The Unmasking

Date: 12/7/2025

I am seated upon my porcelain throne — royal, obviously — because my subconscious enjoys giving me grandeur at the most unseemly of times. A dignified queen, ankles shackled in knickers, engaged in the noble art of doing a wee. Only a wee. Ladies, after all, do not publicly acknowledge number twos. I’m just hitting my stride — achieving what one might generously call “flow” — when the bathroom door crashes open like a SWAT raid. “Nooooo!” I shriek, a high-pitched siren of violated privacy. “Just me,” Mat says, as if that makes the intrusion remotely acceptable. Honestly. One simply wants to tinkle in peace. I lurch towards the door, knickers around ankles, ready to eject him with righteous fury — when I feel something horrifically… off. My face. A cold slither across my cheek. A tug at my jaw. I look up into the bathroom mirror and nearly faint. My entire face is dangling off, hanging like a cheap mask that’s lost its elastic. “Oh my god!” I gasp, snatching it up and smooshing it back into place with a brittle smile that feels like it might crack. There. Normal. Ish. I collapse in bed, exhausted by the ordeal, but Mat is already there, eyes gleaming with that familiar late night enthusiasm. His arms snake around me like warm vines. But I’m stiff as a board, terrified one overzealous thrust will send my face flying across the room. I can’t have him see I’m wearing one. I can’t have anyone see. Truth is: I don’t know who I am without it. I’ve always worn a mask — long before it ever loosened. The next day, I’m strolling through the neighbourhood, enjoying the mild chaos of people’s recycling bins blowing over, when I hear a voice from a house I’m passing. “Help! Help!” Naturally, I pop my head around the door — because in dreams curiosity overrides all common sense. Inside, I find Mark, an old friend I haven’t seen in years, sitting on the floor like a man who’s lost both his dignity and the plot. “You’re going to think I’m a bit of a silly sausage,” he says, “but I’ve managed to get my foot stuck in the floorboards.” I don’t even blink at the absurdity. I’ve learned never to interrogate dream logic. I simply go straight into rescue mode: “Have you got any lube?” “Calm down, Matron,” he snorts. No lube, but he does have a family-sized tub of Vaseline. So I slather his ankle like I’m basting a turkey for Christmas dinner. After several heaves, a few expletives, and one noise from me that absolutely could have been mistaken for childbirth, his foot slips free. “Thought I’d be stuck here forever,” he pants. We laugh… until his expression shifts. And that’s when my face drops. Literally. Thud. Right onto the Vaseline-slick boards. “Oops,” I mutter, kneeling to grab it, fumbling as I press it back in place with a brittle, trembling smile. “You know,” Mark says quietly, “you don’t need that.” And I know he means it kindly. I also know he’s wrong. The mask isn’t optional. It’s structural. It’s how I’ve survived — blending, performing, adjusting every reaction like a contortionist of the socially acceptable. It keeps me safe from judgement, from confusion, from the dreaded look people give me when my real self leaks through and they tilt their head ever so slightly, thinking: You aren’t normal, are you? That look makes me want to shrink until I fold into the mask entirely. Disappear. Evaporate like I was never here. Later at home, the knock at the door startles me. It’s Kate — friend, illustrator, mother of five, and general overachiever who makes the rest of us look like we’re moving through life with our shoelaces tied together. Our boys, Maxi and Rohan, were once bonded by neurodivergence and a mutual obsession with Minecraft. Now they’re sixteen, all elbows and height and teenage smells. Time barrels on with zero regard for our feelings. We stand in the kitchen, kettle screaming, reminiscing about simpler times, back when our children fit under our chins and life felt less like running a marathon in flipflops. “So,” Kate says casually, “when are you sending me your dream stories?” “Oh…” I hesitate. Weeks ago, drunk and absolutely lacking the structural supports that keep my mask in place, I told her I’d been turning my dreams into creative short stories. She’d lit up. “Send me some!” she’d insisted. And I agreed. Because wine. But I haven’t sent anything. Because these stories aren’t just fiction. They’re me. The bits that slip out when the mask loosens. They’re cracked mirrors into the inner workings I hide from the world. The raw stuff. The unmasked stuff. What if she sees too much? What if she sees me? But I can’t avoid it forever. I open my laptop. The screen glows, a pale witness to my fear. Deep breath. I reach up. My mask feels loose again — not physically this time, but metaphorically, emotionally. A quiet surrender. I lift it off anyway. Set it gently on the table beside me. And before fear can crawl up my spine and wrap around my throat — I press send.