Behind The Mask

Donna I stare at my floral-printed living room curtains with a hand under my chin and elbow propped up on the table. Specks of dust dance in the shaft of the afternoon sunlight that slants through the window. The golden hairs on my head stick to the back of my neck and I can feel the slow trickle of a bead of sweat run down, into my loose-fitting top. There’s a distant look in my eyes. I don’t see it, but I know it. I’m lost between two worlds –my past and present. I feel a small tinge of regret, but I shove it down. There's no way I’m going back there. I’m here now –frying like bacon in the scorching heat, in my dump of an apartment, somewhere in Brooklyn, but it’s home now. I take a lazy look around. Everything seems to be in order. The fan above my head twirls slowly and sweat runs down the side of my face. I sigh. “Donna?” The voice comes from the table. I frown and reach for the phone. “You’re still on the line?” “Uh, duh? Where else was I supposed to be? You just left me hanging here for ten minutes without saying anything. I thought something had happened to you.” The corner of my lips tugs upwards. “Ten minutes, huh? If something had happened to me, it would’ve taken you fifteen to call an ambulance.” She laughs loudly. And I groan. “Marlene, this heat is doing things to me. I feel myself floating outside my body. Every darn thing has some stupid glow.” “Then, get out of the house.” She urges, and I scoff. Typical Marlene, always the positive one. “And complete the sun-frying ritual? Thanks, but no. I smell like roast chicken as it is. With some sauce.” Marlene is quiet. She doesn’t laugh as I expect her to. “How's it going?” I roll my eyes and tuck stray blonde locks behind my ears. “No luck yet. I guess it’s my official ‘Welcome to Brooklyn.’ I’m going to die of penury. Or, maybe, the heat will get to me first.” “Quit talking nonsense, Donna.” She pauses. “You know, you could always ask –“ Anger burns through my veins and every hint of playfulness fade. “Don’t, Marlene. Don’t you dare say his name.” “But –“ She folds her fist until her knuckles turn white. If only Marlene could see her now, visibly trembling with anger. “But, nothing. I am not going back there. And, that’s final. You know me, Marlene. You know that one mention of him, or anything about that place, from you, is enough to jeopardize our ten-year-old friendship.” “I’ve only got your best interests in heart, Don.” She sighs. I know she does, but I don’t weaken my resolve. “Look, I’m just going to keep checking, alright? I have a bunch of job directories that I haven’t gone through –“ “They aren’t doing you any good, Donna. Why don’t you wake up and smell the coffee? Brooklyn is not for you. You can’t continue like this, Don. I'm worried. Everyone's worried.” I clench my teeth so hard, my jaw hurts. “I did wake up, Marlene, and would you like to know what I smelled? Rotten mac and cheese that got bad in a stupid, maybe less-than-five-bucks, microwave. Simply because I couldn’t pay the electricity bill up until a few hours ago.” Her best friend sounds regretful. They both know she should have avoided the conversation. “Donna, I'm –“ “Sorry? No, Marlene. I'm sorry because I thought you understood. I recognize the path I chose. I do smell the coffee. It’s strong, and probably tastes bitter, but I’m down for all the dirty shit.” “Donna…” I hang up. There’s a surge through my hands and I raise my fist and hit hard on the coffee table. If I could see my face now, I know it can be compared to the color of fresh tomato. I scan my apartment again – the beddings are an eyesore, and the fridge contains nothing but junk and a crate of eggs. In my small refuge, the only thing worthy of praise is the dresser. Thankfully, I have enough clothes to cover the shame. Despite my pride, I know Marlene is right. Nothing is in order. The papers scattered beside my phone and the listings displayed on my laptop screen are all the same. Job directories. Maybe they aren’t doing me any good, but what am I supposed to do, sit back and watch the world go by? I rise from the thin washable vintage rug underneath the table and take dainty steps toward the curtains. I pull them aside. Specks dance around the sunlight and dissipate quickly. I look through the window and out at the people passing by. Car horns blare and people shout greetings at one another. A wave of nostalgia washes over me. My life wasn’t always like this –dull, lacking color, and quiet. I was Donna, with everything figured out. But, I've smelled the coffee, and I'm not changing my mind. I’m ready for anything. I'm about to close the curtains when something catches my eye. A little girl stands by a flower shop. She has a hat in her hands. A smile is on her lips as she sings loudly and performs on the street. Passersby looked pleased. Some of them stop to watch her tap her little feet on the pavement and twirl her hat as she sings. Her voice is beautiful. A little rough around the edges, but beautiful nonetheless. She adds a step, here and there, and takes a mock bow. I smile. She looks adorable in her white sundress and straw hat. The crowd applauds and I find myself clapping too. I can’t help but notice that she looks oddly out of place. She appears clean and well taken care of. Her cheeks are rosy, and her hair is pulled back in two braided pigtails, with two little bows on them. I lean forward and press my face against the window. People in the crowd begin to appreciate the little girl, who is all smiles, by tucking notes in her hat. Some toss coins, but her smile doesn’t falter. There’s a tug in my chest. I recognize the feeling, and I can almost imagine myself being the little girl. When she appeared on that pavement, under the scorching sun to perform, the money itself was not as important to her as earning it. She delights in the beads of sweat rolling down her cheeks. Her feet must have hurt like crazy in her cute leather sandals, but she knew it was worth it. Young, intelligent, and ambitious. That little girl mirrors me in a way that causes me to shift my feet and bite down on my lips nervously. I'm twenty-five, but that kid looks like she’s barely twelve. Yet, she has the same fire in me – propelling me to keep pushing until I earn it. That kid probably didn’t wake up to the smell of rotten macaroni and cheese. Maybe it was a good plate of French toast and scrambled eggs. My tummy growls in response, and I whine. When was the last time I had a decent meal? Back to the point. That kid is a sign that I shouldn’t give up. That kid reminds me of why I’m here, in Brooklyn. She reminds me of my childhood as well – the days of riding my bike through a canopy of tall trees; splashing in the lake with my friends, and talking about the craziest and most sensible things. I remember the way I laughed; the sound of pure joy reverberates in my mind. I remember sunbathing with Marlene and a few other random strangers. I shut my eyes and sharply Inhale. I'm in Brooklyn now. None of that matters. Watching the kid sounds like a better idea. I'm baffled at the weight of inspiration I get from watching the little girl through my window, and singing along with her as well when something happens. A man, in an all-black wear – black trench coat, and jeans, with oxford shoes – walks up to her. His eyes are hooded, but I see fear replace excitement on her face. Fear? She looks terrified. Whatever's about to happen can not be good. I grip the window frame in apprehension. I hear my heart beat fast, like a sound from a distance. The crowd around her has dispersed, so she’s left alone with this big bad terror. What do I do? He takes long strides, covering the distance between them, and I feel the urge to run out of my sauna of an apartment and protect her. The little girl stumbles backward and clutches her hat tightly. Her lips quiver violently and I see the shimmer of tears in her eyes. It’s now or never, Donna. Are you doing it, or what? That’s all the motivation I need. I suck in a deep breath and exhale. I run.