The Masks of Mr. Ellory
Mr. Ellory was the sort of man people trusted. He wore navy suits and spoke in measured tones. His desk was always tidy, his calendar colour-coded. At meetings, he nodded thoughtfully, offered sensible advice, and never raised his voice. “Cool, calm, collective,” his supervisor once said. “A model of rationality.”
No one saw the boiling seas beneath.
Each morning, Ellory shaved with precision, smoothing his jaw line like a sculptor. He chose his tie carefully - never too bold, never too dull. He rehearsed his smile in the mirror, adjusting it until it looked just right. Then he stepped into the world, masked and ready.
At work, he was efficient. He filed reports, answered emails, and mediated disputes. He laughed politely at jokes. He remembered birthdays. He never forgot a name.
But inside, the storm raged.
He heard voices sometimes - not loud, not clear, but persistent. They whispered doubts, spun theories. Was the intern watching him? Had the manager changed the tone of her emails? Was the coffee machine tracking his choices?
He dismissed them. He was sensible. Rational. He had common sense.
Until the day he forgot his umbrella.
It was raining - hard. He stood outside the office, drenched, staring at the sky. Something cracked. Not loudly. Just a hairline fracture.
He didn’t go home.
Instead, he wandered the city, coat soaked, shoes squelching. He passed cafés, bookstores, and parks. He saw people laughing, arguing, and embracing. All wearing masks. All pretending.
He ended up at a small bar. Dim lights. Quiet music. He ordered a drink. Then another. Then another.
A woman sat beside him. She wore a red scarf and smelled of lavender. “Rough day?” she asked.
Ellory looked at her. Really looked. “Do you ever feel like you’re not real?” he said.
She blinked. “What?”
“Like you’re just a collection of appearances. Like there’s something underneath - something dark. Something no one wants to see.”
She smiled nervously. “I think you’ve had enough.”
He laughed. It was not polite.
He left the bar and walked until dawn. His suit was ruined. His tie hung loose. His mask had slipped.
The next day, he returned to work. No one mentioned his absence. No one asked about the stains on his shirt. He smiled. He nodded. He filed reports.
But something had changed.
He no longer rehearsed his smile. He no longer chose his tie. He no longer believed in the masks.
And when he looked in the mirror, he saw not Mr. Ellory, the rational man.
He saw the madness.
And he did not look away.
Mr. Ellory was the sort of man people trusted. He wore navy suits and spoke in measured tones. His desk was always tidy, his calendar colour-coded. At meetings, he nodded thoughtfully, offered sensible advice, and never raised his voice. “Cool, calm, collective,” his supervisor once said. “A model of rationality.”
No one saw the boiling seas beneath.
Each morning, Ellory shaved with precision, smoothing his jaw line like a sculptor. He chose his tie carefully - never too bold, never too dull. He rehearsed his smile in the mirror, adjusting it until it looked just right. Then he stepped into the world, masked and ready.
At work, he was efficient. He filed reports, answered emails, and mediated disputes. He laughed politely at jokes. He remembered birthdays. He never forgot a name.
But inside, the storm raged.
He heard voices sometimes - not loud, not clear, but persistent. They whispered doubts, spun theories. Was the intern watching him? Had the manager changed the tone of her emails? Was the coffee machine tracking his choices?
He dismissed them. He was sensible. Rational. He had common sense.
Until the day he forgot his umbrella.
It was raining - hard. He stood outside the office, drenched, staring at the sky. Something cracked. Not loudly. Just a hairline fracture.
He didn’t go home.
Instead, he wandered the city, coat soaked, shoes squelching. He passed cafés, bookstores, and parks. He saw people laughing, arguing, and embracing. All wearing masks. All pretending.
He ended up at a small bar. Dim lights. Quiet music. He ordered a drink. Then another. Then another.
A woman sat beside him. She wore a red scarf and smelled of lavender. “Rough day?” she asked.
Ellory looked at her. Really looked. “Do you ever feel like you’re not real?” he said.
She blinked. “What?”
“Like you’re just a collection of appearances. Like there’s something underneath - something dark. Something no one wants to see.”
She smiled nervously. “I think you’ve had enough.”
He laughed. It was not polite.
He left the bar and walked until dawn. His suit was ruined. His tie hung loose. His mask had slipped.
The next day, he returned to work. No one mentioned his absence. No one asked about the stains on his shirt. He smiled. He nodded. He filed reports.
But something had changed.
He no longer rehearsed his smile. He no longer chose his tie. He no longer believed in the masks.
And when he looked in the mirror, he saw not Mr. Ellory, the rational man.
He saw the madness.
And he did not look away.
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