Monster Face

Jyotsna Sreenivasan

My boyfriend shows up at my apartment with his face made up like a hideous monster. It’s not Halloween, but he’s an amateur actor, so I’m more surprised than shocked.

“For an audition?” I ask.

He shakes his beastly head. “This is who I am.”

“Ha ha.” I peer at his face. “Can I touch?”

“Careful.”

I brush my fingers through the rough fibers of his unkempt wig. I poke at the green, droopy, warty nose. His cheeks ooze with sores. They’re fake, but I avoid them. I graze my fingertips over the bristly unibrow. He’s done something to build up his forehead so I can hardly see his dark eyes under the shelf of his brow.

“Well, I’m not going anywhere with you now.” I try to speak lightly. It’s a joke, obviously, but I don’t quite get it. “Do you want to tell me what this is all about?”

He pats the sofa cushion beside him. When I sit, he takes my hand. His fingers tremble.  “Remember we talked about marriage the other day?” He strokes my wrist. His serious manner worries me. Why aren’t we laughing?

The other day we’d talked about moving in together, and I’d brought up marriage. We’re both Indian-American, and if you know anything about parents from India, you know they’re generally opposed to the whole living-together-before-marriage thing. At least my parents are liberal enough that they’ve accepted my boyfriend, whose family is from a different caste and a different part of India.

“Don’t give me the excuse that you’re not ready,” I say. We’re both in our late twenties—too old to be single, according to our parents.

“I know what our parents expect. But I don’t feel like you understand the real me.”

“We’ve been together for two years. We love each other.” My voice is getting strident. Is he going to blow this thing up? And for what? I do love him. I also love that he checks boxes for my parents (of Indian origin; well-paying job in IT; sensible and stable) and for me (sexy; sweet; interesting hobbies like acting). And I know I check boxes for him, too. Depending on the situation, I can be a demure Indian girl wearing a salvar kameez and lots of gold jewelry, or a wild woman in ripped jeans and low-cut blouse that reveals my tattoo. And he loves that about me. If we let each other go, we’ll never find anyone as perfect again.

He squeezes my hand. “I’ve tried to tell you what’s really inside me. The revolting muck that makes me feel horrible.”

He’s mentioned this before. Why would he feel like that? He had a good childhood with the usual tutoring, extracurricular activities, and trips to India. OK, so his father was distant and his mother was meek. He was bullied by an older cousin and the adults never seemed to notice. But he survived. “You’re fine.” I pat his knee.

“No,” he says with his blackened lips. “I put this on because I want you to see.” His eyes, peering from the depths of his makeup, look forlorn.

“Ok. I see,” I say. “And?”

“I love you. I want to marry you. But is this who you want to marry?” His voice quivers.

I throw up my hands. “That’s not you. That’s some stage makeup you borrowed.” I don’t want it to be him. How could it be him?

“This represents how I see myself.”

“You’re creating negativity out of nothing.”

He bows his head. “It’s real.”

I frown. “Are you saying . . . you’ve done something evil?” My mind darts to and away from possibilities. What will he reveal? A crime committed before he knew me? A hidden stash of illegal drugs? Animal abuse? If he has done something like that, is there a good reason? Can we spin it to make it all right?

“I haven’t done anything evil,” he says.

I slowly let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Then . . . why would you see yourself as a disgusting, frightening creature?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“Listen. You should make an appointment with a counselor. Or a doctor.”

“I’m not looking for advice.” He carefully scratches the tip of his false nose.

Cold fingers of doubt—dread—clutch my heart. “What do you want from me?”

He turns his grotesque face to me. “I want you to love me.” His voice is pleading.

“I do. I do love you.”

“I want you to love this.” He points to his face.

“But . . . why?”

“Because then, I’ll believe you love the real me.”

“You still don’t believe it?”

He shakes his head. “I can’t pretend anymore.” A section of eyebrow springs loose and he presses it down.

“You’re pretending to be a monster.”

“This feels more real to me.”

“How long are you going to wear that?”

“I don’t know.”

I laugh. “You’d better stop soon if you know what’s good for you.”

He glares at me—at least I think it’s a glare—and then hangs his head. I still want to assume he’s joking. But since I can’t see his facial expression, it’s hard to tell.

“Sorry,” I say.

“I was hoping you’d try to understand.” His voice seems to come from far away.

“You hoped I would want to marry someone who wears a monster face?” As he sits there hanging his gruesome head, I decide the only thing that makes sense. “As soon as you take that off, we’ll get married,” I say.  

He stands up. “I didn’t think you could ever love the real me.” He sighs—a slow, tired respiration.

“Be sensible. How would our wedding pictures look with you in a dhoti, garland, and that horrible face?”

“I guess I’ll be going, then.”

“So, what? We’re breaking up?” I’m incredulous.

“I don’t want to live a lie anymore.”

I approach him, trying to look into his eyes. “You are compassionate, intelligent, and hard-working. This makes no sense.”

“Thank you for the kind words.” He opens his arms. We give each other a deep hug, his fake rubbery chin pressing against my forehead.

“You’ll take it off soon, right?” I whisper. “It’s just a joke?”

He releases me. “I can’t change who I am. Not even for you.” He opens the door and steps out, shutting it firmly behind him. As my throat tightens, I hear his steady footsteps descending the stairs. Will he stop? Will he realize his mistake, turn around, and come back? The building door swishes open. My eyes blur with tears. I swallow, I blink, but they spill over. I’m sobbing. My eyeliner’s going to run. I’ll probably look like a monster myself.

I watch him walk into the parking lot holding his head high. A child, four or five years old, spots him, freezes, and screams. The mother squats and gathers the little one close, shielding the child’s eyes. He strides past them, towards his car, the strands of his wig—his hair—dancing in the breeze.

About the Author

Jyotsna Sreenivasan's latest book is THESE AMERICANS, a collection of short stories and a novella published in 2021 by Minerva Rising Press. It is a bronze winner in the Foreword Reviews INDIES awards. An earlier version of the novella was a finalist for the PEN/Bellwether Prize. Her novel And Laughter Fell From the Sky was published in 2012 by HarperCollins. Her short stories have appeared in literary magazines and anthologies (including most recently The Journal and Copper Nickel). She received an Individual Excellence Award from the Ohio Arts Council for 2022, and was selected as a Fiction Fellow at the 2021 Sewanee Writers' Conference.

Website: jyotsnasreenivasan.com

Twitter: @Jyotsna_Sree

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