I have many faces.
My face is the mask you wear at Halloween. The pale, fanged face you imagine in the dark. My face is the face of the monster in your nightmares, the face you've seen a hundred thousand times - in horror films, in dreams, in the most-avoided recesses of your mind.
My face is the face that accompanies a knife in the dark. The crazed, wild-eyed face you catch a brief glimpse of behind the gun as the bullet finds its way towards your fragile shell of a body. My face is the executioner's mask, the judge as he passes a death sentence.
My face is the face of the childhood bully who still taunts and humiliates, decades on. The face of the abusive parent or partner who haunts your thoughts and dreams for the rest of your life.
My face is the face you see on the news - the flat, soulless eyes, the utter lack of human emotion - the face you look so confidently, so arrogantly at, safe in the knowledge that that face will never come for you. That it won't be the last thing you see. That that face only hurts other people.
But I have other faces.
My face is the nebulous childhood Bogeyman, the werewolf's slavering teeth and mad, yellow eyes. My face is the face of a wild beast, of madness, of cold, cruel sanity.
My face is the face of the doctor, telling you that someone is never coming back. My face is the face of the policeman, knocking at the door at three am with news of a car crash.
My face is the face in the mirror, reminding you of every little failure and humiliation until the cracks in the mirror and the blood on your hands embody everything that's wrong.
My face is the face of a loved one, cold and pale and empty. My face is the face of the specialist who tells you, with the clinical manner that always signifies bad news, that you have months or perhaps weeks to live.
My face is the face you see when you close your eyes.
My face is the face you never want to see.
My face is the face that comes for everyone, eventually.
What face will you see?