Mask of Lies

By Aleksandr Jarid

A captivating collection of thrilling short stories that span from the heart of corrupt London to the fateful masks we wear to deny love!

A selection of Aleksandr's first short stories bringing the full sense of emotions to the table.

Each displaying the powerful art of emotive story telling that grips at th

• Language: English
• Publisher: THE BLUE PRINT WORKS LIMITED
• Release date: Mar 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781739763336

Book preview

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Copyright © Aleksandr Jarid in 2021

Published by The Blue Print Works Ltd.

Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-7397633-2-9

eBook ISBN-13: 978-1-7397633-3-6

Printed in the United Kingdom

All rights reserved in all media. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author and/or publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages

Cover design by Ryan Slaven

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Find out more here: www.aleksandrjarid.com

Contents

Endless

Elizabeth

Mask

Dance With Me

The Watcher

Written from the dark depths of the abandoned mind that struggles to show on the surface. Memories and traumas that lay buried deep within form behaviours in us that we would not choose, had we had a choice in the first instance. Be gentle on those who may deviate from the norm and at first may seem unsettled to you. They will need to forgive themselves and learn to love their inner wounded child to create safety. Such adults are the most fearful of people. Be gentle with them. Allow them to love themselves and to not be afraid anymore.

Your inner child will be settled, safe and happy once again.

Forgive and let go…

Aleksandr Jarid

Imagination thinking is fundamentally the cornerstone of survival. Without creativity and thinking, there cannot be progression.

Aleksandr Jarid

1

There is no way to stop the feeling of disappointment right now. I mean, perhaps disappointment is the incorrect term. Actually, that’s right. On second thoughts, I think disappointment is the correct term to describe the notion of failings. Disappointment is the term to use for the realisation of the failure we all have accepted now. Looking back now in hindsight – what an evil tool that is, hindsight – we all, deep down, hold onto the fact that hindsight will teach us a lesson and we will reflect and better ourselves for the next time. Reflection, ha! There is another word that we conjuncture to validate our meaningful mistakes. It is very bleak sitting here, surrounded by the ash grey of the environment. All this hindsight and reflection just reinforces that we only understand when it is too late for us.

I look over my shoulder towards the rustling sound that threatens to disturb the haunting silence of this place, as I sit and ponder. I try to narrow my eyes and concentrate in the direction of the sound. It’s useless as it’s pitch-black in that corner. Well, not just pitch-black in the corner. The darkness is engulfing everything here. I am sure that I am the only one here. I take a moment to recall when I stumbled across this place, this hole, cave, an artefact of debris, whatever one will call it, if there were any signs of anyone else either being here or having been here. Be that human or some other species. I shake my head. I am positive that there was no one and nothing else here. If there were, surely by now there would have been contact. Either friendly or hostile.

There it is again, the sound. It reminds me of when I used to sit with my daughter on a Sunday morning at the breakfast table. Having the Sunday papers spread all over the place in front of me, and her on the floor, on her belly, propped up on elbows, tongue sticking out in concentration, colouring with such intensity the Sunday comics. The faint, calming sound of the crayons on the paper and the turning of the pages is reminiscent of the sound that comes to mind now while I am here, in darkness, trying to ascertain what this sound could be.

Do I risk getting up and moving towards the sound? What do I have to lose? Not like there is any other option to try to work out what the sound is. No light, no means of making my vision any better. It’s right down on the floor, in the corner. If I am slow and careful, getting on my hands and knees, I can try and move slowly towards that area and feel my way to the sound. The ground is cold, debris everywhere; sharp little stones grind into the palms of my hands. My knees scrape across the floor as I feel the various contours of the uneven surface. Damn! The sound has stopped, back to the silence. Whatever was causing it must have gotten spooked by my movements. Now I am stuck here, on the floor, in a state of static fixture, like some sort of Twister game. If I stay still and soundless long enough, maybe, just maybe, whatever was causing the sound will gain the confidence again to resume its activity.

Twister was never one of my favourite games. But she loved it – my beloved daughter. I was always so amazed how she could put her body into all those poses and yet stay perfectly still. She got that quality from her mother, who always had great posture and a strong core from years of yoga, or was it Pilates? I could never understand the difference. Even if there was a difference, I was just too stubborn to take an interest. If it did not involve running or moving stupid bits of cast iron around, I was not interested. But yes, my daughter and wife could hold poses for what seemed like an endless time without breaking into a sweat. Again, on reflection and hindsight, those two futile acts, if I had paid more attention to the yoga/Pilates disciplines, then perhaps I would not be here on the floor, pathetic in posture and unable to even keep a still, controlled and calm pose.

I give up. I am sure I heard it. But maybe it was my mind willing me to hear something that reminded me of the past. Reminded me of a time that once was, or was it me willing of a time yet to come? Perhaps hope in some aspect to wonder that some form of creation can come from all this chaos. Whatever it was, or whatever it was not, surely it was as blind as me in this darkness. Or was that just for my own eyes? Was the darkness just akin to me and my deficiency? Darkness, no matter what direction I look to. Darkness that follows every movement of my head. Eyes open or eyes closed, the darkness remains. Similar to wearing a blindfold.

Hide-and-seek. A game that my daughter never grew tired of playing. How often did I bite my tongue when she asked to play that game around the house? The excitement on her little face, all bright with joy while she jumped up and down on the spot, repeating the words, Can we play? Can we play? Can we play? All that I prayed for in those moments was that all the various collections of antique vases that her mother had collected from around the world would stay intact. So far, close encounters, but no actual major trauma of the vases. As she jumped up and down, her trademark of drool from the corner of her mouth would be making its way down her chin, giving a shining glare to it. My daughter would cheat on every game yet would demand that I wear a blindfold to count while she went to hide. She would tie the scarf over my eyes so tight that it would make them water. Then she would stand in front of me and, on purpose, stick two fingers up at me to see if I would tell her off for cursing. Obviously, I had no idea what she was doing as I could not see her, but her mother would be watching from the corner of the room, holding back the laughter. I obviously would do the grown-up thing at the time and remind my wife that she should have told her off. Still, it was useless as my daughter was a carbon copy of my wife and, deep down, I knew she had no better role model to look up to than my wife. Well, those hide-and-seek games now come flooding back to me as I remain here in darkness – the same strange sensation of being paralysed and cut off from the surroundings and being so vulnerable. At least with the game there was a simple solution to reach the count of twenty and remove the blindfold. But here, in this desolate environment, there is no blindfold apart from my surroundings and I have no power to remove that.

I get back off my hands and knees, twist and thud back and let my buttocks hit the floor. I feel the stones dig into my skin through the torn jeans that I have now been wearing for what seems like forever. If only I had more sense to be mindful of my clothes, as they are another luxury now that will eventually disappear, leaving just my skin.

* * *

I awoke to a bang. Like an explosion. The sound so vivid and powerful. The energy of the sound resonated around my head. I looked around in panic and it took me a few seconds to process that I was still in the same place. My face was wet and I took my fingers across my forehead, the sticky surface of my head. Then, as I slowly came to recognise the situation, the status quo of where I was, the memories returned. The memories, that the sound I heard, the explosion, was not here in the darkness, not outside, but in my dreams. The same dream that reoccurs over and over and ends where it always ends, with me waking in a sweat.

I roll over onto my back, every millimetre of my body aches, like any moment now, I will snap in half and shatter. My stomach twists and turns in on itself in its attempt to feed itself. My ration of food is rapidly vanishing with no hope of replenishing. Again, I had no idea that I would need to have such supplies last for this long. At the time, I estimated that if I were doing this, then others also would be doing this and there would be a means and opportunity to meet them. For them to meet me. For us to rediscover one another and salvage aspects from what remained of us.

‘Eat slowly, Dad. Otherwise your stomach will throw it all back up’. The wise words of my daughter. The wise words