|I was born into Light, Perfection and Silence. I took shape little by little, aware of the love that was shaping me, stitch by stitch, until the last thread was in the right place; the last knot tightened flawlessly, my clothes clean, shiny and ironed. At the time I imagined I was destined for eye candy, for happiness; a work of art that expressed not only the skill and flair of my creators, but also a reference, a concept, an idea. |
At the time, I was naïve, foolish and did not know the world. I was put in a small white wooden bed, a cradle, with friezes that reminded me of nightingales and small golden letters that gave me a name: Lucrezia. I liked my name, it reminded me of the light I felt before taking shape and in my heart I felt that never had a better name been guessed.
The journey to my home was short, I did not understand exactly how it happened, but I remember the great excitement of two adults before I was gifted to their little girl: Molly. A bizarre little girl, with ruby cheeks surrounded by strange wrinkles inappropriate for her young age, short little legs, ash blonde hair, and short, stubby fingers though, I would discover lately, very strong ones. Molly watched me for a few minutes in silence, peering at me with a mixture of surprise and puzzlement. I tried to look more radiant than ever, but I don’t think she ever cared, in the end she took me with her without a word, protectively, maternal I thought at first.
That very evening I experienced terror for the first time. She tore my beautiful dress to pieces with scissors, disfiguring it horribly, she beat me over and over again, crashing me against the floor, tore off all my buttons one by one and hit me so hard that not even my porcelain face could stand it, cracking it along with all my dreams. After that first night, there were many others, all the same, heartbreaking and excruciating. Every day I lost a fragment of dignity, every time I was pulled out from under a bed, or found in the middle of a pile of dirty laundry, I was handed back to my tormentor, who made me regret having come into the world. Eventually I became old, too worn out to be fixed and too sadly tanned to even deserve new torture, and so I was thrown away.
Hope Again filled me, out of that hell I could at least aspire to be ignored, left in peace, I could die in peace, watching the wonderful color of the sun every day warming my battered heart. The world, however, is never kind and even when you have nothing left to give, when you think you have lost everything, it finds a way to remind you that to exist is in itself a fault. Red, sparkling eyes, little rubies that glow dimly in the darkness; I met the Rats for the first time, thinking how lyrical their entrance had been. One of them ripped my body apart with a bite and dragged me away from the Light, into the darkness of the underworld. Here others fought over my entrails, emptying me not only of every thread of wool, but also of the crumbling hope that, who knows how, had managed to sustain me until then. Broken, destroyed and dismembered, I mingled with a rivulet of mud, begging to stop thinking, to cease to exist, to simply disappear.
Oblivion was not the punishment, but the well-deserved reward after a grim and devastating existence. For a while the mud welcomed me, hiding me from the world, giving me respite, but not granting me the grace of the End. When I was convinced that I would remain buried forever, everything changed once more: with a dive I found myself carried by the current, in the middle of a huge mass of water. What was left of my body could not withstand that crash and fell apart completely; only my head, once made of white porcelain, somehow did not shatter and began to fall into the Abyss. The initial terror was gradually replaced by the knowledge that the peace I had always sought was finally at hand. The Darkness of the ocean was a perfect cradle, better even than the one I was born in, above me, small stars shone dimly, distant and reassuring, small points of Light, opaque windows on the world I had now abandoned. In time, even the porcelain of my skull crumbled and only two pearls remained of me, the eyes that had seen and suffered so much, two solidified tears that had returned home, to Perfection.
Once upon a time there was a little boy who lived alone in a cramped, dark cave. Who his parents were and how he came to be in the cave was not important to him, for those narrow stone walls that surrounded him were the only things he had ever known and the darkness...