Shapeshifter

I am a shapeshifter.

            When I am with my friends, I become a sweet, elfin creature who sits beneath a dome of make-up and titters to those around her in a language that even she doesn’t understand. I assume a lithe body, all elegance and angles, that feels stilted and unnatural against my clumsy nature, and arrange my face into an equivocal mask, painstakingly softened and outlined by way of endless cosmetics that cost more than I can afford.

When I am with my boyfriend, I morph into a dexterous, serpentine being, who arranges her limbs strategically and cranes her neck in attempt to display the love bites mottling her skin, which she wears like medals. She lets her body sink against his, scuttling hands sweeping swiftly through hair and across skin, and, in turn, lets him explore her depths, introducing himself to each and every pathway of her being and claiming himself a home within her.

            When I am with my teachers, I shrink into a meek, placid little creature incapable of developed speech. It communicates by way of head-nodding, shy glances and expressive essays, speaking only when spoken to, and even then just by way of small, parroted phrases unlikely to invoke any form of anger within them. It is nothing more than a pet, doing and saying the right things at the right time, and is favoured for it.

            When I am with my parents, I flourish into a bright, confident opportunist who knows no bounds – the daughter of their dreams. She speaks in animated tones, walks with a spring in her step, brandishes perfect school reports, and can see her future rolled out on the horizon; a one way road to a scarlet carpet lined with admirers. She is beautiful. She is happy.  

            When I am with my sister, I grow into a towering being, the epitome of all that is safe and secure. It burns with all that she wants and aims to achieve, and envelopes her in solid arms and comforting words whenever she needs them. Upon its face, it bears an unwavering smile, which, unbeknown to her, is a white cage for the words I could never let her hear – it is only the lies that escape.  

            When I am on my own, I let the layers fall away.

            Every night, when I am alone in the dark, I uncover myself. I peel back my clothing, tugging at the garments that define my forms – low-cut tops, Christmas jumpers, a pristine school uniform. I stare at myself in the darkness, a half-lit being, dappled with shadow, who, despite her exposure, still doesn’t feel like me.

            I shed my skin, but not before examining it. My face looks different beneath the makeup; pale, tired and impassive, and without the illusion of my clothing, I am uneventful – not lithe, not long, not serpentine, just a teenage girl with bones and muscle like anybody else. I tear away the skin from my body, ripping strips from my legs and stomach like wrapping paper, and pause at my arms. They are scored, red and scabbed and carved, with cuts and canyons, forming a tangled web of memories and reasons for their presence. From a trained viewpoint, they almost look beautiful.

            But I tear them away even so.

            I am left with my organs, blood and bones, but none of them feel like anything to do with me. No one thinks about the chemicals in a cure – they think of the man who made it. I pull myself to pieces, throw my physical shell onto the floor, and remove myself from my body completely.

            Surely, there must be something left. Something that defines me. Surely I am more than atoms and pretence.

            But there is nothing. I am a merely a husk, constructed of shadows, hollowness and memories of what I used to be. Through the darkness, I grapple blindly for something to anchor me to reality, something that proves that I am more than an ever-changing girl with no real substance. I find thin fragments – I don’t like coffee; I am clumsy; I cry at Titanic.

            As I drift to sleep, a single memory slips into my mind. It is of a girl I vaguely recognise, a girl who smiled without strain and laughed without force. She wasn’t particularly well liked, but she was completely herself. She had little friends, she insulted her teachers, she teased her sister, she disobeyed her parents, and she never ever wanted a boyfriend.

            She is the girl I used to be.

            As morning inches itself into the world, I start to reassemble my body. I withdraw back into my shell, slide into my skin, cover the cuttings with coarse fabric, until I look like the person I am meant to be. I outline my face, pucker my lips into a soft smile, and take the form of the girl who is happy, the girl who everybody likes.

            I am a shapeshifter.