Actual Draft of “Mask Of My Own Face”
The whole floor worked tirelessly in each of their cramped cubicles, for several hours on end, for every shift. The buzzing fluorescent lights only got to rest in the dead of the night, yet some still burned in overtime. This particular night, only one cubicle was lit among the darkness.
A man sat hunched in his chair, his face illuminated by the computer screen. Yet, his gaze did not fall on it. Instead, it fell on his hands. One held a needle and thread, while the other had its sleeve pulled back, exposing a tear in the skin of its faintly bloody palm.
He clenched and unclenched the fist, observing the palm, in case the stitch was not enough.
Satisfied, he laid his newly patched hand to rest, and instead laid his focus on the other. He moved it to his face, closely examining the stained needle. Perhaps, since he has the time, he should–
“Maxwell! I see you’re burning the midnight oil!” A hearty voice breaks through the silence, startling him. He quickly put his hand down and spun his head towards the intruder. “Ah, sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” The voice belonged to a coworker, Terrence. “Though, you should head home soon, you’ll need to save your energy for tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Maxwell swiveled in his chair, to fully face Terrence.
“Yep. The boss said our project has to be finished by the end of the next shift.” Terrence shifted his footing to lean against the cubicle’s door frame.
“How come it’s tomorrow?!” Maxwell said as he stood up from his chair suddenly. “We’re only halfway done!”
“Easy there, I know it sounds impossible, but I’m sure we’ll go through this just fine, like always.” Terrence reassures the younger man. “And besides, you consistently perform the best out of us all during these rush hours. I’d even say you’re getting better at it each time!”
Maxwell bit back his tongue, and sighed instead.
“Tell you what,” Terrence took his hefty weight off the cubicle and stepped closer to Maxwell. “The boys and I are gonna go drinking after we clock out. Catch me then, I’ll buy you a beer, and you’ll get to ease up for once.”
Terrence placed his hand on Maxwell’s tense shoulders. “Got it?”
“If you can afford it?” Maxwell halfjoked, trying to force a smile.
The man gave out a loud, booming laughter that echoed in the empty office, almost doubling over. Maxwell wouldn’t like to admit he was a bit startled. Once he calmed down, he let his hand slip from his coworker’s shoulders. “You really don’t need to try so hard all the time, y’know?” He peered at Maxwell’s green eyes. “Well, except for tomorrow. That goes without saying though.”
“I understand.” Maxwell averted his eyes.
“Anyway,I’m heading home for the night.” Terrence turned away with his suitcase in hand and began walking into the darkness. “Get some rest, Maxwell! I’ll see you around.”
The steps’ echo became fainter and fainter, until only the sound of Maxwell’s breathing, and the computer’s still spinning fan.
He stared ahead, where Terrence once was, as his hand reached up scratch at his jaw. Maxwell’s fingers sensed a gap between the seams along the jawline. His hand gripped the needle harder in his palm. He has the time. He should patch it up.
The next morning, the floor was noisier and busier than before. Ringtones and clacking of keyboards flooded the air, along with the ever-buzzing lights above that have eradicated the shadows of last night. Maxwell returned to his cubicle, which was more untidy than usual. However, he merely shoved the mess to the side and settled down at his desk. As the computer booted up, Maxwell thought to himself. He can handle this just fine. He has to.
First few hours, Maxwell tried to work as thoroughly as he did before, only that he’d try to pick up the pace. But the longer it went, and the more he wrote, the more it drained his energy. Although he badly wanted a break, he felt he was nowhere near finished to even deserve one. And yet, he was overwhelmed.
His straining grip on the keyboard mouse ripped open his back hand, which sprayed some blood onto his desk. He bit his lip to prevent himself from screaming, and hoped that wouldn’t bleed as well. Once the initial strike of pain dulled, ceased his work and opened his drawer, before he took out a needle and some threads. He snuck out of his cubicle and into the bathroom stalls, where he patched up the wound. Once he finished, he headed back to his cubicle.
He sighed. It was going to be a long day. And he hoped he wouldn’t run out of thread by the end.
The final hour has finished.
The final tasks have been completed.
And the final line has been written.
Maxwell buried his face in his arms as he laid on his desk, blocking out the light of the computer screen from his vision. Everyone else left the office hours ago, and it didn’t take long for the silence to take their place.
There was nothing left he could do.
After what felt like hours of doing nothing, Maxwell stood up from his chair and turned off the screen. He packed his things and made his way out of the dark office, as swiftly as he could with his sore body.
It wouldn’t take long for him to arrive at the bar, where Terrence and rest were lounging at. The bright warm lights that they basked in were only putting a strain on his sight, yet he trudged his way into the establishment and took his seat.
His presence seemed to have interrupted their conversation, not that he actually understood what it was about. Maxwell could tell though, as they ceased their discussion and their gazes were mostly fixated on him alone. All with knitted eyebrows, frowns, and varying levels of interest. However some focused on finishing their drink.
Meanwhile Terrence continued being his cheerful self, which seemed to shift the mood and focus of the situation.
Terrence ordered the drink he promised Maxwell, and the previously celebratory mood returned as he drank with his peers. Though he couldn’t help but cast concerned glances at Maxwell, who hadn’t said a word since he walked in through the door. It was one thing to be exhausted, which Terrence perfectly understood, but completely absent was what puzzled him. After all, they were all talking about Maxwell.
Perhaps his coworkers were right. There was something going on with Maxwell. Something was not right.
Terrence wondered if Maxwell always looked so…drained.
When Maxwell finished his drink, he excused himself to the bathroom. His coworkers seemed to have said something that sparked more volume in the group, which he certainly didn’t pay attention to, nor had he noticed the subtle feeling of something falling out his pocket.
Maxwell shut the door firmly behind him, which muffled the sounds of chatter and clinking. He sighed, relieved from the noises’ grip, and the bright lights’ strain. This room was the only place he could think of going when he started feeling a headache. One toilet, one sink, and one lightbulb over one mirror.
He slowly walked to the sink and twisted the knob to let the cold water run. A nice wash would most likely help him feel better. He cupped his hands under the faucet to soon splash the caught water in his face, which at least washed away some of his fatigue. It also washed off some blood, he noticed. The small red trails swirling with the water and into the drain.
More bright red drops fell down to the sink, joining the rest as it painted red strokes as it went.
He retracted his hand from the flowing water and placed it on his jaw, where the blood seemed to be dripping from. The drops collected in a tiny stream, which flowed down the hand and threatened to stain his sleeve. His green eyes snapped up to the mirror, and sees himself. Or at least, it should be him. Yet, his skin was dull, from pale to bordering gray. It shriveled up by the beige seams that trailed around his face, along with other stray stitches on his body. His eye bags were darker than the room’s shadows, and his overall frame has become thinner. The blood came from the stitches, which were threatening to snap. His reflection was a brutal reminder.
He needed to stop.
And so, he harshly tugged at the seams, tearing off the skin from his face. Bright red poured from the wound, and splashed into the still running sink. It felt as though the edges burned, which made it extremely hard to hold back a pained yell. Yet, the weight that held him down for finally was lifted.
He held the sink tightly, taking the slow deep breaths. The blood slowed its descent, signaling that he got everything out.
He briefly washed his hands and the loose skin, before he reached into his pocket.
The needle. It’s gone.
“Maxwell…” He heard the same, friendly voice, yet its tone was one of worry and shock. He turned around.
Terrence stood at the now slightly ajar door. His eyes went wide, and seemed at a loss for words. In his hand, he held a slightly bloody needle. ...We need to talk.”