"You don't know who I am. You don't know anything about me. And you will never know, until you know."

That is what I see every time I see someone. That is not the words flowing from their mouths, but is what they really are saying, and is not what I say, but it really is what I say when I reply back. What they say is not truly what they are saying. What they do is not truly what they do. And what they see is not truly what they see.

They can look at me, and never know it was what they really are seeing.

Because I, who am myself, is not myself. Because the identity I take is an imposter. My existence should have never been thought of in this world. I am neither good, nor bad. I cannot be based on a scale of 1-10. That is because good and bad don't exist. That is because numbers don't exist.

My trail of thoughts are able to confuse you because you are not willing to understand me until I offer to expand my own knowledge to you. And so I ask you, would you like to learn?

Yes, you may accept, and you may reject, which is why you don't know who I am. I am me, who is not me.

I am the existence within the body I am held captivated in; and it is not mine. My true identity is an existence I will never know of. My imposter body is a girl; within her teenage years.

I stare at myself through her eyes; is that really me? I will never know. I look like that, but is that really me? Do I even know me?

How would I know?

But one thing I do know, is that I know enough about myself to know that you don't know me. And you will never know me.


Life is not a bore. And it is not an excitement; unless you have a sick fetish of pain. But I do not know of pain either, have I experienced true pain? I don't know.

I don't know life, and I do not want to explain it, nor do I want to understand. If I tried to understand, I know I am afraid to get hurt. Oh, do not be fooled, my imposter and I are quite afraid of many things. Many things.

But we do not even know what those things are specifically. We are just…afraid. I think I…we…were afraid the day I was able to see.

But the day I started to see wasn't really the day I could see; I could see way long before that, but I could only see from that day on.


No it is quite simple. My eyes were opened that day, not on their own, I did not realize it, but I realized it when I came home from school. That was the day I realized I wasn't myself.

That was two years ago, in middle school. Nothing really changed. I just saw things differently. But people saw me different. That's because they didn't know me. Or maybe I don't know me.

Nobody knows me, I don't know me. I know God doesn't know me either, or he might have stopped something. He could have done anything, make a neighbor realize that needed my mother's recipe, or someone needed someone to replace them at work, or anything.

But nothing happened.

Sometimes I wonder what really happened that day, I didn't know what their motives were. I just saw it play out before my eyes, and then they took me. I didn't feel anything, I guess I was just an emotionless bitch back then too.

They took me, hurt me, and killed me. Did you really think I was alive!?

Ha, don't fall for my jokes, if I was dead, how would you be able to read this? How would I be in High School? Just shows how much you don't know me. Don't presume anything about my life, it will not go the way you think it will go.

I don't think, back then, the people who loved me wouldn't have done that to me. I think that meant they never loved me. They left me all alone. Maybe they loved the thought of me.

Or did they really? Did they only keep me because if anything happened it would demean our name? Did they only keep me because it was the 'right' thing to do? Was it because I was their unwanted responsibility?

I didn't know them back then. And they didn't know me. Otherwise what had happened to the person who I am that is not me would not have happened.

But now it doesn't matter, I'm not one to say that I am happy that it had not happened, or sad, because honestly I don't know. I don't know anything.

But I do know what had happened that day did indeed happen, though I do not know why it had happened. Its funny, isn't it. You should know the paths you had taken in the past and look to the possibilities in the future, yet I had never taken any paths in my life. I was dragged, feet first.

I look to the endless possibilities that could have happened, but never did. And the future…it has its own path for me because that future is dragging me towards chaos. Insanity. A Pandemonium.

Or maybe I'm wrong. Maybe because of the fact that I'm not choosing a path is my path. Or maybe there is no path. Maybe I, not my imposter, my existence, do not mean anything.

Maybe I do. But not now, I don't know right now.

Oh yes, I've been ranting on and on. Do you still want to know what happened back then?

I saw my mother kill my father. And then I saw her commit suicide.

It was…strange. I couldn't look away, but I couldn't stop watching. Am I sadistic? Do I have sick fetishes? I don't know. But the one thing I do know is that I feel and felt nothing about that.

My mother stabbed my father in the neck, and kissed him when blood was spilling out his mouth. And then she cut her wrists, and I watched her sit herself down, and bleed to death.

I wasn't the one to call the police; oh no, that was when 'God' had sadly acted. He just happened to have my neighbor come over then because my mother forgot something while she visited my neighbors. Isn't it ironic? At the time she could have came, she came after.

Anyways, she called the cops, trying to 'comfort' me. I wasn't crying, I was just watching, examining the blood. Examining the tears running down my mother's face, the tears that refused to fall off her chin. The sad smile on her face. Her blank eyes just staring at me cold.

And my father, his head turned my way, and his eyes stuck in the fear he had when my mother struck. More blood poured out of his wounds, and he twitched a bit as I watched him.

I don't know how, but I ended up in a sanitarium after. They thought I was crazy. I wasn't.

I knew I wasn't, which is why I left after a year there, which in that sanitarium was the fastest anyone has 'recovered'. I never recovered from anything. I had no injuries. Nothing.

I was all alone, unbearably alone, when I got to my 'home'. The inheritance, the mansion, the cars, everything was thrust upon me. Did I tell you my family was the highest company in Auto Insurance, Auto mobiles, and Mechanics? I had more than 50 million dollars in my hand, and a mansion, and a summer home. I let the business go in to temporary hold to one of the people I trust the most, my 'uncle' who is not my uncle.

I sold the mansion. I sold all of the vacation homes which never were really vacations or homes. I sold the mansion, my home that was an alien world to me.

All that money I had, I put it in a bank account. And I left it there. I used some of the money to buy me an apartment, and put everything else away. I worked the most I could for 'money', all that small jobs pre-teens could get.

And now I'm my age, where my 'Uncle' who is not my uncle gave me a job which isn't really a job to me, my imposter. It wasn't really a job, but I was paid. He paid me to go to a cram school and learn calculus, statistics, physics, and economics.

Now I'm a Sophomore, retaking all those classes I got crammed into my head within one year, even though I was behind a year in school because of the mental ward.

Nobody talks to me because I'm crazy. But they only think that because they think they know me, when they don't.

They don't know me, and I don't know them.

But now you know me a little.



If you are a bit confused, this story will be written in this type of format. I don't know whats its called, but our…(obviously you know who it is by now…I mean mechanic?) Main character will tell you the story like she's talking to you.