A Mask of Villainy

“I am he who brings the night. I watched as the stars fell from the heavens, cascading down like fiery comets and flaming torrents of death and destruction upon the good green earth. And I laughed. I laughed because they were pulled down by my hand. I ripped the constellations out of the night sky. I’ve set fires to a thousand different worlds, and on those thousand different worlds, those same fires still burn to this day. They continue to burn, unquenched and unchecked, like my rage.

“I’ve awakened the monsters that slumbered in the Deep; caused them to rise from their watery prisons and wreak havoc upon unsuspecting towns and villages along the coastlines. I’ve created far more terrifying monsters with my own hand—all with the knowledge of dark and arcane secrets within my grasp—and sent them to roam the earth, to ravage and annihilate until their bloodlust was sated.

“I’ve toppled kingdoms and queendoms with but a glance and a word. I’ve conquered nations with armies and forces of darkness so vast and terrible that mortal man cannot look upon them without crying out in fear. I’ve crushed empires to dust and scattered their remains to the four winds, spreading them out so they can never again rise from the ashes of their own ruin.”

By the end, my words were in but a mere whisper. I leaned forward with a wicked gleam in my eye, a gleam which had caused many a brave heart to flee in terror.

“I am he who brings the night, the night from which no man, woman, or child will ever wake.”

“That’s nice,” said the little boy, unfazed by my confession. “Can you make me a balloon animal?”

I blinked. That wasn’t the normal response to my monologue. I’ve given such a soliloquy many times before—or something very similar to it—and never have I had such a blatantly insulting reaction.

This would never have happened if I hadn’t lost my cloak and my wand. Oh, and my hat, too. Don’t forget the hat.

Now, I suppose, you see the very depths of my shame. I don’t think there’s much lower I can go from here. Not literally, of course, seeing as I’ve descended into the depths of the Underworld on a dare—and delved even deeper, just to say that I did. This is all purely metaphorical. The situation I found myself currently in, though, was all too real.

I looked around the room brightly decorated with streamers and a large banner on the back wall which read something along the lines of “Happy Birthday”, or some rubbish like that. Children in plastic party hats with stretched-out elastic string under their chins all stared at me. And I stared back at them. Not one of them looked even remotely afraid of me. How utterly disappointing.

The young boy still stared at me expectantly. In the next room over, oblivious parents chatted amongst themselves, happy that someone else was supervising their children’s interaction. I sighed, wishing for all the worlds that I was somewhere else, anywhere else than where I was.

“Of course, child,” I said. “What kind of balloon animal would you like?”

The boy scratched his head and thought about it for a minute. “I’d like a T-Rex.”

I blinked again. A T-Rex? That was what he wanted? I asked him as much and he shrugged.

“I like the T-Rex. It’s pretty scary. You can do it, can’t you?”

Had the child not been listening to me? Not even a single word? I shook my head with a wearied resignation.

“Child,” I groaned softly. “I’ve worked magics you’d never believe, even if you saw them with your own eyes. Of course, I can make you something as simple as a T-Rex.”

Once you’ve held magic in your hands and have learned to reshape the very fabric of existence, forming a T-Rex out of stretchy rubber and air is mind-numbingly easy. I could have made an actual miniature T-Rex to give to the child, but no. He just wanted a balloon animal that would pop the moment he held on to it too tightly, or it would droop and sag as the air leaked from its rubber skin.

The children in the room all oohed and aahed, though, as I handed the T-Rex to the child. Sure, my impassioned speech about how I once had a name that would turn hearts to stone and men’s resolve to watery weakness, that did nothing, but I twist a balloon in a few places and suddenly I’m simply incredible.

Go figure.

Like I said, none of this would have happened if I still had my cloak—that awesome cloak of woven shadows, the one I stitched together with the very fabrics of reality and unreality. Or my wand, that unassuming yet deadly piece of whittled dragon rib-bone with which I worked strange and terrible magic. And don’t forget the hat, never forget that hat. Even I don’t know what purpose it served, other than that it looked really good whenever I wore it with my cloak.

But I don’t have any of those still. No cloak. No wand. No hat. And now I’m stuck performing basic, rudimentary magic and sleight-of-hand tricks at children’s birthday parties. I hate my life.

Other children come up to me with their infernal, incessant requests that bother me to no end. This one wants a puppy. That one wants a rhinoceros. The one with pigtails wants a cat. The one with curly hair wants a tiger. On and on and on it goes.

The smile on my face is only there because I am actively imagining the devastation I could work upon this room, this house, this neighborhood—indeed the whole world—provided I still had my cloak, wand, and hat.

I really do hate my life. That hate is what has always driven me. It keeps me on my feet, to keep going, to not give in and die—even in this, the most horrible of circumstances. And so, I grind my teeth together, force a smile upon my face, and make balloon animals.

It isn’t a bad gig, all things considered. Don’t get me wrong, I hate it with every fiber of my dark and blackened soul. But once I make the balloon animals, the little brats usually go off and play with each other, making insufferable sounds of joy and laughter—the sort of which should only be saved for triumphing over one’s foes. I’m left to sit in silence, glorious silence, until a parent notices and says something along the lines of, “We’re not paying you to sit, we’re paying you to entertain.”

I smile and nod, all the while plotting their eventual demise, and then the entertainment continues. I do a few basic magic tricks, the kids ooh and aah because they’ve no idea they shouldn’t be impressed by warm-up exercises for real magic, and then the show’s over, thank you for your time, here’s fifty bucks.

But today was different. There I sat on a plastic folding chair in a room full of screaming, laughing children playing with their balloon animals. Only, I wasn’t sitting alone. I didn’t notice the child at first. She was easy to miss, just sitting there as still as a statue, watching all the other children laugh and play.

So, there I sat, and there she sat, while everyone else in the room played, laughed, and screamed. I studied the child across from me. She didn’t notice me watching her. She was looking at the rest of the children playing together. It looked like part of her wanted to join in, only, she didn’t know how.

Her hands were folded in her lap with no balloon animal held in her child-like grip. A somber expression was upon her face, the sort of expression more aptly found on an adult’s face than a child’s. She struck me as odd, to say the least. What made it odder by far was the fact that I recognized the child. She was the birthday girl whose mother had hired me for this insufferable event. There she sat, surrounded by all her friends, and I’d never seen someone look so alone, so ignored.

Well, that’s not true. I have seen that before. A memory was dragged up, kicking and screaming from the black depths of my mind. A memory of a small boy in a dark forest, all alone, tears streaming down his face. It was not a pleasant memory. It was not sweet, but bitter. It soured my face and twisted my grin into a grimace.

They say it is empathy that moves humanity to put themselves in another’s shoes. Foolishness. It was not empathy that moved me to stand up and walk over to the child. It wasn’t. You have to have a heart beating in your chest to have empathy for someone else—and I cut that out long ago. It still beats somewhere in a wooden box, somewhere on the far-reaching fringes of time and space, somewhere not even I remember the exact location of anymore.

For without our hearts, we die. But if it does not remain within us, it cannot move us, and so I know. I know it was not empathy that made me sit next to the child. Call it whatever you will, give whatever reason you desire. I blame that bitter memory that forced itself back into my mind, unbidden, unwanted. If I could forever forget my past, I would.

We sat, the girl and I, in silence. I crossed one leg over the other and folded my arms across my chest—a casual pose that did not reflect how uncomfortable I truly felt. Wear a mask, as they say, so that the world may never know your true face. Hide it long enough, and you may forget it as well.

“That was a nice story,” the girl finally spoke up, breaking into my thoughts and shattering the silence between us. “Too bad not a word of it is true, huh?”

I blinked in surprise. I did not look at her. “Whyever would it not be true, child?” I asked. “I’ve been called many things in my life, but never a liar.”

The young girl twisted in her plastic chair to look at me. I saw her expression out of the corner of my eye. She was frowning, but there was curiosity in her gaze too.

“Well,” she began, “if you’re such a terrible person—a mass murderer by your own admonition, I might add—why would you be here, at my birthday party, making balloon animals and doing cheap magic tricks for children?”

I raised an eyebrow, my only response. She made a fair point, to be sure. But I had no intention of giving my reason for my shame away, especially not to a mere child.

I had no desire to tell her of the battle which had raged in the places between existence, the battle between me and my ancient foe. The battle that resulted in me being smitten, struck from the sky, and stranded upon this bleak and desolate patch of dirt with no way of ever leaving. It was my own fault, really. I was overconfident in my abilities. Then again, that was always my downfall. She thought I was dead, of course, and for the time being, I have no intention of giving any indication that I am otherwise still breathing and very much alive.

So, I obfuscated. Magicians are good at that, after all.

“That’s a big word for a child’s vocabulary,” I remarked. “Admonition.”

But the girl was already shaking her head. “No, it’s really not,” she said shortly. “You’re trying to distract me by complimenting my vocabulary. Stop dodging the question. Why are you at my birthday party if you’re this all-powerful wizard?”

I chuckled drily, despite my best intentions to remain distanced. The child’s determination intrigued me. “I never claimed to be all-powerful, child,” I told her. “Simply more powerful than most. But I’ll rise to your bait. This conversation certainly beats the monotonous doldrums of this insufferable gathering of fools.”

I gestured at the rest of the children dismissively, uncrossed my legs, left over right, and then recrossed them, right over left.

“I’ll answer your question if you answer one of mine. Deal?”

I held out my hand for the girl to shake.

She hesitated and then took my hand in hers. “There’s a condition.” The girl spoke up, not letting go of my hand.

My eyes narrowed slightly, and somewhere in the far-reaching fringes of space and time, my heart skipped a beat. A condition? Had this child been playing me all along? Did she now hope to trick me into doing something for her?

“What’s the condition?” I asked, still hiding behind my mask of calm. But really, my thoughts churned and teemed, searching for the child’s true intent.

“You must promise me that you’ll tell the truth when you answer my question. No lies.”

I frowned. That was her condition? That I answer honestly? Why? How would she ever know whether or not I spoke true?

“Fine,” I agreed. “The conditions are set.”

The girl beamed happily at me and let go of my hand. It was the first I’d seen her smile. A radiant little thing, like a small sun, she was. Strange.

“Alright,” she said seriously. “You first. Ask away.”

I was still confused by her strange conditional request, and not entirely sure what was meant by it. But I had already shaken her hand. There was no backing out now. Forward, then.

“Very well.” I gestured at the room full of happy, laughing little fools. “This is your birthday party, is it not? And yet, here you sit, talking to me instead of playing with all your friends. Why is that?”

The remnants of the girl’s smile faded from her face. She looked at the rest of the children and that joy disappeared completely. “It’s true that this is my birthday party, but they’re not my friends. Not really,” she answered.

She was silent for a minute and then continued. “My mom invited my class from school. She thought it’d be a good way for me to make some new friends. We just moved here.” Her voice wavered. “I had friends back home before we moved. I miss them. I don’t want new friends. I want my old friends.”

She looked down at her hands folded on her lap and I thought I saw a tear glisten in her eye for a second. I looked away, uncomfortable with such a visible display of sappy, sentimental, useless emotion.

“Anyway,” the girl looked over at me with all traces of sadness gone, happy once more. “That’s me. Your turn.”

“A moment.” I hesitated, still bothered by her condition upon our agreement. “I promised to answer your question truthfully, and I will, but may I ask you why?”

“Certainly.” The girl smiled. “After you answer my first question. Then you may ask a second.”

I smiled faintly, despite my attempted annoyance. She was stubborn. I gave her that much, and a deep, forlorn sigh to go along with it.

“Very well,” I said. “You asked me why I am here at your birthday party—if I am an evil, mass-murdering, terrible, and altogether all-around nasty villain.”

I shifted on the plastic chair, annoyed with how uncomfortable it was, and then continued.

“I am here, making balloon animals and doing cheap magic tricks for insufferable children, whom I hate, because I lost possessions which were of great importance to me.”

“What did you lose?” the girl asked. I smiled at her. She frowned, and then it dawned on her. My question first.

“I wanted you to tell the truth because so many adults don’t,” she admitted. “They think you don’t notice it because you’re a kid, or that it doesn’t matter whether or not they’re being honest since they’re adults and they know best, even if that means lying to you. Have you ever noticed that?”

She shook her head and bit her lip hesitantly. “Mom does that sometimes. She told me we wouldn’t move, not ever, and then we did. She told me it would get better, living here, but it hasn’t. She told me the kids would be nice to me, but they haven’t.”

A tear rolled down her cheek and she brushed it away angrily, before glaring at me with a small fraction of that same anger. “That’s why I said no lies, okay?”

I sat there, quiet for a moment. I wanted to be annoyed. I wanted to be disgusted with her display of weakness. But as I sat there, in my mind, all I could think of was that small boy in a dark forest, all alone, tears streaming down his face.

A voice that hadn’t spoken in centuries, millennia, eons even, came back to me like it was uttered that same day. I’ll be back, boy. You wait here for me until I come and get you, when it’s safe. You hear?

The boy had nodded and waited. And waited. A part of me was still waiting, waiting for my father to come back and get me. I hadn’t thought of him in years. That was where it all started, though. That night made me the man I am today. And that part of me, weak and insignificant and foolish as it was, that part of me understood this girl. No lies.

“I lost three things,” I admitted to the girl. “No, that’s not entirely true. They were taken from me.”

“What were they?” the girl asked curiously.

I paused, considering making her answer a question in turn before I spoke again. I decided against it.

“A cloak I wove from shadows,” I answered the girl. “A wand I made from a dragon’s rib-bone. And a hat of no particular significance other than the fact that it was mine.”

“Who took them?”

“Someone better than me. Someone who saw what I was doing with them—the terrible atrocities I had committed—and decided that someone needed to stop me. And so, she did.”

I fell silent and then added, “Without them, I can’t leave your world. I’m stuck, unable to do magic of any real significance. Without them, I’m no longer who I once was.”

“And would that be such a bad thing?” the girl asked softly.

Her question surprised me. It gave me more pause than I thought it would. We had now completely abandoned our agreed upon form of questions and answers. I found that I didn’t care. We were just having a conversation now, she and I.

“Who would I be, if not who I once was?” I mused aloud.

The girl shrugged. “Whoever you want to be.”

I stared at her and then shook my head slowly. “That’s a profoundly deep thought, you know that?”

She smiled and shrugged again. “I’m not sure you ever got around to fully answering my first question,” she remarked.

“You’re here because you lost your cloak, your wand, and your hat. That still doesn’t explain why you’re making balloon animals and doing cheap magic tricks for kids. Why aren’t you out trying to get revenge against the person who put you here? Or, at the very least, why aren’t you out looking for your stuff?”

She didn’t give me a chance to answer her. Instead, she answered her own question. “You know what I think?”

“What?” I asked, intrigued and yet fearful that she would say that which I dared not speak, even to myself aloud. And yet, strangely, there was a part of me that wanted to hear the girl say it.

“I think you’ve had a hard life,” the girl said finally, studying me.

“You’ve done things you’re not proud of. I think deep down, you wanted to be stopped. You now have a chance to be someone else—someone who isn’t a monstrous villain—and that terrifies you. If you really wanted to be the person you were before you lost your cloak and your wand and your hat, you would be out looking for them. Nothing would be able to stop you from finding them again and taking your revenge. But you’re here. At my birthday party. I think that says a lot in answer, don’t you?”

I thought about what she said. I thought about it a lot. Finally, I nodded. “Yes. Yes, I think it does,” I answered truthfully.

The girl smiled at me but said nothing. We sat in silence for a long while. All around us, the children still screamed and laughed and played, oblivious to our conversation, and we to them.

“Give them a chance to be kind, will you?” I nodded toward the other children. “Going through life without friends is no way to live. Take it from me. They may not be your friends now, but they certainly won’t be if you never give them the chance to try.”

I held out my hand for the girl to shake. “Deal?”

She took my hand and then hesitated. “There’s a condition.”

“What is it?”

“Can you make me a balloon animal?”

I snorted with laughter and smiled. “Certainly.”

The girl ran off and joined the rest of the children, a red balloon animal in hand. She smiled nervously at them at first and then laughed with them as they welcomed her into their fun without hesitation.

And me? I sat, watching them play. I pondered the child’s advice and wondered if it were true. For the briefest of moments, I wondered if my ancient foe had planned this all along, that I’d be forced to ponder my own morality and existence and perhaps, perhaps change into someone different. Someone better. Had she? Could I be someone else? Was that even possible?

I thought about going out and looking, at long last, for my cloak of woven shadows, my wand of dragon rib-bone, and my hat of no particular significance. I thought about returning with a fiery vengeance and getting my revenge upon my most ancient of foes. I thought about my rage, that burning rage that fueled the dark desires of my heart, the heart locked away in a wooden box somewhere in the far-reaching fringes of time and space. Then, I looked back at the young girl and saw that smile, that radiant look of joy, and thought something different. Maybe I’ll take off my mask of villainy for good, stay here, and do a magic trick or two instead.

---