There are faces on my ceiling. I’m not entirely sure why, or why I hadn’t noticed them when I moved in. I suppose it’s possible they were hiding, then, and only came out once they got comfortable with my presence. Or, maybe, they’ve all simply migrated here over the past several months.
Whatever the reason, there are faces on my ceiling. Most are frozen, immovable, fixed in horrified gazes, peering at me from among the ancient water stains left by the once-leaky roof. A few, however, move. Not while I’m watching, of course. Those few change expressions at least weekly; one or two are more changeable, swapping terrified, gaping mouths for smug, knowing grins. That meager handful also manage to leap about upon the ceiling, moving from the northeast corner’s morning rays to the western window’s setting sun.
I suppose those are the faces not yet accustomed to their fate, still wandering in the way of the living, breathing faces they might once have been.
I’m rather used to the many faces, now. They keep me company in the solitude of my room. Loneliness was never a condition I yearned for. Unfortunately, the years have left their mark, picking off my family and friends, one by one.
Perhaps the faces on my ceiling are my loved ones. Yes, now I see familiarity in the frozen masks of pain. Perhaps they’ve followed me, to remind me of my past. That must be the reason I’d not noticed them before.
Go on, then, faces, remind me of what I’ve done, who I’ve become. I reveled in your fear and loathing once, I’ll do it again.
There are faces on my ceiling. And bars on my windows.