He sits in the dark, all alone. The sounds from above
and below bring a smiling tear from his eye. He has to
get out. He has to scream, the words tearing from his
heart he cannot release, his mouth is shut. His hands
curl up and his small fist hits the innocent lifeless.
There is no pain, only sweet surrender to the emotion
that isn't his. He weeps in the wet grass. With only
the stars to console him. Cold and distant do they
gaze upon him. Slowly and shakily he rises. With ease
and grace, old familiarity, he pulls the mask from his
pocket feeling it over caressing the subtle lies. He
clamps it on firmly. The stronger half of him pulls
his feet firmer to the ground, moves his hand from his
face to his side, uncurls his bleeding hand. He walks
back inside and sits back down. The boy becoming the
mask, like so many nights before...

*sigh* I hate doing shit like this...sort of, Eh I do not know.

~Prongs