Paper Mache Makes One Hell of An Identity Thief.

"Paper Mache Makes One Hell of an Identity Thief" By: ItsAj_

I watched my creation spread its wings, the folds in the paper ironing out the creases as it fluttered away. Silent, forgettable. Written upon its wings are inscriptions of its character, etched in fading ink, the paper which makes up its form carefully folded into a crane. I observe as it flies to the sparrows, resting on a branch as if it were one of them. I observe as it sits near the water fountain, somehow aware that its form will crumple if it came in contact with solution. I observe as the birds accept it as one of their own, despite its paper form, poisoned with the black elixir I used to make it alive.

It flies back to me, and for a moment the sparrows watch. But they don’t wait for it to come back. They leave just as fast as they arrived. I brush my fingers against the ink upon its form, reading the words I wrote which brought it to life. A small description is all that inscribes itself on the body. It does not do my crane justice. I needed to work harder. My phone buzzes beside me, it’s been doing that for days now. Or weeks? Time is lost to me. The ticking of the clock on my wall has become something of a metronome now, keeping time of how long I’ve been enveloped in the darkness of my room. The only thing illuminating my desk is the dying lamp beside me. I reach out towards my crane, delicately unfolding its wings, its body, admiring the creases of its form. As the carcass is laid out before me, I pick up my pen and press it against its fragile corpse, carving new words atop the old, drying ink. I’m so very tired. The words I’ve written upon the paper become nothing but an ugly amalgamation of scribbles that wish they were letters. But I can’t stop, not now.

I barely remember when I refolded my crane, the creases more defined than before. I barely remember when my hands became wet with ink, or was it glue? The stains on my sleeves and the odd texture between my fingers conclude it was both. I barely remember how I crafted my crane a more complex character, giving it a body, a soul. All out of ink etched in the paper, mashed into paper mache. When I was done with my masterpiece, it was visibly human. She was visibly human. No evidence that she had ever been made of paper, save the original crane that rest itself upon her head in a clip. She blinked at me. I blinked back.

The psudeo human before me smiled, a fake display of emotion she couldn’t possibly feel. I gazed into the emptiness of her eyes, deep, dark voids of nothing as she gazed back into mine. My phone buzzes again, igniting the room into a split second of light that reminds me of the limited space I’ve trapped myself in. Her eyes gain a false sense of humanity that even I don’t contain as the light reflects off of them. I detatch my eyes from her everlonging stare to pick up my phone, looking upon the countless messages and missed calls from days I don’t even remember passing by. My fingers float above the screen, uncertain and wavering. I don’t know what to say. As if my body were a separate entity from my mind, I watch as my fingers click call. Ringing. Louder than anything else in the infinite silence of the room. I hear the ringing stop, a familiar voice replacing the grating sound. Their words do not make sense, they are just sounds to me. A lump forms in my throat, clogging the words that I didn’t even have from coming out.

“I- “

She grabs the phone out of my hand. My paper creation. I watched as words flew out of her mouth as if they were butterflies resting on her tongue. An octave higher than my own voice, feminine and unnatural to my ears and yet somehow familiar to the one on the other end of the line. Her words were false promises, decietful truths that covered the tracks of my self destruction.

“I’m okay! I’m so sorry I haven’t responded in so long; you know how I get entraced in my work all the time.”

My breathing was unsteady as I listened to her speak into the phone. I was unable to say anything in the few moments the device was held in my hand, but now, I have too much to say. I wanted to tell them the truth. I wanted to cry out. But my paper creation’s thoughts were all too interconnected to mine.

“It’s been weeks? My God, no way! Time goes by so fast, when you’re focused, man. Hard to tell time when you’re so fixated on other things too.”

Fixated on anything but the outside world. Fixated on anything but reality.

“My room? Yeah, it’s a mess. Pretty sure I ran the lamp out of it’s life too, not that I mind anywho. Working in the dark is nice, the outside world is too bright for my liking.”

That lamp ran its course, yet I never replaced it no matter how much it flickered and dimmed. I wonder uselessly what that simple sentiment says about me. My paper creation continues to speak into the phone, laughter escaping her mouth. An action with no meaning, no feeling. But it’s enough to fool the person on the other end of the line and almost enough to fool me.

“’You need to touch grass,’ shut up! As if you’ve ever put as much effort into anything as I do without shutting yourself in to focus. Look, how about this, I’ll go out with you tomorrow if you’re so ‘worried’ about me and I’ll tell you all about what I’ve been doing.”

For a moment, she fools me, her voice was so real, so genuine. For a moment, I convince myself that she was me. Yet, when I look into the face that speaks those ‘truths’ I see nothing. The mouth which I thought held a smile was unfeeling, yet the voice laughed with laughter that felt true. The eyes which should have held light, bared nothing but an endless void, only masked by the fading gleam of the lamp. I should have said something truthful then. I should have taken the phone out of her hand and cancelled the plans, telling the person on the other end what was really going on. But I didn’t. Instead, I just stood there. Silent. Forgettable.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” she spoke. A conclusion to her serenade of lies.

Tomorrow came by all too fast. I didn’t sleep, but that was only an hour or two less than my present schedule. There was plenty time to prepare myself for the masquarade of normality that my paper creation set up for me, yet I couldn’t bring myself to breathe the air outside. My windowless room had become something of a prison, and I was not the warden. Instead, I’d found myself chained to the perception that I was a non-entity, a being that did not exist outside and could never adapt to such a place. An hour goes by, and I had done nothing but muster up the energy to get out of bed and halfheartedly make an attempt to dress myself. I see my paper creation mirror my movements as I get dressed, and she mimics me so perfectly. But when I stare at her, my posture shrunken and clothing crumpled like paper, it’s as if staring at an exact antithesis to myself. She stands tall, her clothes ironed aptly, resting upon her fake form. I practically never ironed my clothes, but there she stood, proud and creaseless. For a moment, I briefly forget she was once origami. But the crane in her hair brings me back to reality.

My feet brought me to the front door of my apartment, disconnected from my mind as I moved. Dust coated atop all the unmoved furniture, resting in layers of neglect as cobwebs stretched across the corners. My hand hovered above the unpolished doorknob, wrapping around and grasping at the base. But as I stared into the murky excuse of a reflection of myself, it felt as if I had just stared into the eyes of Medusa; my body petrified like stone and my lungs suffocating from the shallow breaths I could barely take. I couldn’t breathe. What would my friends think about me? They’d hate me. They wouldn’t accept me. It’s too late. I can’t go out. Not now, not ever. I was drowning in my thoughts, sinking under so much pressure.

My hands shook profusely, and I could feel my throat clogging up again. But then, I felt her hand touch my shoulder, grounding me. I closed my eyes for a moment, gathering my surroundings before I turned a brief angle to take a short look at her. A soft smile was what was plastered on her face. Too perfect. Too human. Despite how fake I knew it was, it was the only form of comfort I’ve had in a while. Her hand guided mine away from the doorknob, twisting and opening the door. The glaring light blinded me, it had been so long since I saw the sun, and even longer had I seen the outdoors. But just as I was about to take a step forward, she stopped me. I don’t know why I listened to this faux human. But I did, and I watched her walk away. Locking me back in the prison of my own design.

When she came back, I watched through the window how my friends smiled in ways I hadn’t seen in months. When she walked through the door, I thought I recognised a hint of humanity in her eyes. Alas, it was just the glare of the setting sun. I almost asked her how the day went. I almost asked her how she felt. But I knew she would retain no memory of it. I knew she did not feel that day. She couldn’t. She was my paper creation. The blinking of my phone light gained my attention. Positive messages filled the screen, it hurt so much to read.

“It was so much fun hanging around you Eliza! I hope we can do it again soon.”

Eliza was not my name. They loved her more than me.

It became a painful cycle. She would go out in my place, and I would be left behind to rot. If only my friends knew that she was not real. I tried going out on my own once. The one time I had swallowed my guilt and anxiousness. But when I did, they had asked if ‘Eliza’ was okay. I told them I was ‘Elizus’ and not Eliza. They laughed and said that was a boy's name. I told them I am a boy, and my name is not Eliza. I was unable to make them smile that day. They loved my paper creation more than me.

So, I went out with my paper mache character instead, and watched as she ran to my friends, sitting on a chair as if she was one of them. I observe as she smiles and laughs so genuinely, faking emotion, somehow aware that her façade will crumble if she didn’t. I observe as the people accept her as one of their own, as I am left standing by myself. Silent. Forgettable. So, I stretch my arms, letting the creases of my jacket unfold. My licence falls out of its pocket. When I pick it up, I let out a staggered breath when I read the name on its front.

Eliza.