I have been called a dove.

A pure, white, innocent dove that knows nothing of the hunter waiting below with a rifle in hand, aiming at its wings.

Far from it, I think.

They protected me. Shielded me from the outside world – everything they thought was harmful, hurting, horrendous. I grew up knowing naught of the real terrene and they were happy about it, overjoyed at owning an untainted child. I guess they didn’t know of the gift I received instead.

To keep one from reality was to lie.

Lies are pretty. They’re fabricated from thousands of yarns in different colours, almost like a rainbow. They are simple enough, yet oftentimes they deceive and pursue deceit.

Lies are pretty, but they can hardly compare with the stories I spin. With an old, crooked spinning wheel that stands out in a room so white and clean I dare not touch its sides. I weave tales of dungeons, windows, and dank little chambers. Those are dangerous, though, so I mostly weave tales of us.

Lies are pretty, but they always lead to unfortunate events, do they not?

I have been called a swan.

A beautiful, glorious swan cutting through the air on splendid white wings, floating atop water with its head held high in pride.

The ugly duckling that never grew up, I think.

You praised me. You said I was beautiful.

I like that word. It sounds nice.

You used to whisper it ninety-nine times each day. Ninety-nine is a lot, you would say. A lot, though perhaps not enough, but enough for us. A hundred is too much, perhaps not enough for others, but overwhelming for us. I liked your words. They made sense.

I considered swans my favourite beings. I still do, sometimes. They are so white, so pure – everything I am not but seem to be, in your eyes and those of theirs. At times, I imagined myself as a swan, something a step closer to who you are. You never found out though. I stopped doing it after a while.

If you had found out, you would have asked why.

I wouldn’t have told you. I am selfish after all.

Because every time I glanced at your eyes, I would feel myself becoming smaller, and watch my feathers turning to charcoal black. I wouldn’t be on the lake any longer. I would be standing against a bare tree, with rotten leaves swirling up and adding to the heavy collection on my arms. I would see a monstrous crow in my place, its wings imitating the gnarled branches. It scared me.

Being pure was a must to not taint you, yet thinking of it would do exactly that. It was frightening and difficult to control, like an inexperienced tight-rope walker, to fall at any moment.

A difference existed though.

They didn’t want to fall, because falling would be a disgrace.

I didn’t want to fall, because falling was and still is an endless pit, and I would have pulled you with me.

I have been called an angel.

An unearthly being with incomparable beauty, celestial wings bathed in blinding white light. Wings to lift them up, carry them higher.

My disguise, I think.

As an angel I was to help and heal.

A burden indeed.

For what was the use of healing if I couldn’t heal myself?

I was and still am stained, filled up with permanent ink which I tried to not let you touch. But you did, and I decided to not heal you and keep you instead. You ran away, but you came back willingly. It is baffling how you made it through these solid walls but you did, and that is all that matters.

As an angel it was wrong. To let you stay and allow the darkness to seep through, it was a sin. As it was a sin to watch you wither and do nothing, because selfish spells my name.

I have been called a broken trinket.

An ornament somewhat akin to the china nightingale lying in pieces on its music box, fragments of its shattered wings visible amongst the dust. White on nothing. The grey gears turn no longer.

A diamond, I think.

Because I am polished.

Polished so smooth that you will never feel the cracks, never brush across the edges, never cut yourself and bleed.

Polished so thoroughly and carefully that you will never find your way in.

But you did. And you didn’t find your way out.

Like I will never find my way out from these four walls.

At least you had fissures to climb through, except they are now sealed.

I don’t, but it isn’t a pity. I have you.

I did warn you.

I did tell you there is no route leading out.

I did say you would crumble.

I did sing of destruction.

I did speak of a land without light.

Or I tried to, but you didn’t hear it.

We soar through an ashen flight, on torn wings tipped with flames as we circle, and fall.

And repeat.