"Tomorrow when the farm boys find this freak of nature, they will wrap his body in newspaper and carry him to the museum.

"But tonight he is alive and in the north field with his mother.

It is a perfect summer evening: the moon rising over the orchard, the wind in the grass. And as he stares into the sky, there are twice as many stars as usual. "

The two headed calf,

Laura Gilpin

That night, Thomas walks home, the sun setting on the little town behind him. The road is empty, nobody drives in or out.

He reaches his home, a big house surrounded by trees. He can smell something cooking from the front porch. He hears his Uncle Charlie yelling as he walks inside.

"Dammit, Luda. When that factory closes down all our income will be gone!"

"Oh, hush up, Charlie. We'll find another job for Tommy."

"WHERE? NOBODY ELSE IS GONNA TAKE THAT DUMBASS. THEY'RE ALL SCARED OF HIM!"

"Stop yelling, it's giving me a migraine!"

The two stop when they see Thomas walk into the kitchen. Charlie shakes his head, irritated.

"Nice job, you big fool. That factory's being shut down in a week. You're out of a job!"

He pushes past Thomas. Luda sighs.

"Ignore him, Thomas. We'll figure something out."

Thomas isn't listening. He watches Uncle Charlie stalk off up the stairs.

He was already told by his boss. He didn't see any of it as his fault. The only issue he faced was now he had nowhere to cut meat. It was the only thing he cared about.

"Thomas, did that mask making lady meet with you today?"

He snaps back to Luda, face warming up at the reminder of the kind woman. He nods, rather enthusiastically.

"Well, I assume it went well from your reaction. I'll pick the mask up sometime next week. "

Thomas nods again, before walking up the stairs. He passes his Uncle Monty, who sits in a reclining chair, watching t.v.

Thomas passes by. His room is next door. He goes in and sits on the bed. His head is a flurry of thoughts. The mask maker and losing his job. He was getting angry.

He was angry at his bosses for shutting down. He was angry at Uncle Charlie for calling him "dumbass", and "big fool." For a second, he imagined using his big size to get his way. Violent urges weren't unfamiliar, but they were stronger that night than ever before. He wants to hurt people, badly. It would be easy, taking what he wanted. He chops meat everyday for a living, what's so different about human meat?

But most of all, he wants to hurt himself. He wants to rip his face away, finish the disease's job. He wants to kick and punch himself. He wants to throw himself into a pit of molding meat. He'd fit right in there.

But then he remembers what happened earlier. Y/n's soft, caring hands caressing his face. The way she didn't gag, or cringe away when he revealed his face. Her scarred, deformed hands. Especially those, he remembered. They were hideously perfect. Like molded by a beginning sculpturer. A misshapen creation that the artist would preserve for a lifetime, a reminder of how far they had grown.

Thomas's meaty hands loosen their grip on his bed sheets, dusty from weeks of being empty.

Without realizing, he'd often fall asleep in the basement. It was quiet down there, a nice private space. Every night for the past month he stayed down there and tried his best to create a better mask for his face.

But his big hands and old sowing machine were not good enough to create anything usable. He did not have the hands of an artist. He had butcher hands.

Fortunately, that would no longer be a problem. Within a week, he'll be wearing the mask Y/n makes for him. The material will be a constant reminder of her leather gloves touching his face. The kindness she showed him when she showed off her scars, too. The mask will be a constant reminder that there's someone other than his mother who isn't disgusted by him.

He rises and walks over to the broken, dusty mirror in his room. His reflection is murky, but he can see his face clearly as he removes his mask. The disappearing nose, his lips slowly creeping away, revealing the sides of his teeth. The scars marking his skin. He traces his features with his hands, pretending they were the mask makers.

For the first time in a while, he doesn't feel so ugly. Yet, when Uncle Charlie calls him down for dinner, he puts the mask back on.

pulls into the sand lot, reversing into a shady spot under a tree. Accompanied by Laura, she starts pulling boxes out of her trunk.

A man in a baseball cap and overalls approaches then, spitting out some tobacco at his feet.

"You ladies workin' one of these stalls?"

Y/n nods, pulling out a letter. The man reads it, before pocketing it and escorting them down the sand lot.

Around them, stalls are being filled and decorated by people from cities all over Texas. Y/n didn't doubt her and Laura would be the only stall from Poth.

The man points to a stall near the edge of the line. It's directly under sunlight, possibly the worse location on the lot. At least the stall next to them seemed to be a popcorn stall. The buttery smell engulfed the air around them. Laura sniffed it up hungrily.

"How much for a bag?" She asks the lady running the stand.

"2 bucks a bag."

Laura sets the boxes down in their stall, before leaving for a bite. Y/n stays behind, unpacking.

She unpacks four different boxes of masks, all decorated in feathers and beaks to match the festival's theme:

Birds.

The man in overalls watches her work, occasionally spitting tobacco into the sand.

"What's this you running, lady? A Halloween store?"

She cringes at the question.

"No. I make masks in Poth."

The man looks at them with disapproving eyes, before walking away to bother someone else.

Laura comes back, a bag of popcorn in each hand.

"What's with the Bird theme, anyway? Doesn't scream "Texas" to me." She complains, leaning against the stall.

"I think it's supposed to be about freedom. You know how Texans love their freedom."

Y/n strings a line of hooks from the stalls wall.

"Can you come help me put these up?"

"No, my hands are buttery."

Y/n glared at her, before knocking the popcorn out of her hand.

"Then save snack time for later!"

Laura scoffs, bending over to pick up the bag.

Shadows pass over the two of them as a full ensemble of strings pass by, instruments and music in hand.

"They must be rehearsing today." Laura says.

Y/n nods, turning her back on them and readjusting the hooks.

There's a moment of silence where Laura stares at her back.

"You're not still hung up on that, are ya?"

"On what?"

"Missing that audition. Loosing your place in the Paulson Symphony."

"No, of course not."

Y/n turns her attention to the box of masks, so Laura doesn't see her face.

"Its okay if you are. But you should, like, come to terms. You're here now, where you belong."

"Right, where I belong." Y/n mutters, hanging up some feathered masks.

Laura eyes the leather gloves.

"Can I see them again?" She asks.

The corners of Y/n's lips tighten. She shakes her head sternly.

"They're not that bad. I still don't see why you couldn't keep playing."

Y/n doesn't answer. Truth is, she could've kept playing. She missed her biggest audition and lost her chair in the Paulson Symphony, but she could've kept playing. She could've made it to other auditions, tried to get her chair back. But her spirit was clipped away when her hands were destroyed.

She bites back her bitter thoughts and tells Laura, "My dad needed me in the store. It was an opportunity to come home. "

"Yeah. You're here now, and that's what matters."

Y/n looks down at her gloves. The final shadows of the stragglers in the ensemble fall upon them, casting dark figures on the back of their tarp.

Right. I'm here now.

For the second time since that week, she felt angry. A pit of smoldering emotions pushed deep into her body threatening to boil over and out of her eyes as salty tears.

I'm here now, that's what matters.

It upsets y/n that Laura thinks she's there by choice. If it weren't for her accident three years ago, she would be traveling the world as a renowned cellist. Laura could never understand. She was perfectly comfortable with the backwater Texas life.

And now, y/n was gonna have to get comfortable with it again, too. She has to stay in Texas and run the family business. She just can't escape Texas. She can't escape family.

As y/n excuses herself to the outhouse, she recalls a memory of her dad before he passed.

It was the day she came back home after dropping out of school in California. Her father immediately put her in the workshop, putting her hands wrist deep into clay.

"Now that your hands are ugly, you can stay here and bury 'em in clay everyday!" He chuckles, his yellowed teeth peeking out from his thin lips.

He meant it as a harmless joke, but it stung. Hard. That night, like many nights, she cried herself to sleep. She started wearing gloves over her hands everyday since.

Her father had always been a character. But she never hated making masks with him. She'd been doing it since she was four. Mask making soon came forward as her new artistic outlet. It could never replace music, but it was another way for her to create something meaningful.

Once her father passed, her masks shifted into art rather than practicality. She did, however, uphold his only wish. That she keep the business going.

And so she has. Yet, she can't escape her feelings about the past. She misses the feeling of flying free, playing music whenever and wherever for all ears to hear. When the accident happened. Her wings were clipped. And now, the mask shop is her cage.

As y/n returns to the stall, she tries to quell her rising feelings. If the mask shop was a cage, then she was going to make it as cozy of a home as possible.