Gods, how I want that to be true. How I long for that to free me from the sins of my past. To know that I was even a little unrelated to the man that shared this skin twenty four hours ago would be a sweetness I do not deserve. I apologize, as I am no philosopher. I have nothing to assert my claim to the invalidity of this theory but my own heart. My heart tells me, every morning, that the blood is still on my hands. Mine. It was my mistakes, my decisions, and my conviction that led me here, to this small room, before this mirror in which I see a stranger's face and a history of violence.
If anything I have lived not ten thousand lives but two. I would have been better off having died at the end of my first, but I am not a lucky man.
Like most I remember little of the day of my birth. Flashes of memory haunt my nightmares. Darkness, and screaming. A terrible pressure, and pain. A light. Arms pulling me through jagged stone and dust. Chalky faces of my family. My new family. And the finality. The loss. The truth.
It makes sense. Everything dies. But being confronted with the truth is often... painful. And there is nothing wrong with that truth.
It's what I did with it that I will suffer for.
The man in the mirror has been there too long already now. He finishes applying his chalky white makeup and stands. The knife dangles loosely at his hip. There is work to be done, and so he turns and leaves.
And my heart is heavy with the weight of the truth I must share with the people. It will be a long night, before I can return, sleep, and dream of a new life, and a new me. Someone else to bear this skin. Someone better.
