There are days I sit, and stare at my hands. I study how my veins create backroads, while the lines on my palms create valleys, creeks, streams, and rivers. I study the length of my fingers, the length of my I want to nails. I wonder at the change of shape and color my nails display, little craters within an icy lake. I stare at the lines they call fingerprints, wondering how unique they really make me. The wrinkles on the back of my hands remind me of the wrinkles of an elephant’s skin. Despite the roughness, the skin is smooth. The tendons of my hands remind me of marionette strings, ready to be pulled and snapped at any moment because freedom makes my hands itch. My fingers are long and slender, and what I see are extensions of love, of creation, of pleasure, of comfort, of healing.
I wonder what my hands are capable of. Would they do anything I asked them to? I’ve seen them create. I’ve seen them destroy. I’ve witness life being held within their grasp. I’ve imagined them taking life. How morbid, no? What can create life can also take it away. Gently or brutally. A gentle touch could easily maim as much as a slap could cause clarity.
I’ve seen a story of a girl, sitting in a park, staring at her hands. Wondering what I wonder. Only, it isn’t her who commands her hands. Not truly. She hears them, and they tell her what to do with those hands. She feels hate and disgust for the world around her. They tell her she is here to cleanse this world of the corrupt and evil that is poisoning this world. The cleanse this world so it is as clean and pure as her skin and her soul. She is theirs, and she will become more.
And underneath it all, underneath the cacophony, she feels a faint plea. In the liquid ink pool of her mind flutters something that doesn’t quite sound like them. Strangely, she can’t seem to recall where they came from, or even when they started speaking to her, and guiding her to do what she does. She can’t recall how old she is, or where she even came from. She looks like a porcelain doll, and if not handled carefully, she would break.
Only, she did the breaking. She broke so things could be mended and better.
And that flutter only seemed to struggle more, like a bird trying to remove itself from a giant spider’s web, thick with oozing glue. She begins the question why she blindly complies with them. She wonders if what she is doing is…right.
There’s so much that can be told with her. I return to the voices in my head. The multiple personalities clamoring to be let free to express themselves. That is why I write and tell stories. Each voice is released to express itself, and sometimes, it doesn’t even know how to go about saying it when given the chance. Some voices are woven together, creating a world only I see, want to nurture, want to bring to life.