Eyes like obsidian peek from behind his Guy Fawkes mask. Its twisted grin is like the antithesis to the gaping frown of mine. And yet, the foreshadowing of anarchy feels all the same. There’s a suave air to him as he dances up alongside me, just within reach and yet so far away. The energy between us feels static, like a live wire connects us.
I click into a saved recording labeled Message for Melpomene, and it pulls up a grainy, static-filled video of my bedroom. A shiver goes down my spine as the dark shape of a woman moves across the room, idly swinging a club.
“My, my, that’s quite the piece you have there,” the man at the front desk remarks, his eyes going round like saucers at the sight of it. I feel a slow smirk creep across my face as something, or someone, shifts in my head.
So, this is strange. There’s a tragedy mask sitting on my kitchen table. I don’t own a tragedy mask. I have no idea where it came from or how in Tartarus it got in my house. It’s giving me a weird vibe, too, like déjà vu. It’s so bizarre. I think I’ll keep it.
“I hope you have found your passage across the Styx, Mr. Steffens. If not, well…” I trail off, placing drachma in his palm. “Tell that greedy Charon I’ll pay your fare.” As my fingers graze his skin, I’m suddenly blinded by a flash of light as a vision takes over…
I let out a loud yelp, stumbling backwards. I’m sprayed with coffee grounds and water as my back slams into the island cabinet. Propped up against my coffee machine is my ancient Greek tragic mask. It stares back at me with its large void eyes and gaping mouth twisted into a permanent frown.