Seen that face everywhere. Don’t want to see that face, but there’s no choice. It was probably there in the womb, even. If memory extended that far.
First, in the night light’s shadow on the wall as a child. Then, in dreams that would repeat over the years. The kinds of dreams where one finds themselves in a place that they know is wrong and they get scared and then they think they remember being there before.
That face appeared in standing water, darkened mirrors, chrome, puffs of smoke.
Remember seeing it on that first unaccompanied walk to school. Remember that face on a man quickly approaching. That face never seen on a real, living person before. Crossed the street in a panic while tires squealed, brakes screamed, and horns wailed.
And now? Sometimes still. Always seeing that face walking closer from some impossible distance and coming into focus with terrible speed. Like all things, get used to it. Have to leave the house, make a buck, have something to eat.
And the worst part? There’s nothing overtly frightening about the face. It’s the face of someone that wouldn’t elicit a second thought if met in any other context. What does it mean?
No point describing it because its features written out are unremarkable. If one described the thickness of its lips or the shape of its eyes or the angle at which the nose points, all that detail would be meaningless.
No one has ever been hurt by that face. Even in dreams. Whoever wears it shows no aggression. That’s not the point. What is difficult to understand is why it’s there. It shouldn’t be. How can it exist? It can’t. And deep down, what twists the guts, what gets stuck in the throat, is the unshakable feeling that face isn’t real.
Unless the face is so nondescript and unimportant to everyone else that they don’t see it. It doesn’t register as anything. Point and shout: There it is again. Half the people on the bus turn around to look at what is supposed to be happening. Nothing. Back to their phones.