The entire world is a theatre.
And you little people prance about upon a stage, wearing your masks of deceit and treachery. Life is a performance. One day you’re up and the next you’re down. You aren’t the same actor on any given day, no, you morph beneath the mask to be whomever you require.
That mask affords you protection. It’s a comfortable blanket from the reality off stage. The people watching you see only the performance you wish for them to see. The performance, a decision – an act.
The rest of the world sits in the audience, an audience that sometimes remains the same and other times grows to include all those you meet.
Yet there’s no applause. There’s no intermission. There’s nothing but you, the actor, and your mask. They buy into your performance. It doesn’t matter who you’re being or what you are, they are captivated even briefly by your presence upon the stage.
But at Ghosts of the Past, you’re performing for an audience of one, little birdie.
There’s no supporting cast or crowd of which to speak of.
There’s just me, The Scarecrow.
And for a little while, I may entertain the thought of your performance. It may humour me until it becomes tedious. I might watch the play, the dishonesty, the act beneath your mask, Impaler. But there’s no way I will enjoy it.
Until I’ve seen enough.
At that moment, I will appear upon that stage beside you, wrap my hand around your throat and forcibly peel back the mask that hides the visage of your mortality.
With it comes blood and bone, but the mask will be removed.
The act will come to an end, little birdie.
Only then will we see your true performance. It is then, with your face attached to the falsehood in the palm of my hand, will we truly know the real Impaler. Because you see, in the theatre of The Scarecrow, I refuse to bear witness to your pathetic performance any longer than I need. I don’t wish to see it. It holds no weight with me.
What I wish to see is the mere mortal behind the mask. When the lights come on and reveal you on that stage, blood dripping from what’s left of your face, only then will I be satisfied with what I’ve seen upon the stage.
Your true self.
You people and your pathetic masks, masquerading as monsters when you’re nothing but little birdies, perched on a stage, hidden and afraid of what lurks in the shadows.
At Ghosts of the Past, your performance comes to an end, Impaler.
I will remove your mask.
And the entire world will see the real you…
What’s left of you.
In the meantime, where your eyes don’t go…
Fear The Scarecrow.