Reflection

The one who claimed to love me did so only because I reminded her of another.

Those who hated me condemned me for crimes committed by someone else.

What wouldn't I give to be seen for who I really am..?

Even their hatred would be sweet, if it was truly me they hated.

A plaything, a toy, a convenient tool. Is this all I am?

But how could it be otherwise? I was created.

Created. This sets me apart. How could I truly be considered human when I was sprung from a woman's mind, rather than one's body?

My heart beats like theirs. My blood is red as theirs. This bitter, bitter pain I feel - isn't that a human emotion? Yet I am not considered human. Why is that?

As long as I played along in her game she could be kind, even loving. As long as I pretended that I was someone I was not, she would show me generosity.

It was never for me, but for the man whose face I wear as a mask over my own soul.

She would smile at me then, with near reverence in her large eyes. Driven hopelessly insane by losing the one that meant more to her than her very life. And so she created me in his image, to take his place.

But I am not him.

Sometimes she would stir from her madness for long enough to realize that. She even tried to kill me a few of those times. No, not kill. Dispose of. I was a mistake. An experiment gone wrong.

I remember lying on the cold, smooth floor, waiting for her to decide whether I should live or die. But somehow she never could bring herself to get rid of me. Perhaps she wasn't truly as cruel as she would like to believe. Or, more likely, she couldn't bear to see that face she so loved contorted in pain, even if she knew the soul behind it was not the one she wanted.

That such a delicate woman could cause such pain. This gem on my forehead, the brand marking me for what I am, glowing red-hot like embers, an inferno against my mind.

I tried to turn against her once. My powers far exceeded hers, it should have been easy enough to break free. But she held my mind in her hand, crushing my soul between slender fingers, bringing pain even I thought was impossible. I was certain then, that I would be sent back into the nothingness from which I was created.

And it was close, too close for me to ever attempt anything like it again. Left broken, shattered on that hateful cold floor until the strong, scaly arms of her ever present chimeras dragged me back to the cocoon-like throne. I had to spend days in that half-sleep to recover from her chastising. Yet next time I saw her she acted as if it had never happened, held me close and asseverated her eternal love.

Surely she wasn't that cruel on purpose. I doubt she even understood herself the constant pain I lived in. Not that she would really have cared. Whenever she accepted that I was not the one she wanted me to be, she thought of me as a mere copy, a created tool with no own will, no feelings.

She was wrong. I feel I am burning, slowly consumed by the flames of my emotions. I want. This I know. But what it is I want I am not yet sure of.

Him. How I hate him. All through my existence his shadow has been looming over me. To be compared to him, over and over again, but never found to be enough. I never asked to be created in his image, to have to live up to him. Him. Always him.

Those parts of me that are truly me, my inner thoughts, my soul - that was what she wanted to eliminate. That was the mistake, where the experiment somehow went wrong. Ever since she found out I was not him she did her best to force me into becoming him. Using her overpower mercilessly to take away from me those scant things I have been allowed that are really mine and not just a cheap imitation.

How I wished to hate her for that, and yet she forced me to love her. That ultimate humiliation, to not even be allowed to decide my own feelings. My conquered mind told me all I wanted was to hold her in my arms, yet a part of my soul was screaming.

Sometimes, late at night, just before dawn I allowed myself a short moment of freedom. She thought me resting in the throne she had made for me, completing the process of turning me more and more into him. But sometimes, when I was certain she would not discover my little treachery, I left that prison to stand hidden in the shadows by one of the large windows on the first floor. To watch the world with open eyes, feel real moonlight against my face... Those short moments of freedom gave me the strength to carry on.

These eyes, mismatched and luminous, emerald and gold. They are not his, but mine. That is probably why she hated them so much. She declared them freakish and ordered me to keep them shut. With them open I destroyed the illusion she so desperately clung onto. And so whenever in her presence I kept them closed, used the astral sight I had inherited from him to guide me through the world. Everything became colorless and blurry, yet I dared not oppose her. When defied she could be merciless. That small woman, so completely holding my life in her hands.

My creator.

Am I ungrateful?

She created me, granted me life. Shouldn't I be grateful for what I have been given, rather than feeling bitterness over all that I have been denied? Perhaps. Yet I feel there ought to be more to it.

I want.

Want to be like them, live like them. Let sunlight play openly over my face rather than skulking in the shadows, rejoicing as I manage to catch a rare beam of moonlight in my open eyes.

I exist. But I do not live.

She went after his legacy.

To wipe out his enemies in a single stroke, carry out his vengeance on those who killed him.

And also to finally have the power to create her perfect copy. Words can not describe the dread I felt when I heard her say that. With the power his legacy would grant her she could completely crush my last defiant resistance and turn me into the obedient puppet she wanted. Or perhaps even get rid of me once and for all, start over as she had threatened to so many times, create a new copy she could mould from the start to become what she wanted.

I could not allow that to happen. Could I?

So I prayed the magic, her enemies, the task before her would prove enough distraction for her to forget about me for just a moment. Grant me the fraction of a second I needed to break free once and for all.

I turned against my creator. I could see the shock on her face, on all their faces as I struck her down.

She granted me life, and I deprived her of hers. Am I evil?

Does it make any difference at all what she put me through, or is my crime forever unforgivable?

I killed my creator so that I could go on living.

Freedom, intoxicating and overwhelming.

One last test remains.

I broke free from my creator, now I have to make up with that shadow from the past. If I could live up to him, surpass him, would that finally grant me the right to my own soul? If I proved once and for all I could be as powerful, as strong; to just once be compared to him and be found to suffice...

After that nothing else would matter.

I would know.

Notes

The story and graphics belong to me and can't be used without my permission. The little quote up there in the picture is from The Show Must Go On by Queen. Those lines always made me think of Kopii, so I figgered it was about time to use them somehow.

As always, feedback is more than welcome. You would make me very very happy if you took the time to scribble down a few lines and send them to silvestris@hotmail.com. Please?

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