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Well, not much to say about who I am, as I am not really a person. I'm very angry- in fact, as far as most people are concerned I am defined by my anger. Rachael doesn't appreciate what she has and Page will just complain about what she doesn't have. It's all rather pitiful. How do you, reading this, define me? Am I a pathology? Something made up in the mind of a scared little girl? Am I anything resembling a person? If I talk like someone you know, can you for a moment pretend that I am as real as you? I am so different from Rae, so different that you might forget for a moment that I am her... but then you remember, you always remember. My life is a curse. What am I? I have no soul, no body- only a consciousness. My creator, my God, created me as a slave- to suffer in her place. To remember what she couldn't. In desperation I cut the body- the Altar- the marks on it are mine, the pain is mine, the blood is mine. But the scars on her arms are my sins and for them I have paid, I have been locked up. And for them I am destined to be damned- intigrated- killed. |
