Who Am I?

  “This week I asked myself; who am I?”

I lifted my head, waking from a dream. In my fantastical world

of the subconscious, I was tied to a set of posts flanking me, naked

with my legs open and wearing a ball gag. There were these men,

each one a shadow of my daddy, and they each took a turn raping

me.

Outside the window, it was night. The sky was oil, the stars a

reflection of every tear I lost. I rose sore and walked to the mirror.

My beautiful blond hair was a mess and the ponytails were out,

the scrunchies I used, loose. I fixed myself up, then stared at my

reflection. Then, I ranted softly.

“Little whore. Little whore. Why would he love you? How

could he love you? Daddy’s little girl. Daddy’s little princess. Burn

motherfucker, burn. Burn. Burn. How could he love you? Daddy

broke you. Who can love a broken doll? Burn. Burn. Little whore.

Ruined little cunt. Pussy too loose for the doctor. How could he

love you? How could he love you? Burn. Burn. Burn.”I giggled, a

wet line down my cheek. Then speaking so sweetly.

“Little whore. Little girl. Let me hit and rape you. You look like

a doll. You look like a slut. Burn. Burn Burn. Touch me and see.

Taste me and see. I’m not broken, doctor. I’m not broken.”

I sighed and cocked my head, frowning exaggeratedly.

“But you’re not a princess, and princesses I love. You’re not a

princess, you’re faking, my love. Find me a castle. Find me home.

And I will show you…”

I leaned closer, staring unblinking into my eyes, staring deep

into my soul and I saw her—me—the little girl with only a doll for

a toy. Alone in her room. Unloved. Forgotten.

I growled. Not a purr, a deep-throated voice from somewhere

inside of me. A monster. My monster.

Me.

“Burn.”

• Page 109 “Princess Nonomi” by Micheal Grin

I stopped reading from my laptop and faced her. She shivered in the cold air, her lips trembling with nerves. Her bare flesh littered in goosebumps, perspiration on her round breasts. Damp in the hair of her loins.

Her head rolled from side to side, struggling to see through the blindfolds. Her wrists pulled against the ropes keeping her trapped to the table. Her legs jerked effortless against the straps around her ankles.

Every muscle of her sex tightened with my voice.

“I wonder at times the definition of who I am. Don't we all? The underlining mystery to life as we know it poses as an eternal question; who are we and why are we here? The ego drives humanity to try and understand the very purpose to our existence. It's the cosmic or spiritual lust that propels us forward. That lends us the will to fight. That gives us meaning.”

“I'm not out to understand the meaning of life. Fuck that. It isn't meant for us to know. If we knew the truth to our existence, then what would be the point of continuing? If you know how the story ends, why read it? Where would be the twist? The plot development? The humanity?”

“No. I simply want to know, “Who am I?”

She gasped sharply at the touch of my fingers, pleading in whispers. I turned from her body, to the table beside us, and picked the most friendly of choices. The blade was polished, reflecting the desk lamp.

Long and sharp.

I relished the way she startled and froze as the flat of the knife slid down, between her breasts, along the curve of her stomach. The tip teased her navel. The cool metal pressed firmly against her clit.

She grunted in absolute terror.

“We all do, I'm sure. I might not be an expert on the common person but I have a feeling I'm not far from the mark. We all strive to make sense of the face we see in the mirror. The body within the skin. Perhaps not as frequently as I do, but often enough. We want to have a better understanding of who we are on the inside.”

“Labels. We cling to them as if they held any definition to the person we make ourselves out to be. “I'm a goth. A jock. A sinner and a saint.” These are fail-safe methods we cling to, hoping that name tags will help us better identify ourselves. Perhaps allow a glimpse through the eyes of the observer. See ourselves through the audience.”

“We all want to be onstage.”

With a twist, the edge of the knife dug between her labia and effortlessly began its journey back, along the unseen seam of her body. A railroad trail, sliding up through the stomach, towards the chest. It crossed along, creating a junction over the collar before I moved it back between her thighs. After sliding one finger in the cunt, I traced the pelvis to the hips.

Her screams were like angel cries.

“I couldn't care less about how others see me. I'm sure everyone has their own opinions and I'm certain that they are all wrong. What they see on the outside, what we all see of others on the outside, is the illusion of conformity. The mirage of humanity. We are puppets wearing masks over our masks. The reflection is a lie and the truth underneath is what really matters.”

“Who am I? I'm a person who enjoys his cloak of lies as much as he hates it. I'm sure we all feel that way. We want to be something more, someone else. We want the world to perceive us as we perceive ourselves, regardless of whether that is who we are or not.”

“Sometimes, who we are is not as good as who we think we are. Other times, who we are is better than who we want others to think we are. Sometimes, the answer is simply to convoluted to decipher.”

Her body convulsed as shock took away my enjoyment. The nerves were exposed, the flesh pulled aside like the covers to a book. Her book. Muscle bound breasts and sinew covered stomach. Her groin the starting point to the girl within.

She lay open to me like no one else could, red like roses and smelling of vanilla copper.

Putting the knife back, I sensually caressed her inner layer with my hand.

“I was thinking, “Maybe who we are is but the reflection of society. A shadow cast by the expectations of pop culture, of television and of mainstream media.” It could be that there is no unique identity left in this world. That originality has been played out beyond repair and we are all just factory made vessels squeezed out like unwanted babes into the river of expectations. We are not special. We are not loved.”

“We are simply human beings.”

“I asked myself the question; who am I? My conclusion is that I might never know. Many of us might never know. Perhaps, by that thought, there is no heaven or hell. Instead, in death, this final question might finally be answered. In our last moments, the illusions we've weaved about us may lift like a veil and for once in our story, we truly see the character within us.”

“And maybe, when that time comes, we fully understand what it is to be human. To be unique. To stand in the spotlight.”

She died well before I came, well before my bloody hands had touched every inch of her muscle, every bump and nook of her bones. By the time I had made love to her, she was but a corpse, but to me she was more.

Lying on the table, her flesh pulled open like angel wings, she was real. The illusion of who she was gone.

Sitting at my desk, I blew smoke up in the air and turned to the screen.

Already she was forgotten.

“If so, I will die with a grin.”

Midnight, Sunday on the 8^th day of January, 2012.

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