(no subject)
What is your name, child?
She slowly loses herself in his embrace.
No longer aware where one mind stops and the other begins, he is the only thing she is sure of. He is the only thing she knows.
He is the only thing she wants.
And yet, she feels as is some unseen watcher, some hidden devil cries out to her, telling her to stop herself before it is too late.
Too late? she thinks. Too late for what? She does not listen she does not want to listen. He is the only thing she hears; in her eyes, he places the stars in the sky. Whenever he criticizes her, she cries herself to sleep, and in her sleep she searches desperately for change, just so he thinks her perfect. Once, he said that he finds long red hair attractive. Within an hour she purchased hair dye, and she waits impatiently for her hair to grow, just so he finds her attractive The only articles of clothing in her wardrobe consist of brands he sports, and styles that display her legs, which he said were her best features. Never does she contradict anything he says; instead, she echoes his every opinion and belief. And indeed, all she is now is an Echo of him, a little nymph unable to do naught but repeat her Narcissus’ words. When she stares into her mirror, checking that no unsightly blemish mars her skin, she sees only what he sees, what she wants him to see, and she smiles proudly. After all, isn’t that what she wants? She would do anything for him, give her life in place of his and consider it an honor. Because he condescends to be with her, she happily grooms herself to be his ideal; he’ll never see how unworthy she is of his love, he’ll never leave her if she is perfect.
“What is your name, child?”
A soft, questioning voice speaks inside her mind, gentle and polite. She does not respond because, truth be told, she does not quite believe the voice is really there. Besides, he will not approve of voices inside her head, he would think she is crazy. She does not want him to think she is crazy.
“Child, what is your name?”
That voice again! This time it is more insistent, it loses some of its gentle quality in its anxiety. Although she is now positive that it is not a figment of her imagination, she ignores it once more; he definitely would not like it if she listens to voices in her head. She hopes it will get the hint and leave her alone.
Futile hope.
“Child - tell me your name!”
This time, she could not ignore its urgency. It commands her to speak; all softness disappears from the voice in its concern.
So impatient, she thinks. Impatient and annoying. Maybe if she answers, the voice will leave before he can find out.
“My name is - ” She trails off abruptly, caught by surprise. She cannot remember her name! The gentle presence waits patiently for her answer, but she cannot provide one.
That’s odd… For some reason I can’t remember my name, she muses. Fail relationships and the voices of women lost to their own obsessions scream in frustration, unwilling to believe that the struggles set by their own examples would remain pointless. Patterns warn her that she should show more concern, but before she could ponder the question any further, his hold on her overwhelms her mind, eliminating all thoughts not consisting of him. She remains blissfully ignorant, and besides, it’s not that big of a problem. He can call her whatever he wants to call her, since he’s all that matters anyway.
And yet that unseen presence lingers in the back on her mind, constantly watching over her and gnawing at her dreams, shrieking warnings at her continuously, though they continue to fall upon deaf ears. All they want is to ruin her chances for love, but she will not let them! She will not give in; she cannot. What would she be without him? Why would anyone want to rip apart what is meant to be? Growing angrier by the minute with the demons haunting her mind, she immerses herself completely in him instead, giving her every waking moment to spend waiting for his call and surviving the time she spends away from him by dreaming about her hero, placing him upon a pedestal she cannot believe she is worthy enough to worship. Any decisions she makes and any choices she considers depend entirely upon his happiness. The unheeded warnings float aimlessly about her subconscious, their purpose worthless to ear deafened to their voices.
And when he leaves her behind, tired of her company and in pursuit of something new, he leaves behind a husk of a woman, trembling with fear, frozen in the spot he left her. The husk, painted vibrant and beautiful, smiles a pretty, vapid smile suited for a porcelain doll filled with darkness devoid of life. He had once said her smile was lovely; it never leaves her face even in her dazed state, as she sits contemplating just what went wrong. Her endless pursuit of perfection, her desire to suit his needs alone. All wasted. Lost, she sinks to her knees, her purpose in life withered away, following the leaves drifting to the ground in winter. The falling leaves strip the trees, leaving them bare and dry, and susceptible to flames. As the flames of her wasted effort and lost time pour down upon her, trapping her within a scorching whirlwind of pity and silent “I-told-you-sos”, she thinks to herself, what is my name?
I wrote that during my senior year of high school. My favorite assignment, and possibly the best thing I've ever written.
As always,
Hanna