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 [attr="class","leapapp1"]  | ANESKA SZOMBATHY
[attr="class","leapapp3"]What are you? You are many things. You are an entity, a walking and breathing and living thing. You are bipedal. You are a thinking, feeling, and perceiving member of a great numbered species. You are, admittedly, a little stupid. But above all: You are a monster. Wives tales speak of grotesque creatures lurking in the closet or under the bed to frighten their children, the Germans fond of a particular type of ghost who imitates one's face, kills them, and replaces them in life. You are all of this and more. You are a doppelganger, white paper skinned and red beady eyed, your existence built on the mimicking of others'. The only power you possess is that to replicate the appearance of any bipedal species you so chose – chalk flesh breaking and peeling into the soft tones attempting to hold a candle to the wonder that is humanity – and speak with the vocal chords of the person whose image you have just taken on.[break][break] Impressive. Impressive, yes – in the hands of a master. You, however, are anything but. Accuracy hits at no more than ninety percent, the finer details in the looks and the voice lost in translation, and while acquaintances would never know the difference, the friends and the family will realize your blunders within the hour of the replacement. Beyond that, you are a lone wolf, a “young woman” left alone while her kind boasts effectiveness when surrounded by their pack. Replacements and profits are made through tactics and intelligence, prior studies dictating success or failure; you lack both tact and brains. Your kind is impressive; you are a mockery of your art. |
« TODAY I COO, TODAY I CALL. I HAVE A PISTOL PARTY, AND I KILL THEM ALL. »
PERSONALITY
[attr="class","leapapp4"]You are always someone else before you are yourself. Borrowed names, borrowed faces – you have lived such a long life of flattery in the form of imitation that you have long since lost any sense of self. You are Aneska Marek, not d̶͏̸a̵͝͠t̷̢͜͠ą̴̸̛ ̡͡e̶͝x̴͢͜҉̧p̴̷̡͢͢u҉͢n̷̶̕͢͡g̀͘҉e̶͡d͢ , and your looks, your life, your you is everything she was – not what you once were.[break][break]
What was she? Kindness, above all, cotton candy words from a salt taffy tongue. She lived for her students and her co-workers, something of a beacon of hope in a school ruled by cruelty. They revered her for her strength of mind and heart, her sympathy toward all, and the weight of burden in which she could carry for days upon days without ever truly snapping. She was Ms. Szombathy, the favorite teacher, the lent ear, the woman who could do it all. She was grace. She was elegance. She was tact and mind and heroic and perfection – she is the one thing you had never wanted to emulated. Never want to because you knew you couldn't.[break][break]
You can never be her. No. No, you can't.[break][break]
But you can try.[break][break]
You plaster pretty pink smiles on your pretty pink lips, rosy cheeks lifted high and Eskimo kissed by coral locks. Your intentions are not pure, your benevolence feigned, but for as poor as an actor as you are, enmity is a forgotten concept to you. Your default is to aid, to comfort – you throw yourselves at your students' feet so you may lighten their load because it is all you know how to do. You are the bringers of sweets, of smiles, or sunshine; you pick up their pencils and smile at the spit wads they stick in your hair, and when the administration demands you give them a lashing, you take all fifty whips at their expense. Selflessness, after all, is synonymous with the Szombathy name, and even if you can only manage ninety percent accuracy, your surface deep sweetness is surface deep only to you. Because at night, you wash the spit wads from your hair and coddle your screaming flesh alone in her room, in her house, and when no one can hear, you wish death upon them all. Glinda the Good Witch is the costume you, the Wicked Witch of the West have sewn for yourself, and it is with broken pride that you admire how well the pretty pink facade fits you.[break][break]
Then what of your grace? Laughable. You are the ugly duckling before you are any Swan Princess, awkward limbed and clumsy footed. They trip you in the halls and you go tumbling down with all the might of London Bridge, all the class of the kindergarteners who sing the tune, and crash into the ground (reality) with limbs splayed haywire across the unforgiving floor. A foot, however, is not required to send you earthbound, the tiniest pebble or a catch in the rug or even the carbon dioxide molecules swimming in the atmospheric ocean around you all it takes to have your jaw crashing with the ground. Clear doors or windows leave you walking into vertical panes, toes or heels slipping off the backs of steps leaving you at gravity's mercy up or down the same flight respectively. Uneven steps. One foot longer than the other – poor shape shifting – peppering a limp into your already awkward hobble. Where is the elegance to be found in you? Not here. It has checked into a hotel across town, the first of many on its world-wide trip to steer as far away from you as it possibly can. Physical grace is not all you lack, however, your social interactions punctured like bag of winds struck open by an ax with nothing but your own inability to form coherent thoughts and sentences. Too quick are you to become suspicious of their suspicion, to loose track of the topic at hand; at a moment's notice, you can derail a conversation about the weather into talk of the texture of a cat's fur.[break][break]
The clouds are looking lovely today. Did you know that the human mind percieves each year shorter than the last? Your first year of life is one whole of your life with your fortieth is one fortieth of everything you have lived through. We are all spiraling quicker and quicker to our ultimate deaths.[break][break]
... Yes, but what of the clouds? Cumulus, cumulus, cumulus, cumulus – I like the clouds that look like puppies.[break][break]
Idiotic. Concurred. Was there ever a time when you were smart? Perhaps, scores long, long passed. Vapid is the head you possess, your head often lost and wandering in frivolous thoughts, mind cast out to the family you'd lost and the honor your had destroyed. Daydreaming, after all, is your favorite pastime, and the only one you liken yourself to be much good at. Your lack of stored information, however, parallels a lack of proper comprehensions skills; your vernacular is weak, your mathematical skills in shambles, your social tact a wreck, and your artistic prowess something for your infantile mind to dream up while your students take advantages of your generosity. Cumulus, cumulus, cumulus – you may know useless scientific facts about the brain and how it functions, but your own head will never be anything but cumulus, cumulus, cumulus. You are a cloud: pleasant to look at for a few fleeting seconds, utterly useless, and swiftly forgotten.[break][break]
Is there anything that you are much good at? Puppet mastering, you like the imagine; your craft is that of twisted manipulation. Words the fall from your mouth not because they are locked to your string of straying conscience but because they are intended to meet some predetermined end. You are not smart, but you have a knack for weeding the information you'd like to hear out from those around you. Guilt is a card you play with the familiarity of a well-versed black jack player when you know your student is being dishonest, and when you have fallen into a pit of your own blackened dispair, you know just what to say to prelude a fountain of compliments dribbled over your salmon head. You lie, you twist, and you break – it is all part of your great design. You're not sure what that great design is just now. You're on the cusp of realizing some great destiny, you know, and when it has occurred to you, you will exploit each and every maggot you silently wish death upon, but until then, you settle with the smaller victories. He will buy you coffee and she will tell you what movie she watched last night, even if she never mentioned partaking in such an activity, and you will corner that girl into a talk about how Pavlov trained his dog to salivate with nothing more than a ring of a bell – because you, too, will train all of these dogs to do what you will when you will it. Your will, yo̸u͠r͘ ͜wìl͝l͏ , y̸̡oư̢ŕ ͠w͢҉̶į͠l͠l͘ , y͟҉͡҉̸o̕͝u͏͏̢r҉̧ ̴͏͞ẁ͞ì͢͏̵͠l̸̀͞͡ĺ҉̢̕̕ -[break]
You have a twisted sense of humanity and the finality of death. Liberation is death. Liberation is freedom from Sanctum. Freedom is what everyone wants. Everyone wants a liberator. Everyone wants death.[break][break]
Is that your great destiny?[break][break]
You ponder.[break][break]
I͠s̛ ̡it?͞ [break][break]
I'll think about it.
What was she? Kindness, above all, cotton candy words from a salt taffy tongue. She lived for her students and her co-workers, something of a beacon of hope in a school ruled by cruelty. They revered her for her strength of mind and heart, her sympathy toward all, and the weight of burden in which she could carry for days upon days without ever truly snapping. She was Ms. Szombathy, the favorite teacher, the lent ear, the woman who could do it all. She was grace. She was elegance. She was tact and mind and heroic and perfection – she is the one thing you had never wanted to emulated. Never want to because you knew you couldn't.[break][break]
You can never be her. No. No, you can't.[break][break]
But you can try.[break][break]
You plaster pretty pink smiles on your pretty pink lips, rosy cheeks lifted high and Eskimo kissed by coral locks. Your intentions are not pure, your benevolence feigned, but for as poor as an actor as you are, enmity is a forgotten concept to you. Your default is to aid, to comfort – you throw yourselves at your students' feet so you may lighten their load because it is all you know how to do. You are the bringers of sweets, of smiles, or sunshine; you pick up their pencils and smile at the spit wads they stick in your hair, and when the administration demands you give them a lashing, you take all fifty whips at their expense. Selflessness, after all, is synonymous with the Szombathy name, and even if you can only manage ninety percent accuracy, your surface deep sweetness is surface deep only to you. Because at night, you wash the spit wads from your hair and coddle your screaming flesh alone in her room, in her house, and when no one can hear, you wish death upon them all. Glinda the Good Witch is the costume you, the Wicked Witch of the West have sewn for yourself, and it is with broken pride that you admire how well the pretty pink facade fits you.[break][break]
Then what of your grace? Laughable. You are the ugly duckling before you are any Swan Princess, awkward limbed and clumsy footed. They trip you in the halls and you go tumbling down with all the might of London Bridge, all the class of the kindergarteners who sing the tune, and crash into the ground (reality) with limbs splayed haywire across the unforgiving floor. A foot, however, is not required to send you earthbound, the tiniest pebble or a catch in the rug or even the carbon dioxide molecules swimming in the atmospheric ocean around you all it takes to have your jaw crashing with the ground. Clear doors or windows leave you walking into vertical panes, toes or heels slipping off the backs of steps leaving you at gravity's mercy up or down the same flight respectively. Uneven steps. One foot longer than the other – poor shape shifting – peppering a limp into your already awkward hobble. Where is the elegance to be found in you? Not here. It has checked into a hotel across town, the first of many on its world-wide trip to steer as far away from you as it possibly can. Physical grace is not all you lack, however, your social interactions punctured like bag of winds struck open by an ax with nothing but your own inability to form coherent thoughts and sentences. Too quick are you to become suspicious of their suspicion, to loose track of the topic at hand; at a moment's notice, you can derail a conversation about the weather into talk of the texture of a cat's fur.[break][break]
The clouds are looking lovely today. Did you know that the human mind percieves each year shorter than the last? Your first year of life is one whole of your life with your fortieth is one fortieth of everything you have lived through. We are all spiraling quicker and quicker to our ultimate deaths.[break][break]
... Yes, but what of the clouds? Cumulus, cumulus, cumulus, cumulus – I like the clouds that look like puppies.[break][break]
Idiotic. Concurred. Was there ever a time when you were smart? Perhaps, scores long, long passed. Vapid is the head you possess, your head often lost and wandering in frivolous thoughts, mind cast out to the family you'd lost and the honor your had destroyed. Daydreaming, after all, is your favorite pastime, and the only one you liken yourself to be much good at. Your lack of stored information, however, parallels a lack of proper comprehensions skills; your vernacular is weak, your mathematical skills in shambles, your social tact a wreck, and your artistic prowess something for your infantile mind to dream up while your students take advantages of your generosity. Cumulus, cumulus, cumulus – you may know useless scientific facts about the brain and how it functions, but your own head will never be anything but cumulus, cumulus, cumulus. You are a cloud: pleasant to look at for a few fleeting seconds, utterly useless, and swiftly forgotten.[break][break]
Is there anything that you are much good at? Puppet mastering, you like the imagine; your craft is that of twisted manipulation. Words the fall from your mouth not because they are locked to your string of straying conscience but because they are intended to meet some predetermined end. You are not smart, but you have a knack for weeding the information you'd like to hear out from those around you. Guilt is a card you play with the familiarity of a well-versed black jack player when you know your student is being dishonest, and when you have fallen into a pit of your own blackened dispair, you know just what to say to prelude a fountain of compliments dribbled over your salmon head. You lie, you twist, and you break – it is all part of your great design. You're not sure what that great design is just now. You're on the cusp of realizing some great destiny, you know, and when it has occurred to you, you will exploit each and every maggot you silently wish death upon, but until then, you settle with the smaller victories. He will buy you coffee and she will tell you what movie she watched last night, even if she never mentioned partaking in such an activity, and you will corner that girl into a talk about how Pavlov trained his dog to salivate with nothing more than a ring of a bell – because you, too, will train all of these dogs to do what you will when you will it. Your will, yo̸u͠r͘ ͜wìl͝l͏ , y̸̡oư̢ŕ ͠w͢҉̶į͠l͠l͘ , y͟҉͡҉̸o̕͝u͏͏̢r҉̧ ̴͏͞ẁ͞ì͢͏̵͠l̸̀͞͡ĺ҉̢̕̕ -[break]
- you want everyone to die.
You have a twisted sense of humanity and the finality of death. Liberation is death. Liberation is freedom from Sanctum. Freedom is what everyone wants. Everyone wants a liberator. Everyone wants death.[break][break]
Is that your great destiny?[break][break]
You ponder.[break][break]
I͠s̛ ̡it?͞ [break][break]
I'll think about it.
BIOGRAPHY
Your history. My history? Yes, your history. Recite it. Oh, I don't know about that... Why the refusal? Well, it's just that... I remember it backwards...[break][break]
Your fifth life begins in a panic.[break][break]
The clothing you wear – flesh, eyes, hair, and limbs included in the overcoat you have sewed for yourself in so short a time – is equal parts memory as it is imagined, retention of detail and the state in which you'd found the body leaving holes as literal as they are physical in the appearance you are being forced to don. Your life begins in a panic because this is not good. This is not good because your psychic abilities of mimicry can only take you so far, and the more hindered your powers go, the weaker the guise. This is not good because there's an awfully horrid chance that you will not be able to fool anyone upon arrival at your new, borrowed home because of how one leg juts out farther than the other and because the pauldrons might have been pink when you wear them as red. This is not good, most of all, because no one can know. No one can know what you have seen today and what you have done today and why you have begun another life anew. Your fifth life. They can never know why you have lived to five. And if you cannot fool them, they will know.[break][break]
Aneska Szombathy was a teacher. Her military-like attire, while you did not recognize it as such before hand, rang quite a different story than that of a humble instructor, you mused upon your first studies of the alias and background you are being forced to adopt. Sanctum, however, despite your time spent inside its ever climbing walls still functioned as quite the fresh concept in your infantile mind. The Institute in which she worked at had never even come across the forefront of your thoughts, despite how prevalent of a building it was, and it was not until you'd taken your first steps toward your new job that you began to realize how well the elegant, yet commanding attire fit into the place in which she made her income. It, like the city it spat freshly brainwashed children into, was run by nothing short of dictators, cruel abuses of positions and powers who belittled the children at every step of the way, pounding their susceptible forms into liquid doormats that they could pout into molds meant to harden their content into the big bad honchos' images. This was not a place for learning – it was a factory, plucking the raw materials (children; students) from the streets, slapping them onto the conveyor belt (classes; courses), and circulating the product (soldiers; vanguards; mislead politicians) into society for profit (another generation build to think just like them). It was disgusting. Aneska, your predecessor, was anything but, but the place she had been so hopelessly trying to improve was made no better by the small rays of hope she offered. And yes, for as disgusting as it was -[break][break]
- it was just the place you needed to be.[break][break]
I just... I just don't know what to do, Ms. Szombathy! It feels like everything thinks I'd be better off dead...![break][break]
Wouldn't you be better off dead?[break][break]
Student suicides escalate pleasantly in your time spent in her shoes. You teach the general courses, and as such, few a student passes through the system without having you as their instructor; you learn so many faces, but learn that she had known so many more before you – had won over so many more before you. It's as wonderful as it is a burden. You hate these pitiful creatures, little bags of angst and selfishness. You hate them, and they push you beyond your physical and mental limits with each day that passes you by. The way so many of them, however, scramble after you in a small chorus of “Ms. Szombathy! Ms. Szombathy!,” the way the ones who miss home or the ones who get bullied in the breaks between classes beg for your aid... Perhaps it is a burden you can bare. You tell them to find release of their sorrows in their end, and when the body drops like flies, the administration shake their agitated heads, the student body mourn for their lost comrades, and you – you flash your usual broken grin, lips pulled just a little wider and teeth glinting just a little bit brighter than usual. You are saving them, you know. You are saving them from their pain.[break][break]
Perhaps, someday, you will save them all.[break][break]
Your fourth life begins quaintly.[break][break]
Long since have you given up on the brazen idea of using your abilities solely for self preservation and gain; no longer do you have your abhorrent mother, much less the rest of your disappointed pack breathing down your neck to shake their heads at your failures, and no longer must you conform to their methods more so out of a need to belong than for honesty profit. Stealing one's money by offing and carefully replacing them was simply never what you were cut out for, nor what you ever wanted for yourself. There was no... no liberation in that sort of demise. Their's was a painless life, hours lived in the lap of luxary, and such was a needless death if it did not free the one dying from pain they would be forever tortured by if they were not snipped from existence. You do not wish to waste your efforts being an unnecessary harbinger of equally unnecessary doom. And, if you were being quite honest with yourself, you never much cared for the jewels or the clothing or the statuses; what you cared for was the freedom and the time to think idle thoughts. These are the treasures your fourth life brings, and you need not even rain blood upon your pasty white monster hands to achieve it.[break][break]
Your fourth life takes place in the body of a girl you'd seen on a missing poster. You steal the voice straight out of someone else's lips, a passerby out on the streets you'd had no interest in, and with features borrowed from a slip of paper asking for aid in search of a young woman most likely already dead, clothes imitated from the nearest convenience store, and tone borrowed from someone you will likely never meet again, you're quite certain you have formulated a plan that will best use the unique abilities you were born with. The days go by leisurely, after all. Your kind, stowing away as humans or other bipedal gifted, have a smaller need for food or drink, and where your acquaintances must have three meals a day, you require perhaps one every seven. Sleep? Unnecessary. You dream when you walk, dream when you bump into someone, and dream through your absent minded apology. The apocalypse begins, and you don't even quite notice, the blue eyes of your forth frame focused less on the demons and more the cumulus clouds above. Or maybe they aren't cumulus – are they? To you, every cloud will be cumulus. You are cumulus; a cloud. Careless and free to roam.[break][break]
Until someone recognizes you.[break][break]
Roxanne![break][break]
No, no, no.[break][break]
Your fourth life was to be lead with no strings attached, but this human, this... this boy thinks you are this supposed “Roxanne.” You are not Roxanne, you want to tell him. You are d̶͏̸a̵͝͠t̷̢͜͠ą̴̸̛ ̡͡e̶͝x̴͢͜҉̧p̴̷̡͢͢u҉͢n̷̶̕͢͡g̀͘҉e̶͡d͢ , and you will never be the girl he imagines you to be. No matter what you say, though, he won't leave you alone, trailing you through the city and through the buildings; he thinks you have amnesia, that “your kidnapper” hit you on the head, and now you can't remember him. You do remember, though. You remember cumulus, cumulus, cumulus, cumulus. You remember Mama. You remember lives one, two, and three – and you remember deciding that life four is over. You abandon your jumble or faces and voices and clothes in favor of who you really are: bony and white and grotesque. Sometimes, you hate what you look like. You are white like the cumulus, but you will never be soft like them, too covered in angles and sharpened edges. What would it take to be beautiful like the clouds?[break][break]
She thinks your beautiful. You think, too, that you are beautiful when compared to her. The monsters had gotten in, a creature of the taint slipping passed Sanctum walls, and while the officials had since dealt with the break in, the causalities were not nonexistent. She lays on the ground, all pink-haired and bloodied and half alive, and she tells you that she thinks your beautiful. (You had been speaking your depressing thoughts aloud again.) She tells you that she wished she could have lived a little longer, made a few more friends; the children loved her, and she'd had lovely chemistry – whatever that is – with a fine young man she'd come across, but no bonds strong enough to preserve her memory in the city remained. She tells you, though, most of all, that she wants to die. That the pain is too much, and that she'd rather you put her out of her misery than watch her bleed out. Liberation can be found in death, as well, she informs, and when you impale her with nothing but your bony fingernails, you can't help but play the words in your mind over and over and over and over and over and -[break][break]
Your third life begins with a weight on your shoulders.[break][break]
You have failed once already, Mama's hot glare having left a burn scar in the flash of your right shoulder from your previous slip up, and you know, absolutely know that if you do not succeed where you could not before, she will have you outed from the pack. It's simply in a doppelganger's nature to know how to pull off such heists as the thief and homicide combination that they are known for, and if a doppelganger cannot preform their instinctual functions, they are to be left to rot and die. Nothing personal. Your brothers and your sisters whisper of the horrors of being a lone wolf, how society will eat your kind like chicken breasts if you do not have another to rely upon, and you feed into each lie and exaggeration with the frightened enthusiasm of a child. Bone chilling stories, however, are not what shake you to your core: Instead, it is the prospect of earning your mother's distrust and distaste. You have only ever lived with the purpose of pleasing her, and it breaks you more and more with the passing hours that you fail to do so. That is why, when you and your sibling decide to take over a party as a whole with the promise of the great wealth they've got store away, you swear to yourself – swear to yourself and every possible deity out there – that you will do your maternal figure proud. You will walk away with the most riches, and you will be heralded a hero.[break][break]
Things appeared to be going fine at first. Your brothers and your sisters send you off for the first replacement – that hardest replacement, since there are no other doppelgangers in the infiltration to defend you should suspicion arise over your less-than-accurate behaviors – and what should have been the part of the mission that would make or break your fortune, your position in the pack goes by surprisingly easy. Clearly, Ms. N͟efer͜t͝a̵r̵i ̡R͞a̕hotep͞ was not as well known (or liked) amongst the group despite all of her riches and wealth, and not one of the group expects your ninety-percent mimicking of her, nor her corpse you'd thrown against the furthest building wall, not even buried out of respect. Five days, five replacements – by the fourth, your youngest brother is to be taking over his role in the party. The fourth is, admittedly, perhaps the trickiest past the fourth, since suspicions have undoubtedly arrived amongst the party since, and the remaining survivors are known to curl in on themselves to prevent anything bizarre from happening to them, too; for someone as seasoned as he, however, the second-to-last position should have come quite easily. He'd done it before, correct? Countless times, yes. You'd heard the stories and watched the celebrations and admired all of his gold bars and silver coins – so why does he fail? Why does he let the man slip, snatching their precious metals and jewelry away and disappearing into the night with everything the skeletal monsters had hoped of stealing so soundlessly from them?[break][break]
And why do they pin the blame on you?[break][break]
Mama buries claws into the golden scalp of your borrowed body, N͟efer͜t͝a̵r̵i's blood spilling out from the wounds and falling in N͟efer͜t͝a̵r̵i's beautiful blue eyes.[break][break]
Failure, she screams, Failure![break][break]
Yes, yes, failure![break][break]
You cry, tears and mucus dribbling down your face, mixing with crimson as the three race to the base of your jaw. You lose your pretty features somewhere along the way, and by the time she's had her fill beating the vision out of your beady red eyes, you're nothing more than your usual grotesque you. They leave you there, Mama and your brothers and your sisters – they leave you there bleeding in the dirt, nothing more than a pile of dishonor and blood and tears, and you can't help but hate yourself.[break][break]
Your second life begins, and just as quickly, your second life ends.[break][break]
They recognize you are an impostor immediately. You'd taken on the face of a wealthy entrepreneur, having assumed the the rich boasted no close friends, much less acquaintances, but his lack of meaningful relationships is not the only thing you had assumed. His photos and your reflections in the mirror look nothing alike, and when someone's holding a gun to your head and demanding what on Earth you have done with him, you realize that your first mission – the pivotal mission, the one that determines whether or not you are fit to remain with the maternal figure that taught your and the honorary “brothers” and “sisters” that have taken you into the pack – has not only failed, but failed so terribly, it is beyond repair. You have failed so terribly. You are beyond repair.[break][break]
Where is he?[break][break]
I don't know! I don't know![break][break]
You do know, though. He's out there at the bottom of his own dock, weighted down by the cinder blocks your bony frame had been nearly incapable of lifted, and you don't claim ignorance because you don't what him to know what you have done; you claim ignorance because you're too scared to form the sentences right. When you go home with his face still attached to your's, blood oozing from a wound caused by the friend who'd noticed, you can only say the same thing to Mama when she demands why you've returned so soon, and why you've returned with nothing to show for your efforts. You don't know. You don't know why you assumed or why you failed or why you're beyond repair – you don't know.[break][break]
Perhaps you will stick with females to replace from now on.[break][break]
You arè always s͏om̢éo̕ńe̡ e̛l̀se ̧b̀ef̀o҉re yo͠u ̨a̵re your̶self.[break][break]
͠
̧Do͏p̵pe͠lg͞ang̵e͠rś ar͠e̡ ̶n̡ot b̀roug̵h͝t̕ in̢t҉o th̡e̵ w͠or͢ld b̶y ҉hųma͟n ̢mean̵s͢, ̕y͡ou͜r ̛ki̡nd̴'s̕ ̵s҉e̵n͏s̶e ǫf ͜f̧ami̷ly ̛a̕n͜d ̷su҉c͏h̸ fa̴mi͜l͝i̶al͠ ̵b̧ón̕d̡s ͜sk̸ew҉ȩd͢ ̡to ͟a̕ deg̡ree̸ t͘ha͢t͡ y̧ǫu'͠re n҉ot ̡e̶ven q͟ui̸te sur̕e ͟who͠ ͏you͟ sho͜u̢ld b̷e t͠ru̵s͠t̢ing a̶nd ҉wh͘o ̴yòu̵ ̡s͡hould ̷b͡e ̨stayi̷ng away f͏ro͏m.͢ Th́i̢s̡ ́on͝e̕,̧ ̧thoug͏h, the͡ ͡bi̛ggęst o͞f t̴h͢e̵ ̕l͜ittle ͘gr̨ou͏p̨ ̀on̡ ͜the f̸ar̢ ̧wi̕ng̴ t͜el͢lş ̸y̷ou͜ ͡to ca͘ll͏ her͟ Mama҉̢;̛ ̕s̡he ̵s̷a̡ys͝ yo̡u'̵r̡e a͞ l͡it͏t͏l̨e l͟ǫs͏t soul iņ ne͟éd͠ ͏of̶ g̸úi͠da̵nce,́ an͟d ͟t̴h̢èir ̀p͝a͜ŕt͟y can̸ ̷alw͝a̕y͞s ͏u͞se͜ ͏a͟no͡ţher m͘a͟lév̶oļent͞ s̛h̛aṕe-͏s͞hif̧t́e҉r̶ ̀to̕ ̕ḱill ͢and̶ st̛e̢a̷l ͏a͘n͡d ̨ruin̢ ̢an͘d ̨lib̧e̸ra͢ţe̡̕ ̧–̷ ̢So y̷ou ̵c̀a͡l̨l̸ ͝h͞er͞ ̡Mama͝, ͝a̶nd she̶ ta̕k͏e̕s҉ y͠oú ̵un͡d͞er ḩer͜ ̸wi̴ng.̛ T͢hè ̕ŕes̀t͜ ̀o͠f ̀the ͞pack b҉ec͢om͢e̶ ͜y̴our̶ ͡“br͘o̸t̛h̨ér̨s”͜ ͢an̛d ͞y͞o̕ur ҉“͞s͡i̧st͜er҉s”̶;̧ h̵oller̡ ͏f̷or̛ ̛them͏, ̀M͟a̡ma ̨s̸ays,̡ a̷nd͢ ̕t̶h̶ey wil͘l̷ aid y͝ou r̵e̶gár̀dles͞s̢ o͢f ̶t͘he co҉st̨s. She ̴teache̴s ̡y̧o͞u ̶h҉o̸w͡ ̷to͘ s̨h̵ift̢; p̴içk a̵ ͢fac̕e,̕ ͞Mam̴á says̢, ánd̡ you ͟wo͘ņ't͠ ͜nee͞d̶ ͞to ̸c̡ḩa͟ng̷e u͠ntil ͢the͢ m͢is͢si͡o̕n̸ is com҉p̴let̴e. T̸h͜e̸y̴ ̕tr̡y ̢t͢o͏ ͏tell you͢ ̡that the ͝ón̢l̀y wonde̷r͘s i̶n͢ l͝i̕fȩ ̷a̷re ķno҉w͢l̡e̡dge a͝n͡d͟ w̕e҉a̛l̴th̷;͠ ̀you'̶ve go̢t̀ k͏now͝le̡d̸ge, Ma̴ma͟ ̡s̷a̶ys,̷ ͝i͡n̕ ́s͡pades̛ ̷–̀ ͘all y̕o͝u ̀h̢ave͟ t̀o ͏d͜ǫ is ́st͡e͝aĺ th̶e ̕w͜eál͟th ҉f͟rom͞ ̵s̷oméo͟n̸e ̕e̕ls͝e.͡[break][break]
Ma̷m͠a͢,́ ̛yo͝u͘ ̕l̕ear͏ń earl͝y҉ ҉on̡,͞ i͝s a҉ liar̨.[break][break]
Y͜o͟͡u̷͞r ̵͟f̢͜i̴r̴̢͠s̸̛t҉ ̷l̵i̷̡f͘e ̵͝b́e͢͡g҉̢͏i͢n͡ś̶͜,̸͏͞ ̛̛͘aǹ̀d̵͠ aĺ͜͡r̷è̷a҉d̷̨ý ỳ̸o̡u̸̡҉ ̢͝͞ẃ͠a̕͞n̕̕t̷ t͏͡o ͜d͡͏ie̵͟͡.̡͟͜
then start from the end.[break][break]
05.
ANESKA SZOMBATHY
Your fifth life begins in a panic.[break][break]
The clothing you wear – flesh, eyes, hair, and limbs included in the overcoat you have sewed for yourself in so short a time – is equal parts memory as it is imagined, retention of detail and the state in which you'd found the body leaving holes as literal as they are physical in the appearance you are being forced to don. Your life begins in a panic because this is not good. This is not good because your psychic abilities of mimicry can only take you so far, and the more hindered your powers go, the weaker the guise. This is not good because there's an awfully horrid chance that you will not be able to fool anyone upon arrival at your new, borrowed home because of how one leg juts out farther than the other and because the pauldrons might have been pink when you wear them as red. This is not good, most of all, because no one can know. No one can know what you have seen today and what you have done today and why you have begun another life anew. Your fifth life. They can never know why you have lived to five. And if you cannot fool them, they will know.[break][break]
Aneska Szombathy was a teacher. Her military-like attire, while you did not recognize it as such before hand, rang quite a different story than that of a humble instructor, you mused upon your first studies of the alias and background you are being forced to adopt. Sanctum, however, despite your time spent inside its ever climbing walls still functioned as quite the fresh concept in your infantile mind. The Institute in which she worked at had never even come across the forefront of your thoughts, despite how prevalent of a building it was, and it was not until you'd taken your first steps toward your new job that you began to realize how well the elegant, yet commanding attire fit into the place in which she made her income. It, like the city it spat freshly brainwashed children into, was run by nothing short of dictators, cruel abuses of positions and powers who belittled the children at every step of the way, pounding their susceptible forms into liquid doormats that they could pout into molds meant to harden their content into the big bad honchos' images. This was not a place for learning – it was a factory, plucking the raw materials (children; students) from the streets, slapping them onto the conveyor belt (classes; courses), and circulating the product (soldiers; vanguards; mislead politicians) into society for profit (another generation build to think just like them). It was disgusting. Aneska, your predecessor, was anything but, but the place she had been so hopelessly trying to improve was made no better by the small rays of hope she offered. And yes, for as disgusting as it was -[break][break]
- it was just the place you needed to be.[break][break]
I just... I just don't know what to do, Ms. Szombathy! It feels like everything thinks I'd be better off dead...![break][break]
Wouldn't you be better off dead?[break][break]
Student suicides escalate pleasantly in your time spent in her shoes. You teach the general courses, and as such, few a student passes through the system without having you as their instructor; you learn so many faces, but learn that she had known so many more before you – had won over so many more before you. It's as wonderful as it is a burden. You hate these pitiful creatures, little bags of angst and selfishness. You hate them, and they push you beyond your physical and mental limits with each day that passes you by. The way so many of them, however, scramble after you in a small chorus of “Ms. Szombathy! Ms. Szombathy!,” the way the ones who miss home or the ones who get bullied in the breaks between classes beg for your aid... Perhaps it is a burden you can bare. You tell them to find release of their sorrows in their end, and when the body drops like flies, the administration shake their agitated heads, the student body mourn for their lost comrades, and you – you flash your usual broken grin, lips pulled just a little wider and teeth glinting just a little bit brighter than usual. You are saving them, you know. You are saving them from their pain.[break][break]
Perhaps, someday, you will save them all.[break][break]
04.
ROXANNE ADKINS
Your fourth life begins quaintly.[break][break]
Long since have you given up on the brazen idea of using your abilities solely for self preservation and gain; no longer do you have your abhorrent mother, much less the rest of your disappointed pack breathing down your neck to shake their heads at your failures, and no longer must you conform to their methods more so out of a need to belong than for honesty profit. Stealing one's money by offing and carefully replacing them was simply never what you were cut out for, nor what you ever wanted for yourself. There was no... no liberation in that sort of demise. Their's was a painless life, hours lived in the lap of luxary, and such was a needless death if it did not free the one dying from pain they would be forever tortured by if they were not snipped from existence. You do not wish to waste your efforts being an unnecessary harbinger of equally unnecessary doom. And, if you were being quite honest with yourself, you never much cared for the jewels or the clothing or the statuses; what you cared for was the freedom and the time to think idle thoughts. These are the treasures your fourth life brings, and you need not even rain blood upon your pasty white monster hands to achieve it.[break][break]
Your fourth life takes place in the body of a girl you'd seen on a missing poster. You steal the voice straight out of someone else's lips, a passerby out on the streets you'd had no interest in, and with features borrowed from a slip of paper asking for aid in search of a young woman most likely already dead, clothes imitated from the nearest convenience store, and tone borrowed from someone you will likely never meet again, you're quite certain you have formulated a plan that will best use the unique abilities you were born with. The days go by leisurely, after all. Your kind, stowing away as humans or other bipedal gifted, have a smaller need for food or drink, and where your acquaintances must have three meals a day, you require perhaps one every seven. Sleep? Unnecessary. You dream when you walk, dream when you bump into someone, and dream through your absent minded apology. The apocalypse begins, and you don't even quite notice, the blue eyes of your forth frame focused less on the demons and more the cumulus clouds above. Or maybe they aren't cumulus – are they? To you, every cloud will be cumulus. You are cumulus; a cloud. Careless and free to roam.[break][break]
Until someone recognizes you.[break][break]
Roxanne![break][break]
No, no, no.[break][break]
Your fourth life was to be lead with no strings attached, but this human, this... this boy thinks you are this supposed “Roxanne.” You are not Roxanne, you want to tell him. You are d̶͏̸a̵͝͠t̷̢͜͠ą̴̸̛ ̡͡e̶͝x̴͢͜҉̧p̴̷̡͢͢u҉͢n̷̶̕͢͡g̀͘҉e̶͡d͢ , and you will never be the girl he imagines you to be. No matter what you say, though, he won't leave you alone, trailing you through the city and through the buildings; he thinks you have amnesia, that “your kidnapper” hit you on the head, and now you can't remember him. You do remember, though. You remember cumulus, cumulus, cumulus, cumulus. You remember Mama. You remember lives one, two, and three – and you remember deciding that life four is over. You abandon your jumble or faces and voices and clothes in favor of who you really are: bony and white and grotesque. Sometimes, you hate what you look like. You are white like the cumulus, but you will never be soft like them, too covered in angles and sharpened edges. What would it take to be beautiful like the clouds?[break][break]
She thinks your beautiful. You think, too, that you are beautiful when compared to her. The monsters had gotten in, a creature of the taint slipping passed Sanctum walls, and while the officials had since dealt with the break in, the causalities were not nonexistent. She lays on the ground, all pink-haired and bloodied and half alive, and she tells you that she thinks your beautiful. (You had been speaking your depressing thoughts aloud again.) She tells you that she wished she could have lived a little longer, made a few more friends; the children loved her, and she'd had lovely chemistry – whatever that is – with a fine young man she'd come across, but no bonds strong enough to preserve her memory in the city remained. She tells you, though, most of all, that she wants to die. That the pain is too much, and that she'd rather you put her out of her misery than watch her bleed out. Liberation can be found in death, as well, she informs, and when you impale her with nothing but your bony fingernails, you can't help but play the words in your mind over and over and over and over and over and -[break][break]
03.
N͞EFER̀ŢARI RA̶H̨O̷T͡E͢P҉
Your third life begins with a weight on your shoulders.[break][break]
You have failed once already, Mama's hot glare having left a burn scar in the flash of your right shoulder from your previous slip up, and you know, absolutely know that if you do not succeed where you could not before, she will have you outed from the pack. It's simply in a doppelganger's nature to know how to pull off such heists as the thief and homicide combination that they are known for, and if a doppelganger cannot preform their instinctual functions, they are to be left to rot and die. Nothing personal. Your brothers and your sisters whisper of the horrors of being a lone wolf, how society will eat your kind like chicken breasts if you do not have another to rely upon, and you feed into each lie and exaggeration with the frightened enthusiasm of a child. Bone chilling stories, however, are not what shake you to your core: Instead, it is the prospect of earning your mother's distrust and distaste. You have only ever lived with the purpose of pleasing her, and it breaks you more and more with the passing hours that you fail to do so. That is why, when you and your sibling decide to take over a party as a whole with the promise of the great wealth they've got store away, you swear to yourself – swear to yourself and every possible deity out there – that you will do your maternal figure proud. You will walk away with the most riches, and you will be heralded a hero.[break][break]
Things appeared to be going fine at first. Your brothers and your sisters send you off for the first replacement – that hardest replacement, since there are no other doppelgangers in the infiltration to defend you should suspicion arise over your less-than-accurate behaviors – and what should have been the part of the mission that would make or break your fortune, your position in the pack goes by surprisingly easy. Clearly, Ms. N͟efer͜t͝a̵r̵i ̡R͞a̕hotep͞ was not as well known (or liked) amongst the group despite all of her riches and wealth, and not one of the group expects your ninety-percent mimicking of her, nor her corpse you'd thrown against the furthest building wall, not even buried out of respect. Five days, five replacements – by the fourth, your youngest brother is to be taking over his role in the party. The fourth is, admittedly, perhaps the trickiest past the fourth, since suspicions have undoubtedly arrived amongst the party since, and the remaining survivors are known to curl in on themselves to prevent anything bizarre from happening to them, too; for someone as seasoned as he, however, the second-to-last position should have come quite easily. He'd done it before, correct? Countless times, yes. You'd heard the stories and watched the celebrations and admired all of his gold bars and silver coins – so why does he fail? Why does he let the man slip, snatching their precious metals and jewelry away and disappearing into the night with everything the skeletal monsters had hoped of stealing so soundlessly from them?[break][break]
And why do they pin the blame on you?[break][break]
Mama buries claws into the golden scalp of your borrowed body, N͟efer͜t͝a̵r̵i's blood spilling out from the wounds and falling in N͟efer͜t͝a̵r̵i's beautiful blue eyes.[break][break]
Failure, she screams, Failure![break][break]
Yes, yes, failure![break][break]
You cry, tears and mucus dribbling down your face, mixing with crimson as the three race to the base of your jaw. You lose your pretty features somewhere along the way, and by the time she's had her fill beating the vision out of your beady red eyes, you're nothing more than your usual grotesque you. They leave you there, Mama and your brothers and your sisters – they leave you there bleeding in the dirt, nothing more than a pile of dishonor and blood and tears, and you can't help but hate yourself.[break][break]
02.
M̶̴͏Á͝͝T͘͢͢T̵̨̕ḨE̢W̡̕ ҉̷͜BU͘͢Ŕ̸K̨̀E̵͘
Your second life begins, and just as quickly, your second life ends.[break][break]
They recognize you are an impostor immediately. You'd taken on the face of a wealthy entrepreneur, having assumed the the rich boasted no close friends, much less acquaintances, but his lack of meaningful relationships is not the only thing you had assumed. His photos and your reflections in the mirror look nothing alike, and when someone's holding a gun to your head and demanding what on Earth you have done with him, you realize that your first mission – the pivotal mission, the one that determines whether or not you are fit to remain with the maternal figure that taught your and the honorary “brothers” and “sisters” that have taken you into the pack – has not only failed, but failed so terribly, it is beyond repair. You have failed so terribly. You are beyond repair.[break][break]
Where is he?[break][break]
I don't know! I don't know![break][break]
You do know, though. He's out there at the bottom of his own dock, weighted down by the cinder blocks your bony frame had been nearly incapable of lifted, and you don't claim ignorance because you don't what him to know what you have done; you claim ignorance because you're too scared to form the sentences right. When you go home with his face still attached to your's, blood oozing from a wound caused by the friend who'd noticed, you can only say the same thing to Mama when she demands why you've returned so soon, and why you've returned with nothing to show for your efforts. You don't know. You don't know why you assumed or why you failed or why you're beyond repair – you don't know.[break][break]
Perhaps you will stick with females to replace from now on.[break][break]
01.
D̴̛́A̧͢T҉̷͘͜A͏̧̢͡͡ ̴̡́E̸͞X̧͞P҉̧̛͡U̕͞͠͏͜N̡͘G̵̵̕͘E̶̸͡͡D̷̵̡
You arè always s͏om̢éo̕ńe̡ e̛l̀se ̧b̀ef̀o҉re yo͠u ̨a̵re your̶self.[break][break]
͠
̧Do͏p̵pe͠lg͞ang̵e͠rś ar͠e̡ ̶n̡ot b̀roug̵h͝t̕ in̢t҉o th̡e̵ w͠or͢ld b̶y ҉hųma͟n ̢mean̵s͢, ̕y͡ou͜r ̛ki̡nd̴'s̕ ̵s҉e̵n͏s̶e ǫf ͜f̧ami̷ly ̛a̕n͜d ̷su҉c͏h̸ fa̴mi͜l͝i̶al͠ ̵b̧ón̕d̡s ͜sk̸ew҉ȩd͢ ̡to ͟a̕ deg̡ree̸ t͘ha͢t͡ y̧ǫu'͠re n҉ot ̡e̶ven q͟ui̸te sur̕e ͟who͠ ͏you͟ sho͜u̢ld b̷e t͠ru̵s͠t̢ing a̶nd ҉wh͘o ̴yòu̵ ̡s͡hould ̷b͡e ̨stayi̷ng away f͏ro͏m.͢ Th́i̢s̡ ́on͝e̕,̧ ̧thoug͏h, the͡ ͡bi̛ggęst o͞f t̴h͢e̵ ̕l͜ittle ͘gr̨ou͏p̨ ̀on̡ ͜the f̸ar̢ ̧wi̕ng̴ t͜el͢lş ̸y̷ou͜ ͡to ca͘ll͏ her͟ Mama҉̢;̛ ̕s̡he ̵s̷a̡ys͝ yo̡u'̵r̡e a͞ l͡it͏t͏l̨e l͟ǫs͏t soul iņ ne͟éd͠ ͏of̶ g̸úi͠da̵nce,́ an͟d ͟t̴h̢èir ̀p͝a͜ŕt͟y can̸ ̷alw͝a̕y͞s ͏u͞se͜ ͏a͟no͡ţher m͘a͟lév̶oļent͞ s̛h̛aṕe-͏s͞hif̧t́e҉r̶ ̀to̕ ̕ḱill ͢and̶ st̛e̢a̷l ͏a͘n͡d ̨ruin̢ ̢an͘d ̨lib̧e̸ra͢ţe̡̕ ̧–̷ ̢So y̷ou ̵c̀a͡l̨l̸ ͝h͞er͞ ̡Mama͝, ͝a̶nd she̶ ta̕k͏e̕s҉ y͠oú ̵un͡d͞er ḩer͜ ̸wi̴ng.̛ T͢hè ̕ŕes̀t͜ ̀o͠f ̀the ͞pack b҉ec͢om͢e̶ ͜y̴our̶ ͡“br͘o̸t̛h̨ér̨s”͜ ͢an̛d ͞y͞o̕ur ҉“͞s͡i̧st͜er҉s”̶;̧ h̵oller̡ ͏f̷or̛ ̛them͏, ̀M͟a̡ma ̨s̸ays,̡ a̷nd͢ ̕t̶h̶ey wil͘l̷ aid y͝ou r̵e̶gár̀dles͞s̢ o͢f ̶t͘he co҉st̨s. She ̴teache̴s ̡y̧o͞u ̶h҉o̸w͡ ̷to͘ s̨h̵ift̢; p̴içk a̵ ͢fac̕e,̕ ͞Mam̴á says̢, ánd̡ you ͟wo͘ņ't͠ ͜nee͞d̶ ͞to ̸c̡ḩa͟ng̷e u͠ntil ͢the͢ m͢is͢si͡o̕n̸ is com҉p̴let̴e. T̸h͜e̸y̴ ̕tr̡y ̢t͢o͏ ͏tell you͢ ̡that the ͝ón̢l̀y wonde̷r͘s i̶n͢ l͝i̕fȩ ̷a̷re ķno҉w͢l̡e̡dge a͝n͡d͟ w̕e҉a̛l̴th̷;͠ ̀you'̶ve go̢t̀ k͏now͝le̡d̸ge, Ma̴ma͟ ̡s̷a̶ys,̷ ͝i͡n̕ ́s͡pades̛ ̷–̀ ͘all y̕o͝u ̀h̢ave͟ t̀o ͏d͜ǫ is ́st͡e͝aĺ th̶e ̕w͜eál͟th ҉f͟rom͞ ̵s̷oméo͟n̸e ̕e̕ls͝e.͡[break][break]
Ma̷m͠a͢,́ ̛yo͝u͘ ̕l̕ear͏ń earl͝y҉ ҉on̡,͞ i͝s a҉ liar̨.[break][break]
Y͜o͟͡u̷͞r ̵͟f̢͜i̴r̴̢͠s̸̛t҉ ̷l̵i̷̡f͘e ̵͝b́e͢͡g҉̢͏i͢n͡ś̶͜,̸͏͞ ̛̛͘aǹ̀d̵͠ aĺ͜͡r̷è̷a҉d̷̨ý ỳ̸o̡u̸̡҉ ̢͝͞ẃ͠a̕͞n̕̕t̷ t͏͡o ͜d͡͏ie̵͟͡.̡͟͜
UTENA TENJOU from REVOLUTIONARY GIRL UTENA
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