Most of us are alone in the womb, waiting with whatever mindset to be allowed our first breath. I was not meant to be alone, I shared that space with a sister, whose intimate embrace sustained me. I ate her. Drained her dry, so that when she followed me out into the world I was fat and she was a dry husk. My mother said that was alright. I believed her, but then, what little girl doesn't believe their mother at the splendid age of six and a half? They even gave me the name meant for her as my middle name, so I guess I really did eat her.
I wish I could remember what she tasted like, at least then she'd have some memory completely of her own making. Vanilla maybe? With a name like 'Xanthe' it would probably have been an exotic ice cream. Either way she must've been scrumptious because when she followed me into the world there was almost nothing left. So while I was bawling my lungs full of intoxicating oxygen she was being wrapped up and sent wherever they sent empty ice cream boxes twenty-two years ago. Did they recycle back then? Either way she's gone because I was hungry when I was little, so hungry I gobbled up her identity. I'm living for two, make way! Life is never free, no matter what the signs say on your way out. Take it from me: murder, cannibalism, and vampirism are just the tip of the existentialist iceberg.
This narrative should start, I imagine, on that traditionally fateful day. Every life has one and mine was that day, twelve years ago. You may demand a dramatic drumroll, though it would probably be drowned out by the shrieking of brakes and the shattering of glass.
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