Imperfection

She has a name, that is all. And she clings to it now.
Now, with a husband left behind and a monster underneath his skin. Now, with images trying to press their way past her eyes and be seen.

She has a name. That is all.

She was told the story of her body washing up on the cold beach, her skin translucent with cold and seawater, her mind recalling nothing before that day. She was told all this, but it never rang true.

But what else should I do? I have a name, that is all I have in this world. A name... that is... not my own. That is all I have now.

And she can only sit, the recent days coming back to her in a rush. And she can only think of their imperfections, of how wedded bliss never came and how affections were easily turned to hate, of how nothing seems to fit her - from this dress to this name to this life.

I am incomplete, a stone no longer being tumbled to smoothness. Who am I now? With nothing but this hair and these eyes, who am I?

That is when the woman appears again, as disturbingly real as before. She can hear the woman's voice clearly. It is soft and kind, cutting through the confusion. And the woman reaches out, brushing a hand over...

...my face, the lightest of touches... and who are you? A ghost, a demon? Are you real? Or do I struggle so hard for anything to hold on to, anything to tie me another life... I don't even know my name. I don't know you... but I... I...

And she jumps away, clutching her cheek with fear and longing pounding in her ears. The woman disappears as if she was never there. Like a spirit. Like a breeze. Like a dream. But with that woman's single caress, with that gesture that speaks of familiarity...

For a moment, I felt whole. I felt perfect.

She has a name and that is all. And she lessens her hold upon it, for it was never her. It is not her at all.
And she can only stare at the empty space that an unknown woman once filled, trying to recapture the sensation of the intangible.

END