up my mask. I bring the mask up to my warm,wet face affected by the tears. I strap the thin line of elastic around my head and hide it through my long black hair.
     The floorboards creek with each step my foot makes. I'm rather glad my mother nearly always goes on ahead of me, she was never the caring type. Her sick talent was always finding a way to degrade me. I put my pale hand and push on the door. No one ever robs. That's against the rules.
    When you break the rules you become a outlaw except rules here are much easier to break. If you break any rules you get hunted down. Everyday at 7:09 a meeting begins in the town square where everyone is mandatory to gather up for. It's called the Masking and the Tragedy.
    When a toddler grows to be six years of age they get there first mask to wear. Each kid gets called up on the blood stained stage to receive their mask out of a thin black garbage bag full of masks from the Maker. The Maker being the one who creates our masks. The builder of our society.
      Soon after is the Tragedy. An execution hour of all the Outlaws. Family's and friends forced to watch there own comrade or family member die without showing one sign of emotion. It's the rules. That is the one reason that stage is stained and dyed with the blood of the people who have wronged.
       Six years ago I got my first mask. I remeber it well. I got handed my mask and turned to the crowd to put it on. No one can see any emotion from behind their individual masked faces so they look like a bunch of controlled mind slaves clapping.
      I walk five minutes along the side of the road to the town square. Masked people walk to the center of town like moths to a light. After everyone is gathered. The president makes sure no one is missing by calling family's, if someone is missing they're hunted. "Jerfsons?" His deep raspy voice announced through the glitching mic. Three hands raise through the sorted crowd. "Kilaho?" Two raise their hands. Silence soon returns to the town. All anyone can here is the subtle breathing of these people and the president announce names.
     "Cilara?" My family name never feared to catch my attention. My mother and I raise our hands, both far from each other. We don't have a bond. Neither do we want one. What's the point if we barley speak?  She never has a problem with beating me though.
     After an hour of calling names the two newest six year olds line up. "Glinda Godona" a girl with blonde hair with a thick line of black tape on her lips slowly jumped onto the steps and onto the stage. The silence once broken by arranged clapping before dying down. "Charles Mupree" a short bit with shaggy brown hair marched up and the crowd once again shattered the silence like a mirror.
     A familiar girl lined up near the steps dressed in the normal dirty uniform. Our neighbor Ms. Garren.