The Faceless Ones

They were trying to steal my identity. They had none of their own – they were the faceless ones. They were the faceless ones and they were hungry for faces of their own. They were so so hungry. “Give us your identity!” they roared, reaching out at me from the shadows. Jumping out at me from the dark alley ways. Following me at a stealthy distance. They were the identity muggers.


When they have taken your identity away from you then you have to wander in the shadows yourself. You can never face up to anything anymore because you have no face. “Why are you trying to steal my identity?”I screamed but I was all alone on the haunted hilltop, the featureless grey sky pressing down on me. Crows slowly wheel overhead. They are waiting to peck my eyes out. “Why are you doing this to me?” I roared, trying to intimidate them with my rage, but I was all alone in a dark corridor, the wavelets of some unspeakable sea lapping at my ankles.


They had turned my words against me and I was besieged by mocking echoes. The shadow-dwellers were plotting against me – I could see them swarming in their masses in the hedgerows, crawling around the periphery of my vision. They were the faceless ones and they were trying to steal my identity. “Get your own identity!” I roared back at them but they mocked me with their silence. When they are finished with you there’s nothing left for you but to hide away in the shadow world with the other shadows, ceaselessly murmuring nonsense that no one will ever hear.


You keep trying to remind yourself of who you are but you can never quite remember. It’s on the tip of your tongue but your tongue is long since gone. You’re mumbling nonsense that even you don’t believe. You’re making promises that you will never keep, promises that no one will ever listen to. No one cares about your promises anymore – even you don’t care about them. Your lies have lost the capacity to convince. Your lies have become pale weak things that swarm in their masses; they creep impotently around you like an army of ghostly worms. They are your loyal entourage – they will follow you wherever you go.


They have taken your identity and you have to hang around in pub doorways talking rubbish as fast as you can. You’re trying to talk your way out of a sticky situation. As you talk you feel your lips moving out of synch with your words – you’re in a bad movie and no one wants to watch it. You’re talking rubbish with the rubbish-talkers and no one cares. Your mouth is mumbling nonsense that no one wants to hear – they’ve heard it too many times before. You turn away and walk off down the street, your hands in your pockets, trying in vain to think of a clever come-back to something no one has said.



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