Then the time for being sad is over And you miss ?em like you miss no other And being blue is better than being over it. (Hallelujah, PATD)

Some days are harder than others to keep the mask in place. To keep the smile from flipping on itself. At times, it takes a strong adhesive to keep it in place, and even stronger tape to tack that smile up. Even then, it looks strained. Forced. You have to keep them from seeing through the lines, the cracks. The flaws. It's a task. A strenuous, tedious chore but chores need to be done.

At the end of the day, when all the chores are done and it's time to hang your hat at the front door, that's when you can let it slip. Hang up the towel. Or in this case, hang up the marionette paddle.

The day was over, exhausting himself through performances throughout the day that started at a meager coffee shop and later drew out into the streets as the sun shifted in the sky. Tainted by the day's false pretenses, the door to his neutral and minimal apartment opened to spill the entertainer into it's depths.

He didn't look at the instruments scattered around the apartment, the abstract paintings that were sporadically placed against stark white walls. He didn't look at the mismatched furniture in cool colors, not one of them matching another. With eyes downcast to the floor, he didn't see the bleak carpet lined with his pacing steps from long, sleepless nights. He saw nothing as his hand idly swatted the door closed behind him, both rising to loosen and remove the bow tie at his throat, fingers unweaving the tie before he slid it slowly from his collar.

Alone in his apartment, he didn't need to wear the mask. He didn't have to pretend that he was okay. He could let the creases of wear and tear on his face set into his forehead, the corners of his mouth. Eyes, broken, not matching the stunted youth from a life cut too short and they aged him. How they aged him. The face of a young man with the eyes of someone tired, exhausted from repeated cycles and repetitious routines.

Able to autopilot himself to the kitchen as he unbuttoned the short sleeved crisp dress shirt, muscles that should be tired from his performance shifted as he peeled it off, dropping it in his wake to the fridge. He swung the door open, with a sharp jerk of his hand on the handle, bending to pull one of the bottles from the shelves. His fridge was more of a cooler, holding no more than beer and a couple boxes of half-eaten Chinese take out he'd yet to throw out. The shaking jolt of the door slamming closed was the only thing to break the silence before the hiss of the beer opening.

Toward the bathroom, pausing twice only to kick off one dress shoe, then the other. A routine. A drill. He didn't have to think of what he was doing, taking this path nearly every night with few exceptions when his routine was broken by unexpected company or pure refusal to go home.

By the time he reached his destination, the same quarter of his beer was gone. The shower's waterhead was sprung to life with a burst of steaming water, almost instant as it was turned to scalding levels. Bottle abandoned, now half full. The struggle of constricting jeans began and ended just as quickly. The shower welcomed the demon through the film of collecting steam, the first impact of scalding water forcing gritted teeth and a stifled hiss of pain. It reminded him of the days of the living, the life.

He turned, letting the continuous beat of heat pelted his back and left it red, raw. He let it soak through his hair, make his scalp tingle through the burn. Let it streak down his face, the rest of him. Shaky fingers raked those soaked locks back, slicking it his scalp as he squeezed his eyes shut against the burn that consumed his body in the meaningful self torture. Then the same routine began, the cleansing of the day's events from his hair and body.

When his threshold was overwhelmed, his skin red and hot to the touch, did he abandon the shower and the silence surrounded the room as thick as the steam that hung in the air. The air stifling, humidity inhaled into his lungs as sweet as the beer in his belly. No use for a towel, he took the confused bottle still chilled from the fridge with it's own beaded sweat from the heat in the room before he left the bathroom in a burst of steam to follow him from the doorway. Soaking the carpet with each step, leaving footprints in his wake as he finished his beer.

Panel to getting dressed, nothing more than a pair of worn pajama pants that clung to still damp flesh before he returned to the kitchen. Panel to a case of beer empty and dulled senses from intoxication. Panel to the strumming of a guitar from the slumped mass on the couch. Another case of beer gone. A tower of bottles like a house of cards on the coffee table, ready to crumble. Significant. A reflection.

Routine exhausted. Unsteady steps dragging him to the bathroom, pleading for the night to end. Yet, still managing to maintain a pearly smile with the repetitious motions of brushing his teeth, the mirror turned toward the wall so dull, bitter chocolate eyes could stare at the photo tucked against the medicine cabinet's wall. Blonde hair, brown hair, matching smiles that reached their eyes. Genuine, ignorant bliss of youth and new love. Used toothpaste spat into the sink; that routine over.

The finale. A handful of sleeping pills, what it took for the restless demon to sleep, washed down with the last swallow of a beer.

Finally, reprieve. If only for a few hours of dead, dreamless sleep with the knowledge that it'll all begin again tomorrow.