The Mirror and the Mask

"The hardest prison to escape is the one you build for yourself."

I wake up to silence.

Not the comforting kind, but the kind that feels unnatural. Hollow. A silence that listens.

I stand. My breath is steady, but my chest feels tight. The air is heavy, pressing in like unseen hands.

I take a step forward. My footfalls echo too long, stretching out as if swallowed by the vastness around me.

I am in a hall of mirrors.

Endless reflections, stretching infinitely in every direction. Each one wears a golden jester mask, just like I do. The eyes behind them are hollow. Distant.

A voice hums through the space, neither near nor far, neither loud nor soft.

"Find yourself, and you may leave."

The words slither through my mind, twisting in ways that make sense and yet don’t.

I step closer to one of the mirrors. My reflection moves in sync, but there’s something wrong. The tilt of the head—too stiff. The way it breathes—not quite human.

I reach up, fingers brushing the smooth, cold metal of my mask. It shouldn’t feel so natural, so familiar.

I hesitate. Then, I pull.

Beneath it—another mask.

And another.

And another.

Each one slides off like shedding skin, but there is no end. My stomach knots. How many masks have I worn? How many versions of me have there been?

The mirrors begin to shift.

No. Not the mirrors—the reflections.

I don’t move, but they do. I stand frozen, breath hitching, as the countless versions of myself begin peeling off their masks in unison.

Easily. Effortlessly. Like the masks were never really attached to them.

But underneath, their faces are not my own.

They are empty. Black voids where features should be.

A rush of dread bolts through me.

I take a step back. They take a step forward.

My pulse hammers.

I turn and run.

The mirrors flicker as I move, their surfaces warping, bending, twisting. The reflections shift out of sync. Some lag behind, others speed ahead. Some don’t move at all.

I keep running—until I see it.

A single mirror in the farthest corner.

Cracked. Imperfect. Unlike the others, it doesn’t show a jester. It doesn’t show an empty face.

It shows something else.

A figure—shadowy, undefined—reaching out. Its hand mirrors mine, but there’s hesitation in its movement, like it’s waiting for permission.

The other reflections are closing in. Their voided faces distort, mouths stretching, soundless laughter curling through the space.

I have no choice.

I run straight toward the cracked mirror.

The moment I reach it, I raise my hand.

The figure in the glass does not mimic.

It reaches for me.

I step forward—not toward the mirror, but into it.

Glass shatters around me, yet I feel no pain. Only weightlessness.

Falling. Rising. Both at once.

The silence shifts.

And then—stillness.

No mirrors. No masks. Just a single window.

Sunlight spills through, golden and warm. The air is light. It smells like something real—earth, wind, life.

I lift my hand to my face.

My skin is bare.

No cold metal. No false grins. No layers.

Just me.

The voice returns, softer now.

"Now, do you know who you are?"

I inhale.

A real breath. A free breath.

I smile.

"Yes."

I step forward. I push the window open. Light floods in.

And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I step into the world—

Unmasked. Whole. Free.