What a funny thing it is, imagination. Like right now, I’ve imagined you, sitting there in your room. No, wait, lying there in your room, on your bed. What beautiful orange sheets those are, the ones that remind you for your…mother. That’s right. And there you lie, asleep, waiting for your story to begin the minute I say the word.
The minute I say the word.
That’s the thing, about being me. My words are truth, my words are law, my words are your reality.
At any word I utter you will do exactly as I say. There is a knife somewhere in this room, and at my insistence, you will draw that knife across your throat and paint the pristine white walls around you scarlet.
If I say jump, you jump.
If I say scream, oh boy, you will scream.
That’s it. You’re a boy. No, no, you’re a man. A man-boy, barely out of being a gawky teenager, barely fitting into the form of a man. You’ve got that new strength in your skin, that instinctual fire in your groin that you know means you’ve got to fuck some pretty blonde soon before you go mad, you’ve got that fly away hair that you’re always too lazy to fix. You’re a man-boy-person and you are mine to control.
But what if you were a girl? A pretty girl, with a full bottom lip that makes all the boys go crazy when she pouts, with long hair that she sweeps behind her shoulder to get people’s attention, with the knowledge that she can make both boys and girls go insanely mad over her. A pretty, manipulative little bitch with not so much strength, but definitely a lot of cunning. A vindictive little vixen, maybe? How does that work out?
You know, I just can’t decide. I can’t even pick a name for you. And what good is a person without a name? Even worse, a person without an identity?!
Sure you could be agender, or maybe even gender fluid – neither a boy nor a girl, stuck between the boundaries of one gender and another, confusing people yet attracting them to you at the same time. Maybe you’re somebody who doesn’t care much for the convenience of labels.
Labels – who needs them? Cans of soup, that’s who. Wouldn’t want to accidentally swallow a mouthful of pea soup when I clearly wanted chicken noodle, now, would I?
Who cares who you are? What you are? Honestly, who gives a crap? Right now, all that matters is your room, and you lying in your bed. And the fact that I have a whole story laid out for you, my little one. You’re going to be running around in a maze for the rest of your imagined little life – you’re going to be my pet rabbit. I will love you, and feed you, and clothe you, and when you least expect it…
There goes your neck, puny little rabbit.
And you will try to run fast enough – believe me, you will – but let’s face it: you can’t run away from me. Me, the Author of this sad little story called Your Life.
But I digress.
For now, let’s just remember that I’m in charge here. And that it doesn’t really matter whether you’re Jane or John. All that matters is that you, my little rabbit, are about to embark on the journey of your life.
The details, they’ll be ironed out later.