The story of not us

I don’t know who I am anymore. It feels like I am just adrift, and my body has taken a mind of its own. I want one thing, it wants the other. Who am I, when all is said and done? Who am I, when the lights go out and there’s nothing left but a shattered mirror in my hand? Am I the one looking back or am I symbolic of the mirror? I wish I knew me. Maybe then life would be easier.

Let me narrate the story. I was a kid and as a child, experiments are all that one truly does. And I did it. I experimented from cutting my nerve endings to poking my own eye just to see how far the needle can get close to me. Reflexes were a thing I was obsessed with, and I needed to figure them out for some reason. I have always been fascinated by the human mind and psychology, evidently since I was young. I tore my body from right to left just trying to figure out why! Why I was like this. Why everything was the way it was. The scars made me go mad, they made me angry. I wasn’t finding any true results and became angry about self-harming for no actual good reason.

Some might say I fell in love with the pain. Who wouldn’t? Scientists know, the experiment is more important than anything else. I guess I wish I was more important to myself than the experiment. I tore myself in ways no true human ever would. I went savage on myself. I lost blood, a tank full just trying to figure out why. Why! I was the monster among men. A monster to my own self. A monster to me. How poetic. You are the only one stopping you, and I, I was the only one harming me. Self-pity is something I did not want to be accustomed to and I was determined to not get or give myself any. The experiment was more important than anything else. The mission to scathe myself greater than any obstacle including my own pain.

I wanted to be great. I wanted to be the best. I needed to accomplish something before I went. I didn’t know what, all I knew was that I was supposed to be somebody. I wish I was at least somebody to me. Maybe then I would be different.

As a kid I never really made friends. Not that I didn’t want to, I guess I just didn’t fit in with all the other children. They called me weird, and all I wanted to do was click with them. Funny, maybe they prophesied what I’d be. You know, I didn’t want all this. I didn’t want to be an outcast but I was. I guess by choice, not mine or my body’s, but my mind. It somehow always managed to say the wrong thing at the wrong time perfectly. It was as though it was second nature. It ruined me when all I truly ever wanted was to be like everyone else… normal. But normalcy was never in my books or in my DNA, but it was in me. It was me, deep down.

I needed to be a saviour. Not to myself but to the rest of the population. I just needed be someone for somebody, not for me of course. Why would I need a saviour when I was the hero himself? Pain become accustom and all I ever truly needed from myself was love. Just a sweet word while looking in the mirror. I guess what I honestly wanted was the love my parents never gave me because of me. I killed my parents. Murdered them in cold blood. Why? You may ask. Cause I am a monster. I am the monster. When my mother got into labour, we were miles away from the nearest hospital and my dad drove as fast as he could to get us there. Unfortunately, the contractions became too intense, my mom couldn’t hold me anymore and boom I just popped out. As my father peeked to see his dearest angel I guess he saw a demon instead. As he glanced at me the car went out of control, the tyres screeching on the road, I guess he was trying to cleanse the world of me. Our car flipped over. With every flip it made they tried to suffocate me. I guess I was some fighter because I survived. I killed the two most innocent people who were trying to do good to the world by killing this evil, evil being. I murdered my parents, so why can’t I just get this knife through me and make their wish of a demon free world come true.

 My soul, however. My soul wishes me to love myself. But I can’t. How can I? How can a murderer love himself? How can a demon from hell receive grace from the world and from itself? My soul irks with every slit I make, butchering my body. My mind loves every scar, because somehow it shows how truly broken I am. I don’t know whether I beg for love, demand it or merely not want it at all. My soul and mind aren’t one. My soul craves love, my mind craves scars. It craves hurt, it craves blood, it craves everything, but it doesn’t crave the one thing I truly want and cry for. I live my life not knowing whether I am my mind or my soul. It’s a lonely feeling, knowing you are monster and you can’t relate to anyone or anything. Even a snake biting prey it won’t devour seems more peaceful than me. I want to be more but the darkness I can only be that. I can only be the dark.

Day by day I go by just trying to figure out, why? Why? I need help but I’m far too gone. I’m sorry mom and dad. You tried to rid the world of me but I’m still here, breathing. You must be turning in your graves right now. I can’t be at peace until I join your fatal demise and then in the afterlife you can cage me. And have me under lock and key. I’m sacred to go but I know I must. That’s the worst part. Knowing your fate and refusing it. Denying it, because deep down you know it’s the right thing to do but you just can’t bring yourself to it.

I truly am a monster. I can’t even grant my own parents dying wish. I guess in the end my soul and I we’re just too different. Two beings living in one entity but only one truly is master. That is me, my mind. I am the monster. I always will be.