MESSiah

During all his life he was wearing a mask. A white shapeless mask, hiding not only the lines of his face, but the very idea how he might look like. No one had ever seen him without it, and even his numerous flames, pressed to the walls by investigators, were claiming that even in bed the mask was on.

His parents were darkening the atmosphere even more - concealing the facts of his childhood, brooding over the present and keeping the horrifying silence in the most of cases. But when a single word was dropped, blowing up that silence and falling down from their pale dusted lips, one could hear something freezing, like a whisper of hidden danger. Fear. They were anonymously terrified. And when they died, forgotten in their shady corner, he was drinking the intoxicating rays of fame - his mystery made him famous. He was a superstar. And deep inside he felt relieved: he has inherited this mystery fully and individually.

He never said anything direct. There was no need in it. Fame made him wise. More than that. It made him superhuman in others' eyes. They were praying to him for granted.

And the press had finally given up their attempts to reveal his personality...

Some time later he was found dead in his apartment. And the world was drowning in sorrow of having lost their perfect claimed messiah. And the funeral ceremony, held at the biggest hall of the city, became the cemetery for many weak and crying semihumans, twisted into crimson paste in a crush. Then some fan, scorched with delirium, rushed his way through the crowd to touch his idol for the last time. He occasionally touched the mask, and that ugly piece of white plastic suddenly hit the ground, and a scream followed... The icon had no face. He never had one. He never existed...