November thirteenth. That was the day my heart died. I ripped my emotions out from my chest, balled them up, and launched the useless piece of shit at the nearest dumpster. For the first time, I did not miss.

No one noticed the change. No one noticed I existed in the first place. No one even noticed how I was disappearing, bit by bit, day by day, until nothing was left of me. Gone, I was, and gone forever. Gone, except the empty carcass that once held my soul.

No, no one cares. No one ever did. I do not say that to gain your pity. I merely speak the truth. I see the masks they wear, some happy, some sad, some thicker, some thinner. Some barely existent, but those are few. Masks, masks. Everyone has a mask. They don’t even know they’re wearing it, because they’ve lived with them for so long that they presume they were born the way they are. Oh, but I know. I know that under those masks, those fake visages that they reflexively change with each different setting, they are all the same. The same disgusting, repulsive, gruesome face they hide under layers and layers and layers of disguises.

Oh, how I long to take them off, remove them one by one, stripping their faces until all I can see is the sinewy muscle and chalky bone and blood-soaked flesh and cartilage, that make up the carapace in which their hideous souls reside.

I do not pretend to be different, as they do. I am the same unsightly, revolting creature as everyone else. What sets me apart is that I realize it.

Oh yes. This world is populated by monsters. And one of these days, one of these days, I will end it all. I would much prefer ghastly, cadaverous shells to these chivalrous charlatans. And if I am gone along with them, who would give a damn? I am nothing more than another monster to destroy. On that day, all these detestable hearts and souls will disappear. Ah, yes. Those masks will all finally