The pain doesn't get any better. I just get better at hiding it.
Forget figuring out my purpose in life, I just wanna know who my left arm belongs to.
Who the hell stitches together dead bodies? At least I hope they were dead bodies. Oh god, what if they weren't dead bodies?
When I think about who made me, I picture some awkward scientist wishing for a son. Knowing my luck, I'm probably a serial killer's walking trophy collection.
People say "meet your maker" like it's some kinda threat, when there's nothing I wouldn't do to meet my own.
I feel like one of my hands belongs to a piccolo player, and the other belonged to a guy who was nicknamed "Johnny Sausage Fingers".
I hate looking into the mirror and staring into a stranger's eyes. Where does he end and I begin?
Someone made me for a reason. I just need to figure out who, and why.
Drifter
