Segment 1, Section 1 – The Abyssal Depths
Whenever I look into the mirror, I cannot recognize myself. This face does not belong to me.
And there is also a headache and constant fog in my brain. Just going through my day and existing makes my head hurt as if it has been stabbed by multiple knives. Whenever I try to think, my thoughts get blocked and I cannot reach a logical conclusion. There is an invisible barrier preventing me from reaching the answer.
I feel as if I do not belong. No, I know that I do not belong. I am an imposter who is using a stolen body. I can not remember any part of “my” life prior to age eleven. Even after age eleven, I can barely recall something that happened just hours prior.
I know that the original person was a great student who excelled in all her subjects, and loved to read books. But me? I find no joy in reading. I do not find joy in doing anything. And, most definitely, I am not doing well in any of my fields of study. I hate living. I hate existing when I know that there was someone better. I hate how I have to live up to her standards, or else everyone is disappointed in me. Even I am disappointed in myself.
I heard she was a great artist, yet I can barely draw.
She loved, and yet I feel nothing except for emptiness. My chest feels hollow, and I can no longer feel my heart, as if it has been carved out. If the original was a living white bunny who had fun every day, then I am a hollow chocolate rabbit. Perhaps not even a hollow chocolate rabbit, but instead a taxidermied rabbit. There is stuffing inside a taxidermied rabbit to make it seem as if it was still alive, and to fill the gap in it. But no matter what you do, the rabbit is dead, the stuffing is artificial, and the gap is still lacking the once living tissue and its sustenance. There is no heart inside a taxidermied rabbit, just like how I cannot feel.
She had a good social life with many close friends, and yet here I am alone.
The original person was enthusiastic and found joy in everything. She laughed, she loved, and she perked up whenever she saw someone or something that she liked. She had passion for many things. But I don’t.
I do not laugh. I do not love. I do not receive stimulus from seeing someone or something that I like. I do not even like anything. And most certainly, I have no passion.
Doing anything is a pain. Living is a pain. For me, there is nothing to enjoy. I am not the original. I am an imposter. I do not belong.
The Roar 