Mask of A Legend Read online

  Mask of a Legend

  Stephen Andrew Salamon

  Copyright © 2015 Stephen Andrew Salamon

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-10: 1517440503

  ISBN-13: 978-1517440503

  DEDICATION

  I dedicate this book to Samantha. You are my Legend… you are Legend.

  The year 1996….

  Table of Contents

  --Prologue--

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Acknowledgments

  --Prologue--

  Through the shadows of regret and ambiguous and misleading understanding that hover over the soul’s beacon of innocence, a mask is born, inherited through the depths of tears to convey generic light into a life, enthusiastic that the shadows will never come again. But through this inevitable mask that is birthed through the sinister of others, pulsating its fraudulent life through a soul’s thick blood that cries out to it, forcing it to be created by the sounds of agony that it hears and is drawn to, a complex labyrinth is created in an unnoticeable way, to shield the disguise from harm, never tolerating the soul who wears it, to know that it was never genuine. A secret. But, in the end, those who bear it find out its surreptitious secret and have to choose whether they wish to remove it or protect it forever due to its addictive nature that forces an essence to live only for it: thus choosing to destroy either the universe that forgot your name, or the mask that never knew it in the first place. What would you choose?

  Masks. Every individual wears a mask from time to time, narrative before truth, in order for others to not see the real persona of their true soul’s rhyme that begs to break through the mask’s unknown barriers, craving to be recognized by the eyes it wore since birth. The silhouette of time, moments, can tell these secrets, with each tear that soars from the virtue of those who scream to be heard; it yearns for that moment when their mask could be shattered into oblivion of unprecedented light.

  Such masks are everywhere, worn, for instance, by a young boy pressured into doing drugs, and actually giving in, injecting this evil liquid into his innocent veins. He wore a mental mask, in order for his friends, whom he thought were ‘true’, to accept him, acknowledge him for what they wanted him to be. Or, another hypothetical is that of an obese girl, who meanders into her classroom at school and has every classmate calling her hurtful names toward her size. She feels these names hit her like thorns piercing her spine, engraving their message of wickedness into her blood and traveling with great speed to her glossy eyes, only to stay there and live, making her only see sorrow through the names that are tossed at her without a reason for their thrust. The girl then chuckles about it, making sure the classmates see her giggle, in order to hide her true pain; that is also called a mental mask, psychologically engraved to shield the agony. So many inhabitants wear this type of mask that it’s unbreakable and hard to tell what anyone’s true character is, holding up this evolutionary shield that strengthens through each generation that breeds, weeps and tries to fit their own puzzle piece into this thick, sticky, stench-stricken web of diversity. But, despite the fact that all people put on this mental deception now and again, placing it on for a moment, or having it their whole lives, what would happen if they actually attempted to wear a physical one? Do physical masks exist? One has to ask if such a mask is out there, not being a metaphor or simile, but holding its shape to reality, placed on faces of individuals.

  For instance, what comes to pass if a man falls in love with a woman for her beauty, but then she discloses that her beauty wasn’t real? What happens if she takes off that physical disguise of exquisiteness and exposes ugliness to her true image, or else the Neanderthals version of repulsiveness? Would he still hold love for her through his shallow soul? Well, in order for one to bear such a mask, they have to discover where and how to wear one, and if they would actually attempt to cross the line and make that decision. It can’t happen naturally, even though people strive to change their appearances by having surgical techniques done. But overall, people can still see and know what they look like, even after the doctor takes off their bandages. So, in order for a physical appearance to be changed for the better, or the cliché of what people feel ‘better’ really is, it has to come from some higher being, intelligence, a power that has the artistic genius of creating, some realm that we can’t see, some divinity or angelic creature. It has to come from them praying for it, or else … wishing for it.

  Wishes. In the depths of a human being’s intellect lies a certain sentiment that holds weakness to its vines of purity. Ironically, this vigor allow them to give up their dreams, or even try to make their aspirations real by unethically cheating in order to reach them. When this feeling sets in, we turn to a single word that every person knows the definition of: a ‘wish’. When people desire things the easy way, they wish for them upon a star, throw a single penny into an attractive water fountain or well. Others make them on their birthdays right before they blow out their candles, or else rub a lantern and hope that a god appears right before their eyes. But through it all, are wishes real? Are wishes really answered? Primarily, wishes run along the same line as prayers, just like mental masks with physical ones. When people pray to their god, they ask for a certain thing to happen, to where a higher divinity now takes full control over the visional desire, creates a miracle to feed their desires to reality. They give absolute permission to their chosen god to take over their free will in hopes that the powerful spirits will can manifest their destiny into a shortcut-like path to their desired want. But, after this praying ritual is completed, are they really answered?

  Prayers are only answered by the ones with purity in their souls. The integrity and the candor allows a certain being to hear their pleas and follow through with serving them what they begged to have; yet, with prayers, the Divine being waits and answers them when it feels the time is right. But with wishes, a person’s soul doesn’t have to be pure at all; that’s why many people make wishes more than prayers. And, if true, wishes are answered immediately, according to legend and folklore.

  Nevertheless, the wake of wishes and prayers do stroll along the same line, but in different bearings, just like physical and mental masks. Anyone could hear a wish being made, but it takes more than words to make a prayer heard by the being which you say it to.

  A wish is like a mask, when you take it off, it reveals a prayer, innocent or indecent. Most people don’t take off the mask when they wish upon a star, but if they did, then they woul
d be praying upon it. Through it all, everyone takes off the mask and allows their wish to turn into a prayer. Sometimes it’s hard to take off that masquerade, especially if you made a wish and it came true. But, when you take it off and it reveals your prayer, and at the same time it’s answered, you know that the answerer is your god. However, when you formulate a wish, who’s the answerer? Who allows your wish to come true? To covet is to wish.

  True, with no strings attached, that secret was whispered to a girl with the strength and wisdom of a hundred women. A destiny took over her will, and her coveted divinity kissed her soul’s light, giving a sensation of ticklish fireflies tapping on her blissful ecstasy, swaying it back and forth like the reflection of a sunrise, dangling and frolicking in an ocean’s current.

  Through the deep, majestic, blue-like ocean, a reflection of a girl’s stern face appeared, sitting down in the sand and crying, yearning for the ocean’s wisdom to call out to her and have its winds caress her. It was as if the ocean was living, breathing, embracing her face through its reflection of her melancholy, distorting her appearance, expressions, by its current. It held her like a longed-for breath that exhaled and created the tides she saw before her. She sat on a California beach while the sunrise was beginning to awaken, growing brighter and blocking out the stars that glistened in the heavens and danced in the ocean’s mirror-like body. The cold sand was heating up and her tears revealed hurt, mixed with contentment as she held a mirror in her right hand and then gazed at her beautiful reflection again in the water. Each tear that fell bounced to the brown sand below her red dress of elite qualities, absorbing her mental wounds and preparing itself for more drops that were prominent through her glossy eyes.

  A princess to some, and a rich girl to others if they had seen this sight of ravished beauty sobbing out to the fading stars above. She looked out at the waves in the crystal-like ocean, the reflection of the moody sky and the newly birthed sunrise, fighting with night, beckoning for it to die out so the light could have its turn at witnessing mother earth’s divine secrets. She asked, “Why did I do it?”

  Why did this happen to me?

  Looking into her mirror, acne was on her face and pale skin, small, chapped lips, dark circles around her deep eyes and stringy, blonde hair; her tears came pouring. “Why can’t I see my beauty?” The girl pulled out a modeling magazine that lay beside her and saw herself on the cover of it. She looked at the image on the cover and saw clear skin, scrumptious lips, and beautiful, blonde hair. “Why can’t I see the same thing when I look in the mirror?” She threw the magazine and gawked at herself in the mirror again. “Why do I fear this face?” Acne that was shadowing over her exterior, she cried for it to disappear, begging for it to vanish, like a goddess wailing out to her god for reasons that only he covets to know. Feeling her skin where the acne was, seeing it prominently in the mirror, she couldn’t feel anything, not a bump, but smoothness was the texture her fingers received. It was as if the mirror showed her what wasn’t there, haunting her mentality with what her eyes perceived in the lying, deceitful reflection. “Why can’t I see the beauty that I have now?”

  She lay her face on the beach sand and turned to look up at the sky, noticing a star in the distance trying to fight the sunrise and still be noticed. She looked over at the waves of the ocean and watched as they crashed against the shoreline, their ferocious sound coming from such magnificence. Her mind was like a wave, growing bigger through the days, only to be destroyed when it hit the beach it was destined for.

  This is where she ended up, all alone on a vacant beach of magnificence. Her teary eyes faced the sky and stared at the star very closely again; she knew what the star was, and it knew her. She closed her eyes and rubbed her beauty, smearing her make-up, and then started to thrash her perfectly done-up hair, like she felt these things were her own masks she created, and didn’t want anymore. Suddenly she stopped, perceived the star again, and slowly felt her flashback begin as she closed her eyes and squeezed out tears that were mixed with dark mascara. It was an uninvited memory, a point in her life where she found the greatest gift of all. The flashback started where her true adventure originated, the journey of her single wish that came true; or else that’s what she thought. Suddenly, in the abyss of her subconscious, alone and afraid, cold and dark, she heard her blazing flashback, her mother’s voice saying, “Hurry up, Legend, you’ll be late for school!”

  I

  The Angel Hides,

  Hearing a Soul

  Weep From a Distance….

  Chapter One

  Adarkened room. It blocked out the city life, from trains coughing out their hard-working breath, to buildings swaying in the wind, creaking their silver, god-like bodies to let everyone know they are the giants of this city. Silence. Shadows silhouetting the yellow walls through the cracks in the brown, nicotine-drenched shade, breathing sunlight into this room that otherwise coveted the dark. The darkness was jealous of the sun, it seemed, a battle between both elements that began by a single window shade that was nailed down at all ends, planned out to make sure no light ever entered the room for reasons unknown.

  But then the crack in the shade split on this day, and the sunlight that fought for a year to enter the room finally endured its moment of greatness, shooting in through the crack, kissing all ends of the room its soul could touch. And so the darkened room was dark no more. Silence. Yet, a noise was heard, pounding its way through the silk-like air that gave a peaceful emotion to Legend’s harmony-filled, sleeping ears. “I said hurry up, Legend, I don’t want you being late for school again,” her mother said.

  She ran into her tiny room and shook Legend, bouncing her against the mattress so hard that springs began popping through the old fabric that made up the mattress’s skin. The crack of sunlight perceived her actions and eavesdropped on this moment it so desired to see, like a god tormented by sight, a blind man tortured by sound.

  Dreaming of natural surroundings, Legend’s closed eyes saw fields of grass and wisdom-filled trees, sweet aroma of water, depicting to her senses that a stream was near. This was Legend’s escape, her only destination that gave comfort to her soul’s sorrow, grasping onto this moment every morning and night, waiting for it to arrive; and it did. Yet, this nirvana-like site ended, as it did every morning, when Legend’s innocent eyes opened, seeing her half-woken mother directly in her view. Legend already knew that every time she saw her mother’s face up to hers in the dead of morning, smelling her mother’s parched breath and stench covered up by loads of perfume, that meant she had overslept. “Come on, take a shower and get to school, it’s already 8:30 a.m.,” her mother argued.

  She then bolted out of Legend’s room as fast as she came, whispering to herself about something in regard to Legend oversleeping again. All that was left was the scent of her mother’s perfume, fermented oil mixed with old roses that bloomed past their expiration date.

  Leave me alone.

  So Legend tried closing her eyes again, and fought to get back the image that she was dreaming about, but the aroma of water couldn’t be found, and the green grass that her subconscious gave to her didn’t seem that green anymore. So, she gave up the fight, as she did every morning, knowing that when night falls again, she will enter back into the place she desired to see every day. To Legend, that place she glimpses when her eyes are closed is the only reason why she opens her eyes, lives, breathes every day, is because she knows she has to work through the daylight in order to enter back into the paradise of her mind’s eye, like an angel soaring through the daylight, longing to fly with light of a full moon blanketing its wings.

  Legend, trying to open her eyes, got up from her bed and walked over to her window, sensing her way through the darkened room while a poster of all the star constellations fell from her wall. Then it was seen. Light. She saw the long streak of sunlight peering through a crack in the shade and her eyes grew toward the moment of a beacon invading her den of longing darkness. She opened her eyes even w
ider and followed the streak. Confusion. Legend, for some reason, gazed at the crack in the shade and lifted the shade on her large window.

  She tore the shade down from their nails and suddenly her whole room was lit with the natural beacon and she breathed it in, like it was air, a blessing from a god unseen to her gloomy sight. She looked out at the Sears Tower, reminding her of an overgrown tree that stole the light from other trees that strived to earn wisdom. But to her, the building was beautiful. “Good morning, Chicago!”

  Then she opened the window a crack. Sound. The silence was broken and her room finally heard the noises from the outside, whether they be of breathless cars driving by with an ounce of life left to their steel, or the songs of sparrows fighting for their nests that were invaded by crows trying to steal their branches. She enjoyed it all.

  She pivoted her body around and picked up the poster and looked at the stars engraved on the poster, like she was staring at a map of some kind, a path that would lead to a destination of significance. It brought a smile to her face, a morsel of unknown faith that grew every time her eyes moved to a different constellation, forcing her to strip the sticky gunk away from her eyes with her hands, and peel her eyes open even more. She rolled up the poster and threw it onto her bed and turned around to face the window again, hoping that the morning light would dilate her eyes as it did every morning when she went outside.

  As she looked through the window, her same ritual as any other window for that matter, she saw her unwanted reflection. It was a reflection she hadn’t stared at for eons, but this morning she forgot her normal tradition of not looking at the window’s truth, reminding her of the reason why her eyes enjoy being closed, why her room needed to stay dark. Her smile vanished the deeper she stared at her face, gawking at it so close that she could perceive the small scratch marks on the window, due to past hail storms. It was a face of acne, from her forehead, face, all the way down to her neck. She saw her small lips and stringy, blonde hair while raindrops thumped against her window.