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| This is a picture of Chanelle. |
Pick up a random object that has a special meaning to you and describe it in as much detail as possible. I have picked a picture of myself.
Nostalgia: A monologue
I remember the way I felt when I first touched this picture, after a long period of not having seen it. I remember you. At the age of one, you had an honest smile; shiny, glowing eyes; a round, chubby, childlike face and body. You were small and light as a feather.
You were the first child in the family. Your mother, father, your four grandparents, your aunts, your great-grandmother and her family, your godparents, the neighbors: everyone's attention was focused on you, little girl, little old me, fair-haired doll. You were loved.
How did you change through all these years? What has changed you, what has made you what you are now? Was it all the love you received, all the attention that was thrown at you, was it the eyes constantly watching you? Was it the loneliness? Was it the fact that you were smart, a lot smarter than all the kids your age? Was it your grown-up mind? What could it have been, that has made your life take a 180° turn, that has turned you against the world, against yourself?
It was you.
Look at those hands. Really, look at them now. Look at your hands and tell me what you see. You see two hands which played with toys, which hugged family and friends, which turned the pages of picture books and which got dirty. What I see is two hands that go down my throat, that make me vomit; I see a right hand that takes a razor and cuts the wrist of the left hand; I see hands that touch the body of a person who rarely touches back; I see the hands that shove food in the mouth; I see hands that take pills into the mouth; I see hands that clean up vomit. I see hands that are always cold.
These hands are not mine
Also, I invite you to look at the face. The joyful eyes, the happy smile. What I see? Teeth chewing a ridiculous amount of food, vomit coming out, teeth hurting, throat bleeding, nose running, eyes crying, mascara spreading all over my face, vomit and toilet water splashing my entire face. I see the lips and tongue that lick the blood from my cuts. I see the yellow eyes, exhausted because the body did not receive food. I see the lips that kissed boys and girls, the lips that have only kissed one other pair of lips for an entire year -- a pair of lips whose words have metaphorically killed, murdered. All I see is black.
That face is not mine.
Dare you look at the body? Look how tiny you were, look at the almost non-existing hair, look at the short legs, the chubby body frame, you could fit into a box. The metamorphosed version is tall (long), slim, like a snake. The long, blonde hair is falling out, there are cuts on your wrists, arms, chest, abdomen, hips, legs, calves, ankles. I tried to cut you into tiny, little pieces. I cut you. I took your hand, led you to my bathroom, sliced your skin, cleaned. It hurt you a bit, but I did not care.
Would you dare hurt a child?
We are two different people. I am here; older than you, typing our story -- together; and each on her own. I know more about you than anyone knows. I know more about myself than anyone knows. I live in a house with my parents and brother, go to a German school, have an ED. I have a passion for writing, I enjoy reading, especially in the English language. I have many friends. They think they know me, but they are wrong. Despite that, I never tell them anything. This is me. You are...
Dead.
And I'm sorry for murdering you, little baby.
