The Passionate Corpse

10

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The room was as wide as an ocean. It had  high wooden cabinets that constantly grow as time passes. It had a sense of immortality— maybe it exists as long as I'm alive.

I had brought a ladder to help me reach the highest deck. Varying masks of different faces and different personalities are all in disorganized mountains. I had to choose my personality today. I can't waste my time.

I am a different person everyday. My personality changes as much as I change clothes. Sometimes, I am the sassy girl I met on the street. Or maybe I took-up the form of that flawless model on the screen. If my acids go down, I might be just a random girl that is afraid to socialize.

Pink skirts with glitters and stilletos for a sweet girl facade. Pitch black dress with plunging neckline for more daring. Just jeans and hanging blouse with utmost simplicity. These are all completely different with each other—just like my identities.

Those identities I found on Social Media. Overdid make-ups. Curvy body. Nice boobs and butts. Social Media sets my standard in each day.

Maybe I am soulless. But I lack love. But I lack attention. I can't be loved from who I really am. I cannot stay by being me.

Everyday is a haywire of a spinning wheel of choices. What the arrow points out, I become. What type of person it percieves, I take up. It became agressively spinning and spinning and spinning—'til it went blank.

It showed nothing. I am now nothing.

"Any last words?" a voice asked.

My fears surfaced. I cannot become any other person anymore. Not that cute girl on instagram that gained many likes. Not that famous youtuber that had millions of subscribers. Not that influencer that get praises everyday. I am no one.

My insecurities popped up like a sudden notification. My breasts are saggy. My arms are muscular. My buttocks aren't for flashes. My waist is not small. My hair is dry and rough. And definitely my face is not pleasing.

My head throbbed painfully. My vomits released all the pills that maintained my weight but destroyed my organs. Those pills kept me alive when my bones were almost touching my thinnest skin as I endulge myself in starvation.

My face was melting like a candle wax. Thickened and moistened from all the cosmetics that consumed my skin. All the thick layers of powder that made me ample of a human to see.

My eyeballs went out of the hole, rushing down in circles. Fatigued from the twenty-four hour exposure of screens all day. It's liquid had dried up—I see nothing.

My fingers broke in brittles like a graham cracker. I typed and typed and typed like a madman on ig. Insanely scrolling and scrolling down the feed finding what I want to find about.

Addicition drips like a sweet poison, slowly killing you inside. It had consumed my soul horrendously. The moment I clicked the image and knew that I had to copy that face, I had known. I had known that I lost my identity. I had lost me, while trying to be somebody.

"She's dead," a police officer muttered.

"But who is she? We must let her relatives know. A proper burial, perhaps?"

"No, she's nobody. Her face is blank,"

He took the phone lying beside the dead body. The screen had shown the instagram app. And the corpse last dying wish,

"My name is Rachel.

I am not a nobody.

I am not a nobody.

I am not a nobody.

I am not a nobody.

I am not a nobody.

I am not—"

The last words read, the sentences unfinished. Of course, I knew her last words. I killed her. By my own hands.

Oh, and by the way, my name is Insecurity.

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