Chapter 10 The Mask of Survival

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Timothy’s world was black.

Not the soft black of night when the moon hid itself, nor the comforting black of sleep. This was a suffocating void, a darkness so complete that it pressed against him from all sides. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, and somewhere close by a machine ticked out a steady beep… beep… beep.

His first thought was that this must be death. Hell, maybe. Or worse—the afterlife his mother once whispered about, where lost souls wandered blind forever.

He tried to lift his hand to touch his face, but his body betrayed him. His arms felt like they were filled with sand, heavy and useless. He shifted, wincing—every inch of him burned, a dull ache rising from deep within his bones.

Where am I? The question throbbed in his head, but his lips wouldn’t form the words. His mouth was dry, cracked, as though he hadn’t spoken for centuries.

Then—voices. At first muffled, as if they drifted from beneath water. He couldn’t make sense of them. They came and went in fragments, syllables melting together, his mind sluggish, refusing to catch up.

Slowly, like a curtain being drawn back, the sound sharpened.

“—Hello, dear. Can you hear me?” The voice belonged to a man. Calm, firm, practised.

Timothy’s heart stuttered.

“If you can hear me, I want you to twitch your index finger,” the man instructed.

Timothy forced his mind to focus. He concentrated on his right hand, on the weight of his smallest movement. At first, nothing happened. Then a flicker. A tiny twitch of his finger against the sheet.

“Very good,” the man said warmly, approval laced in his tone. “Now, let’s try speech. If you can hear me again, I want you to tell me your name.”

Speech. The word felt impossible.

Timothy’s lips parted, his throat catching. His eyes, open but useless, stared into the void. He felt something pressing against his skin, bandages perhaps, or some kind of shell covering his face like a plastered badge. He tried again, breath shaky, voice breaking like a cracked violin string.

“…Timothy.” It came out faint. Barely there. But real.

“My name… is Timothy.”

There was silence for a moment, then the faint sound of someone exhaling—relief.

“Did you hear that, Mrs Dorian?” the man said, his voice shifting slightly as though speaking to someone else in the room. “He’s recovering fine. In a couple of weeks, we should be able to remove the mask.”

Timothy froze. Dorian?

The name repeated in his mind like a bell tolling. Who was Mrs Dorian? Who was this man speaking to her with such confidence?

Questions swirled violently in his head, twisting tighter than the bandages on his skin. Where am I? How did I get here? Who are these people?

And worst of all—the one question that stabbed at him harder than the pain in his ribs:

Where is Fester?

The steady beep of the monitor was his only answer.

Just as Timothy was about to speak, a soft, gentle, womanly voice drifted into his ears, steady yet kind, like a blanket wrapping around him in the dark. A hand—warm, motherly, and reassuring slipped over his thin arm, grounding him.

“Timothy, dear,” the voice said with tender certainty, “my name is Dorian. Olivia Dorian. I know you must have a thousand questions, but don’t worry, you’re in safe hands now. I will be here to answer everything in time. But first, you need to get well. Can you do that, hun? If it’s too hard to speak, just raise your index finger.”

Timothy’s lips trembled. He could have simply lifted his finger, but something inside him wanted her to hear his voice, faint as it was. Straining past the dryness in his throat, he whispered, “Yes.”

Olivia’s hand squeezed his arm ever so slightly, and though he couldn’t see her face beneath the heavy cast sealing his world in darkness, Timothy felt her smile.

 —-

Weeks later, Timothy was more alive than he had been since the accident. The stiffness in his body had eased; his hands and legs obeyed him again. He could even make his way to the restroom, though always with someone’s guiding arm, because sight was still denied to him. The cast sat heavily across his face, pressing him into a world of endless night.

But today—today was different.

Today, Mrs Dorian had told him, the cast would come off. The thought electrified him, a mixture of excitement and nerves twisting in his chest. He lay waiting, every sense sharpened, every second stretching long.

And then he knew. He knew she was near before she spoke.

Her fragrance reached him first, that subtle, unmistakable scent that had been his lifeline during these blind weeks. It drifted into the room like a cooling breeze, soothing his restless heart. When she was near, the darkness was not quite so stark, so confining.

"Timothy," her voice came, soft and melodic, as she sat down beside him on the bed.. He felt the mattress dip slightly under her weight, then the comforting presence of her hand once more on his arm.

“How do you feel now?” she asked, her tone filled with warmth.

“Great, Mrs Dorian,” Timothy answered with unrestrained eagerness. His voice carried the grin that spread across his unseen face. “I can’t wait to get this lid off my face!”

But the moment the words left him, he felt it.

The subtle shift in her.

Her hand stilled, just for a fraction of a second. The air around her seemed to tense, as if her breath had caught in her chest. She was trying to hide it—Timothy knew, but even in his blindness, he sensed it.

Mrs Dorian had stiffened beside him.

Timothy’s voice came soft, almost timid, as he tilted his head toward the sound of her breathing.

“Is everything okay, Mrs Dorian? You… you seem a bit off today.”

There was a pause. Then he heard it—an exhale, long and heavy, as though she had been carrying a weight for weeks and could no longer keep it hidden.

“I’m fine, Timothy,” Olivia said gently, though her tone betrayed the effort. “It’s just… there’s something you need to know. I told the doctor I wanted to be the one to break it to you.”

A chill spread through Timothy’s chest, his heartbeat drumming faster against his ribs. He turned his head toward her voice, blind eyes searching for a truth he couldn’t see.

“Okay? What is it, Mrs Dorian?”

Her hand found his again, warm and steady, though her silence stretched just a little too long. Then she spoke, slowly, carefully—as if each word could cut.

“Timothy… during your accident that unfortunate night, you sustained severe injuries. Intense facial fractures. A huge part of your face was broken, which caused extensive soft tissue damage.”

Timothy’s fingers clenched around the bedsheets. His breath caught, but he stayed quiet, forcing himself to listen.

“You were dying,” Olivia continued softly. “But you were also fighting. The doctors said it was as though your body refused to let go. You wanted to live, Timothy.”

He sat frozen, every muscle in his body stiff with dread. He could feel the truth building like a storm, and yet he needed to hear the end.

Olivia’s voice lowered, thick with emotion. “The doctor suggested there was only one possible option—a full face transplant. It was a 50–50 chance, but we chose to do it. To save you. And… thankfully, the procedure was a success. That’s why you’ve had the plaster on your face. Today, it will finally come off.”

For a long time, there was only silence in the room. Timothy didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe.

Then, slowly, as though his hands were no longer his own, he raised them toward his face. His fingertips brushed against the hard plaster shell, tracing its ridges. He pressed harder, desperate to feel—desperate to understand. But all he met was cold plastic and bandages. No familiar softness. No proof of the boy he once was.

His throat tightened. His lips quivered. And then his voice, quivering but clear, broke the silence.

"Do you mean… my face is no longer the same?"He gulped, his mind reeling at the possibilities of the inquiry. "Like… I'd no longer be me?"

Olivia moved nearer to him on the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under her weight. She grasped Timothy's trembling hand within both of hers, her hold firm but reassuring.

"Of course you're still the same person," she told him, her tone even, with that motherly warmth he had come to rely on. "You still have your memories to treasure, to hold onto. Your mind is still yours, and those—" she gave his hand a reassuring squeeze "—are the most important things in life that make us who we are."

Timothy let her words hang in the air for a while before he whispered, his voice heavy, almost bitter.

"My memories are not good ones, Mrs Dorian."

Olivia's grip on his hand tightened. She did not rush her reply, as if choosing each word with deliberation before offering it to him.

They might not be pleasant, Timothy," she allowed softly, "but they are your strength. Your drive. You must use them to the best of your ability.".

Timothy's head tilted to the side. There was something in her voice, something layered—her words weighing more than she was letting on. He could sense it in her pauses, in the softening at the edges of her voice. She was talking as much to herself as to him, he sensed.

She went on, her thumb brushing against the back of his hand.

Think of this new face as a doorway to a new start. A chance to be free from the past." Her voice fell into a hush as she moved closer, little more than a whisper. "And I'll be with you every step of the way—if you'll let me."

Timothy turned his bandaged face toward her fully now, searching for answers he couldn't see. His voice sliced through the hush.

"Why are you doing this, Mrs Dorian? You do not even know me…"

There was silence for a moment. Timothy could have sworn he heard her smile—something about the way her breathing changed, the air warmer, lighter, but he could not be certain. Then Olivia bent in close so that he felt the gentle touch of her breath against his ear. Her words cut into him like a knife.

"I know enough about you, Timothy Hemsworth."

Timothy's entire body tightened. His surname. Hemsworth. Nobody uttered it aloud in years—he'd buried it, smothered it, wouldn't answer to it. To hear it now was like having the plaster torn from his face and something vulnerable revealed beneath.

Olivia must have felt the sudden tension ripple through him, because her hand left his and came to rest gently on his shoulder. Her touch was light, grounding, like an anchor.

“Hey,” she murmured. “Don’t be frightened by me, Timothy. I’m not here to hurt you.”

She let her hand linger, a moment of quiet intimacy. Then, in a low, deliberate tone, she added:

"As a matter of fact… we have something in common."

"What is it?" Timothy asked, his voice low but strained, as if he was bracing himself.

Olivia's eyes hardened. Her voice was cutting, bitter, when she said, "Madison Wellman."

The name ripped through Timothy. His body tightened, his heart racing as heat burned up his chest. His fists twisted in the sheets. "How do you know her?" he demanded, his voice breaking under the strain of anger and disbelief.

Olivia stepped closer, her grip firm, her voice even but seething with malice. "Oh, Timothy… she stole from me. Just as she stole from you." Her voice dropped, intentional, pressing into him. "And I know you, sweetheart. I know you want revenge, don't you?"

Timothy's chest swelled with short, jerky breaths. His jaw worked until it ached. Then, through gritted teeth, he was able to force the word out: "Yes. Yes, Mrs Dorian. That woman must pay… for everything she's done to me.".

"She will," Olivia swore, her voice little more than a whisper, yet almost daunting in its calm. "Madison Wellman will pay for every crime, every atrocity. I swear it to you, Timothy. But first—" she glanced at the cast that still encased his face, "—we must release you from this."

Just then, the door creaked open. The doctor and two nurses entered, their footsteps urgent, purposeful. The doctor's voice was light, almost singsong, but the atmosphere was thick with tension. "It's time."

Scissors cut, plaster crackled. Layer by layer, the dense casing that had protected him from the world began to peel away. Each strip fell like a burden shed, but the air around him grew colder, sharper.

As the final piece was removed, Timothy's breath caught. He did not just feel naked — he felt reborn. And in that instant, his brain formed itself around one reality: this was not a gift. This was a weapon.

What stood in the light was not just a new face. It was a new fate.

A road of vengeance, and Timothy swore an oath, in the recesses of his bosom where no one but he could hear, that every pound of flesh would be extracted. Piece by piece. Until the debt was paid in full.