Introduction

A prologue of sorts.

There was nothing poetic about the way she would lie on her bed, curled in white sheets, and stare vainly at the ceiling above. Nor was there anything eloquent about the way she would masturbate furiously on the cold, white tiles of the bathroom floor, in the man-made darkness of 4pm. Nor was the way she would dance about her room to the likes of Frank Sinatra, only to feel alive in the similarity of her movements to those she's seen on the television screen.

She thrived on fantasy.

 

She has been desperately searching for a way to define herself ever since she was a young, morbid child of seven. She could never find a suitable definition, thinking as though we all came shooting through the womb coddled in packaging and labels. She could name and label each passer-by and friend so vainly, but when she tried to point that vision at herself, her eyes would dissolve into a bubbly, blurry soup and she would go blind.

Perhaps, she thought, she was not properly human if she could not fit into a label so. Perhaps, she was something more, something great. She truly, and ever so vainly believed she was; because it was all apart of the fantasy. The fantasy she could never tear away from, no matter how hard she tried.