IX. The Girl Who Wore a Mask
- Feb 13
- 2 min read
Updated: Apr 2
She was perfect.
Carson City’s golden girl. Captain of the softball team. Straight-A student. Homecoming Queen-in-waiting. Her laughter carried through the halls of Carson High School like sunlight, and everyone wanted to be near her. She remembered birthdays, volunteered on weekends, and never missed a chance to brighten someone’s day. Parents pointed her out to their daughters. Boys worshiped her. Teachers adored her.
But perfection always hides its flaws.
When I slipped into her room that night, the illusion shattered. Her bed was unmade, the floor buried under piles of clothes and empty coffee cups. The mirrors in the bathroom and above the dresser were covered with towels, draped carefully like she couldn’t bear to see herself anymore.
Dozens of pill bottles lined the edge of her desk. Anxiety, insomnia, panic disorder. Names for all the things she didn’t let anyone see.
Her calendar on the wall was packed with scribbled notes: practice, parties, college visits, brunches. Every day full. Every minute accounted for. I wondered how long it had been since she’d had a moment to just exist.
It was late when she finally came home. The laughter from dinner with her friends still echoed faintly from the street outside. She closed the bedroom door behind her and leaned against it for a long time, her smile still frozen on her face like she didn’t know how to take it off.
Then she did.
It slipped away piece by piece—first her eyes, then her mouth, until her face went blank. She slid down the door and sat there, her perfect nails digging into her palms as she started to cry. There was no restraint. No elegance. Just raw, heaving sobs that shook her whole body.
She reached for the pills without even looking, twisting the cap off a half-empty bottle. Her hands were shaking so badly that a few spilled onto the carpet. She swallowed a handful dry, like she’d done it a hundred times before.
Her breathing slowed. The sobs quieted. She stayed there, back against the door, eyes staring at nothing. For the first time that night, she was real.
I’d seen enough versions of her to know how this story ended. You can only wear a mask for so long before it fuses to your skin and you are trapped beneath it.
She was close to breaking. A few more months, maybe less, and the cracks would start to show. Shortly after that would be the fall.
I wasn’t sure how long I’d been searching anymore. A year? Two? Time is meaningless. The job is all that matters.
And I am nothing if not patient.
The search continues.
M.
