Two: Read this Letter When You're Having an Identity Crisis

   Sarah Roswell.
   I thought I was going to call myself Elaine Witherslyn, but even the voices thought I needed to protect my pseudonym by giving out another one to the cashier.
   I had to change how I looked. Long, golden hair, wide crystal, blue gray hair. I was an ugly girl, not some plain brunette who would blend into the woodwork. When they come to the town, when they find the town, ask around about the ugly blonde, people will remember me.
   So I had to change how I looked.
  I walked from the cabin towards the road, stumbling into the first convenience store I spotted. The man at the counter, nineteen, dark hair, tattooed sleeves, a pierced lip and nose, smoking what I knew wasn't a cigarette, didn't pay attention to me. The first metal rack, beef jerky, was by the registers,s o I picked up two bags, asked him to hold them, said that I was Sarah. Sarah Roswell.
   He laughed.
  You're stupid. That's what the voice's reasoning was. He's laughing cause you're stupid. Not cause of the pot, not cause of how I was apparently a rainbow, bobble head, but stupidity. I went to the back aisles, looking at the cheap razors and boxed hair dye. I picked up a twelve pack of black double bladed razors, the hair colors choices were red, black, or brown. I picked up the wheat brown and shoved the two packages underneath my tunic.
   And I slowly exited the shop.
   I stole.
   Don't steal.

   In the cabin's bathroom, I stared at myself. Ugly.
  I took the razor, watched the blonde strands fall, hit the floor as I cut, cut, slicing my hair, as the voices said good, slice more. They encouraged me and I obeyed.
   And then bloody ribbons covered my thighs as I stood, trembling, holding the razor.
   I dropped it, staring at my alabaster skin. Ugly. Soon it'd be scarred. I took the pieces of toilet paper, pressed them against my skin.
   Blood.
   I didn't know who I was, what I was doing yet I did. And soon, I wasn't the blonde, I was the short haired brunette with the razor blade.
   Buy expensive clothing, talk your best friend into taking an impromptu vacation to Vegas, dye your hair pink. Don't watch the blood drip onto the floors, the blood that the voices wanted you to spill, as you pathetically try wiping it up with one ply TP.

   I was on the floor, with my new hairstyle, resting my chin on the backpack, staring at the refrigerator, wondering how people ate.
  Not the mechanics, I understood the lifting the subsistence to your mouth, taking a bit, chewing, swallowing, your body breaking it down. But how? How did they know to eat? I didn't want to eat, I didn't need to eat, how did they force themselves to?
   Maybe take a physiology class, contemplate the wonders of life.
   If you have an identity crisis, have one like someone who isn't self destructive.

With Love,
   Sarah Roswell

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