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KitsuchiTenu 09-26-2009 09:30 PM

N/A
 
I find it strange to hold ill feelings for an English teacher (they always seemed to be one of my favorite teachers), though I suppose she did not know what events the assignment would trigger. She probably did not think that anyone would take the question to heart. I doubt she realized that it was a question that already shadowed any of her students’ minds. She probably suspected me least of all, but I still blame her.
Ever since the day I tripped over the border between innocence and adulthood, I have had trouble with discerning my identity. “Who am I?” always seems to be the question in the back of my head. It seems that the answer should be frustratingly obvious, but I just can’t seem to remember. It sits on my tongue like a long-forgotten taste, mocking me with its memory. The answer continues to elude me.
I press my palms into the cold, black surface, pushing myself forward. My ears ring slightly from the music shouting from the speakers just two feet below them, almost painfully contrasting my mood with upbeat music in a tongue I only recognize. My ears strain to catch the sound of water hitting tile just behind me. I stare hard into the reflection of my eyes- dark and flat. I lean back and glance over the items many adolescents use in hopes of being accepted: cream to clean out my pores with an almost too harsh scent and the small sensation of burning skin, tweezers to keep the face clear of unsightly hair, even a contemptuous bag of make-up only to be used for a job I am rarely asked to attend.
I pick up the cream and spread it over my face, leaving clear only my eyes and mouth. I glance at the mirror and find my eyes and lips startlingly dark against its white. I sigh and allow the soft fabric of my robe to slip off my shoulders and onto the floor. I step from the pile into the stream of water. It’s too hot, but I wait until the cream has washed away to adjust it. I watch the white-dyed water circle down the drain and wish it were so easy.
As I proceed in a most routine task, I find myself stopping every so often to grip my upper arms as if in a comforting embrace. I watch the water stream over my body and reflect that this is one of the times that I always find myself imagining characters leaping from my head to comfort me. I realize it may be unhealthy, but they are safe. They never try to tell me that something is fine when it upsets me nor do they try to make me see that I am in the wrong until I myself am ready to face that fact, but then that is because they are me. Every one is a piece of me given form.
I recall one in particular, a boy I dubbed Wrath. I remember trying to draw him and finding it impossible. I realize that he is the part of me that is scarred, but his are across his face. I remember his saying “Even if we must wait till death, our scars will heal.” Wrath is a wish; to be able to accept the imperfections that mar me is a dream I will carry until I am summoned home on my last breath.
I stop thinking of characters and stories and wishes and dreams when a particularly optimistic high-pitched voice with a heavy Japanese accent shouts “Anything is possible.” I begin to wonder if that is true. Man has found his wings and more than doubled his life, perhaps I can make a miracle? Will I be able to look my mother in the eye soon? The cuts are fresh and deep as only stinging words can make them; I understand that what I said was probably worse. How does a mother feel when she finds her daughter is not nearly as happy as she seems? How does a father feel when his girl screams words he wasn’t even fully aware she knew? How do parents feel the first time their child runs from the house without so much as a good-bye? Many things were said that should never have left my mouth, but they did.
I found that we all wear a mask, but I also found that once we become accustomed to this falsity, we forget how to remove it. There is a danger in this, however, sometimes the mask cracks and our true selves break loose, but are they gentle or are they beastly?


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