He peeled back another dead layer and cast it aside, a persona no longer required. Envy consuming the chameleon’s soul. Pridefully, proficient at his craft, superficially socializing, yet as inept as a politician’s campaign promise. His smile belying the gnawing of emptiness. The last puff of a cigarette by a blindfolded man against the firing wall, choosing to grin, if only to distract their deadly aim.
Often contemplating the pile of disguises that littered his bedroom floor. Living in constant fear of peeling back the last one. Revealing an empty soul, pasty, white and naked, for the world to ridicule. Desperately attempting to smooth wrinkles from the discard pile, a man in a desert, willing to sell his soul to have back the last swallow from his canteen, consumed hours earlier.
Unwilling to be seen without a mask, carefully avoiding mirrors; booby-traps set sadistically by knowing hands. Continually circling the room, an aircraft running out of fuel, anticipating the fiery crash, hoping to be charred beyond recognition, but by who? No one knows his true face, or his true personality. Disguised for such an eternity, even he no longer recalls his twisted logic, unable to solve the equation, that his warped mind had created.