The mask sat so tightly against her skin that she’d forgotten she was even wearing one. Or had it simply become part of her face?
She felt for the edges where the mask ended and flesh began but found none.
Brant sat next to her. She turned to him, nearing panic. “I’ve lost my face.”
He laughed, and then sneered, “You never had one.”
“And with it, the covert yet indefatigable agent of rage was liberated, and even his most powerful enemies trembled, their fear succored by the nightmarish Hell streaming from his ravenous face.”
He thought about what it might be like to die surrounded by people that took no notice. How lonely it must have been for them… slipping away slowly, listening to the sounds of a busy hospital ward, wondering why no one was paying any attention to something so important… reaching out for someone but finding only death. It was then and there, in the midst of that ghostly, forlorn thought, that he decided he would kill himself quickly should he ever come down with the terrible plague.
“Can giraffes even trample someone? They don’t have hooves, they just got big feet!”
“What? They have hooves.”
“You’re thinking of camels.”
“Ha… camel toe…””