There’s a foreboding in my soul. I see figures, dark figures, moving towards me. I know I should run. Still, I stand rooted to the spot. I can’t move. I try to lift a foot to place in front of the other, but my limbs refuse to listen. As if in a dream, as if to someone else, they come and hold her – hold me.
They hold me, they hurt me. Their nails dig into my skin, I bleed. No stranger to wounds, I stand on my spot, so still that I would’ve done a sculptor proud. They kick me, stomp over me, take their fingers over each inch of what I thought was me. They frighten me such that my throat is bound to the fear in my brain, unable to utter a sliver of protest.
I stand there, and become an object.
Is it me any longer? Can I be me if there are their stakes driven all over me? Can I be me if every part of me has been tested, used and thrown away? Can I be me if I take a blade to what is mine, to what I’m supposed to protect? Can I be me if all of me has been raked over by them, piece by piece, inch by inch?
Can I be me if they took my sense of self from me?