Please let me know if it fell apart at the end. That 1500 word limit snuck up on me like a Japanese subway groper. Just keep in mind that I originally had the protagonist killing everyone in the end, but I didn't feel that kept in line with the "love story" theme of the contest.
BURNED
Cyndi holds the mask up in front of herself, obstructing her view of my face. It is a black face mask with large blue ruffles erupting from all sides, bringing to mind something one might see at a masquerade ball or on a more flamboyant Phantom of the Opera. I see her staring at me through one eye socket. Cyndi has amazing lips and a treasure trove of a chest. This is the first time she has looked directly at me all evening, as if this mask protected her eyes from the blinding eclipse that is my horrifying face.
“Why don't you try wearing this?” she asks me, as politely as one possibly can while telling someone no woman will ever look upon him with desire again.
“I don't need that,” I reply.
“Are you sure?” She is slightly frantic. Cyndi is the make-up artist here on The Late Night Show, and some demented producer gave her the sadistic task of trying to make the burger meat sitting on my neck resemble a human face. We have been here for three hours. Michelangelo couldn't paint humanity onto my face if he had four years.
“Look,” she is desperate now. “There isn't even a strap. You just put this part on your...um...”
She is searching for my nose. My patience for this farce is also gone.
“We're done.” I get up and leave the make-up room. Cyndi bounds after me, still clutching the mask. They gave her three hours with me—she is the best, they informed me—and she did the equivalent of put breading on a beef patty.
I storm down the hallway. Everyone stares. Some quickly turn away, others cannot stop gawking. There are a number of shock-induced profanities uttered. None of this is new to me anymore.
I spot Felipe, the stage manager, talking into his headset.
“Felipe.”
He turns toward me, releases a shrill scream, and hits me over the head with his clipboard.
Okay that one's new.
“Oh my God, I am so so sorry, Kevin!” I hear agitated commotion on the other end of his headset. “I thought...I...I thought I saw something!”
“It was my face.”
“No, no! It was...oh,” Felipe looks directly at me. “Did you and Cyndi finish?”
Felipe looks behind me, where Cyndi stands, still nervously clasping that stupid mask. She shakes her head and mouths No!
“Yes, we're done.”
Felipe grits his teeth, staring at my face, then looking back at Cyndi who just holds out the mask and shrugs. He clears his throat and buttons back up his professionalism.
“Okay, well, come with me, Kevin. We're almost to your segment, so we're just going to put you in the green room and someone will come get you when Noah is ready for you. Okay?”
He grabs me by the arm and starts leading me around the corner. I catch one final glimpse of Cyndi. She wears the most worried expression on her face.
***
It is one month ago. I have a face. I have a nose. I have ears. I have lips. I have hair. My girlfriend's hands glide through my hair. Her name is Honey. Honey and I have just made love. We lie on the couch now, a glowing mass of intertwined limbs.
“The problem,” Honey tells me, “is that I don't have any close friends who are any good at making speeches. I mean, I know Melissa will try her best and do a decent job, but she's not going to knock anyone's tops off.”
“Is that your criteria now for maid of honor? Maybe we can put up some flyers at the library. 'Looking for new, well-spoken, grammatically-proficient best friend. Must be a size six.'”
“I want you to do my maid of honor speech!” She twists on top of me and slaps her hands down on my chest. Her smile is as mischievous as a promise from the devil.
“Won't I be busy being the groom?”
“At least help Melissa write it! This is an important part of the wedding, Kevin! I don't want people to tell their friends, 'Great wedding! The bride was beautiful. The ceremony was moving. The speech? Oh yeah, the best man talked about Kevin being drunk when he met Honey, and the girl's was even worse than that.'”
We debate the value of sentimentality over humor. Honey is hungry. I hop outside and head toward the deli around the corner. I smell smoke, but I don't hear any fire engines.
Honey. I loved her. She cries so much when she is with me in the hospital. She holds my bandaged hands and cries for three weeks. The temporary skin grafts on my face fail to show a response. Melissa is clutching Honey's shoulders, pulling her away as she weeps, “I can't! I just can't anymore, Kevin!”
I never see her again.
***
“Welcome back to the Late Night Show. Our next guest you're all very familiar with. You know, those of you who've turned on your TVs in the last month.”
Chuckles from the audience. A “PLEASE LAUGH” sign must have lit up. Noah Keaton, just another late night talk show host bolstered by fastidious writers and an immaculate hair stylist.
“He ran into a burning apartment building over and over again and rescued seven tenants, including three,” Noah pauses for idiotic effect, “very young children.”
The audience nods, impressed by his words. The beautiful, young Hollywood starlet next to him is entranced. Goddammit, I prayed I'd be on with Pacino or Nicholson or a cave troll. Anything but this heroine of a Greek epic.
“He suffered third degree burns over 85% of his body, but God rewards the just, my friends, and he pulled through.”
The crowd cheers. I want to vomit on Noah Keaton.
“After over a month in the hospital, he's finally ready to step out and meet his fans. Ladies and gentlemen, a true hero, Kevin Lira!”
Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I here?
It's too late now. The crowd is up on its feet, clapping and screaming. Felipe is flapping his arm at me and hissing at me to hurry out.
There is an embarrassingly noticeable pause in clapping as everyone stops to gasp and groan before forcibly redoubling their clapping efforts.
I shake hands with Noah, who gapes at me in shock, then throws a fierce glare toward Felipe. The Hollywood starlet hesitantly extends her hand toward mine with all the enthusiasm of unclogging a stranger's toilet. I sit down between her and Noah. She pastes the most pleasant smile on her face even as she practically falls out of her seat leaning away from me.
“So, Kevin” Noah stammers, “how has life been since your act of heroism?”
“Noah,” I stare directly at him as he fights to suppress a shudder, “I look like a hamburger.”
Chuckles from the audience.
***
Noah tells me I did a great job. Really connected with the audience. No one even noticed how hideously disfigured I was by the end of the interview.
I sit alone in my dressing room. Someone knocks on my door. It's Cyndi. Jesus Christ, she still has the mask. She tells me she saw the interview and really liked the things I said. I thank her. She bites her lip, staring down at the floor, this time not just to avoid looking at my face.
“I wanted to ask you about what you said when Noah asked you why you ran into that building. And why you kept running back into that building.”
***
“Why?” Noah asks me. “What drove you to act with so little disregard for your own life?”
Madness. Lunacy. Stupidity.
“Love,” I answer, sheepishly. The crowd groans. “I was a young man in love. I believed in many foolish things. You know what the say about love. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.”
“First Corinthians. One of my favorite verses,” Noah announces, proudly.
“Well, don’t take the words literally, Noah.”
The crowd laughs.
***
Cyndi looks at me earnestly. “Do you still believe in that?”
Is that a touch of restlessness I feel inside this smothering fog?
“Listen, Cyndi, do you want to...maybe...”
I have never seen the color flee so quickly from a person’s face, even for me. Cyndi’s eyes widen, looking for this stone of shame I am about to cast at her.
“...show me the way out?”
Life returns to her pigments. Cyndi swallows down hard a sigh of relief.
“Of course, it’s just down the hall. I’ll walk with you.”
We walk a palpable distance apart from each other as we make our way down the hall to our adieu.
“Well?” She stares at me again.
“Yes?”
“Do you still believe in love?”
I smile benignly, and so does she. Why lie? I walk out the door, and she closes it behind me.
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