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dennis reynolds does not cry.at least that’s what he wants everyone to believe, that’s what everyone has to believe. how easy it was to fool everyone. he had been doing it since he was a child, after all. years of practice. it only takes a few slaps across the face from his mother to get the message across: men are not emotional, men do not show their true emotions.( was he even really a man, anyway? who was … what was he, really? )dennis reynolds had perfected his mask at the age of ten. he knew exactly what to say to make others happy, to get his way, to control the narrative. what dennis ( and dee ) wanted never really mattered, it was always about their parents. frank and barbara … what did they want? how could their children stop embarrassing them?for dennis, he needed to stop with that ‘nancy boy nonsense’ as soon as possible. tears suppressed, hobbies pushed aside. men didn’t cry, sing, play with dolls, paint their nails, wash their face, put on lipstick, braid their sisters hair, sleep with a stuffed elephant, kiss other men. men were strong, charismatic, smart, watched football, worked out, drank beer, smoked cigarettes, kissed women.was he a man? is this what he really wanted? he knew the answer to those questions. it never mattered what dennis really wanted, he just had to keep the mask on. even after thirty seven years of practice there were still times that his mask slipped, the cracks in the surface widening and leaving some of his true self exposed.no one could ever see that side of him. no one.which is why he always hid in his bedroom on days like this, firing off a text to someone from the gang saying that he was working on something important and he’d fill them all in tomorrow. he couldn’t fake sick after all, not unless he wanted mac breaking down his door. thankfully he was surrounded by idiots that believed whatever lie was spoon fed to them.dennis reynolds does not cry, but he was crying right now. not one piece of onion in sight. sat on the corner of his bed facing his floor length mirror. he’s not sure why, but he always watches himself cry. there’s something about how his eyes turn a little bit red, how the mascara begins to trail down his cheeks, how his foundation turns all splotchy.it reminds him that he can feel.but why did he want to feel so bad? it hurt, it always hurt so goddamn much.as he makes eye contact with the reflection staring back at him he can’t help but let out a small laugh. it’s garbled by the tears, stifled by the sniffles, but he laughs anyway. he had thought for a moment what barbara would say if she could see him like this. he knows what his father would say. no, what frank would say. not his father. then he thinks for a moment what bruce might say. that only makes the tears fall faster, shaky hands move to cup his face, hiding his face from himself as he continues to sob. he stays like this for a few more minutes, finally prying his hands from his face and staring down at mascara stained palms. hands return to rest on bony thighs, eyes lifting to meet his reflection once more.“pathetic.” he mumbles to himself, sniffling as he tries to pull himself together. as he stares into bloodshot eyes he remembers exactly why he can’t tell anymore about this. not because of barbara, not because of frank.because it was weak. and whatever dennis reynolds was, it wasn’t weak.so he stands from his spot on the bed to approach the mirror, getting closer to the glass as he stares himself down. hand moves to point at the shell that gazed back at him. “pull yourself together, man.” he instructs, repeating the order he had been given over and over again. it takes a few more seconds, a few more deep breaths, but he’s able to slip the mask back on.he withdraws himself from the mirror and walks over to his beside table, pulling a tissue out of the tissue box and wiping at his face. “what a pain …” once again he mumbles to himself, “... i have to redo my makeup.” the tissue is tossed into the small trash can on the side of his bed and as he leaves his bedroom to fix his face, he can’t help but think how badly he wishes someone would be able to hand him a tissue.