My life is a constant measure of pain. It ebbs and flows through my nerves as though pulled along by the phases of a moon I cannot see. The entirety of my life I have searched for this moon, this cause of my suffering, but it remained obscured in clouds of secrecy.
Much of my time has been spent encased in whitewashed hospital walls, the bitter odor of antiseptic a violent assault on my senses. After so many hours of observation and testing, you would expect that the doctors and nurses would find a way to… fix me. Unfortunately, they were as blind to the cause as I was. Week after week my parents deposited me in my hard hospital bed and the doctors would watch me, suspended as though in a cage of broken glass, afraid to move me, afraid not to.
I was irreparable.
When I was a child, I had an extraordinary fondness for mirrors.
I don’t know what it is, but I always felt that I wasn’t looking at myself when I looked into a mirror. The person in the reflection looked like me, yes, but there was a disjoint. She didn’t feel like me. She felt like a friend.