Behind The Mask
The guests began to move in a slow, precise choreography as if the steps had been learned in another lifetime.
Most of the voices around me were lined with age; men and women who spoke less and observed more. Only a few younger figures were present, heirs, perhaps, shadowed versions of the power I’d just been handed.
Their masks were not merely disguise, each one felt like a badge of belonging. The masks, the names, my father’s crumbling journal pages, everything surged up in my chest with a cold, metallic tang. I needed air. I turned toward Mr. Everhart.
“I need the bathroom,” I murmured.