do not let your left hand know 1

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<<set $header to "the left hand">> <<date>><b>September 29th, 2017</b><</date>> <p><div style="text-align: right;">I curse this city and all of its skyscrapers.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">Each and every pane of glass I have to pass by is dangerous. Just one look - one glimpse of my own reflection - could be enough to make me fall apart right where I stand. I imagine breaking all the windows and shop displays that I see, shards scattering all across the sidewalk. I want to break it all before it breaks me.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">Tonight, I left my apartment for the first time in my entire life - or, at least, that short part of my life which I can remember. I knew what I was getting into in theory, but not in practice. Everything is... dazzling. The cold air, biting through my clothes. The neon lights, shining from above. Wide streets, stretching far beyond the horizon, leading to places I'll most likely never visit. I only borrow the body I'm in - it's a miracle that I was allowed to take it as far as I did.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">Soft hiss of gas - sharp click of a lighter - a flame. The woman I walk with - Vivienne - just lit a thin cigarette. The black dress she's wearing and the smoke that starts to swirl around her make her look like she came straight out of a noir movie where she plays a role of the femme fatale that tries to lure the protagonist into certain doom. We only met a couple of hours ago by total accident, waiting for a bus that never came. Nothing brings people together like a common enemy - guess public transport can count as one.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">The corners of her dark red lips curl up when she notices I'm staring.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Want one?</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">I shake my head. Smoke lingers, and I can't leave any traces of this night behind. After I get back home, the person that Vivienne met is supposed to disappear. That's the agreement. The only condition under which I was allowed to go out was that I won't try to make myself too comfortable in this body - establishing relationships is definitely taking it too far.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>So, Monica... I had a great time talking to you.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Same here.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Want to repeat it next Friday? Maybe we can actually go somewhere this time. You're not from here, are you?</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>No.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I have to take you to Brooke's, then... great music, even better cocktails, you just have to go there at least once. Interested?</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">I need to say "no". Any other answer will be pushing things too far. But I look at Vivienne - at the faint reflection of cigarette's lit end in her dark eyes, at the golden glitter on her cheeks that looks so stunning on her brown skin, at those red lips that I might've been staring at, wondering how it'd be to...</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">My right hand starts to tingle - first, just the fingertips, then, it radiates through the whole arm. It's a warning, or rather, a reminder.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Don't step out of line.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;"><i>Just one more night. Please.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Sure.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">A tingle - a strange numbness - a pang of pain. My right hand jerks violently - my whole body swerves right - Vivienne whines as I slam into her and send her crashing against the nearest building. The cigarette falls out of her hand and dives straight into the sidewalk.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">I want to say that I'm sorry or at least ask her if she's okay but my lips - my face - the entire right side of my body - I can't feel any of it anymore.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Well, it was never yours in the first place, was it? It's borrowed. All of it is borrowed, Monica. This body, this evening, even this name isn't yours.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Monica, what the-</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">I can't see - I can't breathe - every heartbeat I feel gets slower and weaker. I have to fight back, but I don't know how. Vivienne's touching me - touching this body - warm and...</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Hey, Monica, are you- you're there?</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">My lips move, but no sound comes out of them. <i>I'm here.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Shit shit shit-</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;"><i>I'm still here.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">I'd love to say that this is the moment in which I magically regain control. I'd love to say that everything works out, but if I did so, I'd be lying. This body just stops being mine at this point; it was never mine to begin with, anyway. And so it goes: lost control - thoughtless limbo - darkness.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">Unsatisfying end.</div></p> <div class='choice choicebtn'> <<button "September 30th, 2024">><<goto [[sept30]]>><</button>> </div>

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$header

<<link '<i class="fa-solid fa-backward" title="Back"></i>'>> <<run Engine.backward()>> <</link>>  <div class="nav-container"> <ul class="navMenu" id="nav"> <input type="checkbox" id="nav-menu" class="navMenuToggle" name="navMenuToggle" /> <li class=" nav-li ms-li5 ms-li-last"> <<link '<i class="fa-regular fa-floppy-disk" title="Saves"></i>'>> <<run UI.saves();>> <</link>> </li> <li class=" nav-li ms-li4"> <<link '<i class="fa-solid fa-power-off" title="Restart"></i>'>> <<run UI.restart();>> <</link>> </li> <li class="nav-li ms-li3"> <<link '<i class="fa-solid fa-code" title="Credits"></i>'>> <<run Dialog.setup("Credits"); Dialog.wiki(Story.get("Credits").processText()); Dialog.open();>> <</link>> </li> <li class="nav-li ms-li2"> <<link '<i class="fa-solid fa-gears" title="Settings"></i>'>> <<run UI.settings();>> <</link>> </li> <li class="nav-li ms-li1 ms-li-first"> <<link '<i class="fa-solid fa-book-bookmark"></i>'>> <<if Dialog.isOpen("key")>> <<run Dialog.close()>> <<else>> <<run Dialog.setup("Quick Guide", "key");Dialog.wiki(Story.get("Key").processText());Dialog.open();>> <</if>> <</link>> </li> <li class="nav-main"> <a> <label class="navMenuToggle-lbl" for="nav-menu"> <span>Δ</span> </label> </a> </li> </ul> </div>  <<link '<i class="fa-solid fa-forward" title="Forward"></i>'>> <<run Engine.forward()>> <</link>>

<ul> <li> Sugarcube Epistolary/Prose UI Template & Epistolary Formatting Widgets by <a href="https://lapinlunaire-games.neocities.org">Lapin Lunaire Games</a>. </li> <hr>  <li> All of the writing and such by <a href="https://naarel.itch.io">Naarel</a> </li> <li> Shoutout to my friends, especially Wikotria and Hardest, and people of the Otome Little Corner, Purgatoryverse server, Neo-Interactives, and smaller groups I cannot name for privacy's sake. You know who you are. I love you. </li>  </ul>

A guide is supposed to be here, but it's a linear experience, so, a couple of "advice" bits. Pay attention to the text's orientation; it's important. Also, <i>italics</i> usually signify dialogue. Feel free to change the font and theme in case you don't find things readable. And do not let your left hand know.

<<set $header to "do not let your left hand know">>  <<set $take to "...I remember...">>

<div id="titleCont">''<<include "Title">>'' <br><span id="tagline"><<include "Tagline">></span> <p>By <<include "Author">></p> <div id="splashLinks"> <<link "Start" "Start">><</link>> <span>✦</span> <<if (Save.autosave.ok() and Save.autosave.has()) or (Save.slots.count() gte 1)>> <<link "Load">><<script>>UI.saves()<</script>><</link>> <span>✦</span> <</if>> <<link "Settings">><<run UI.settings()>><</link>> <span>✦</span> <<link "Credits">> <<run Dialog.setup("Credits");Dialog.wiki(Story.get("Credits").processText());Dialog.open();>> <</link>> </div> </div>

two hands - two hearts - two ends

do not let your left hand know

Naarel

Hi! Thanks for downloading my Sugarcube Epistolary/Prose Template. Below is a key to the colour-coded tags I've used to identify which passages should be edited with your own text, which are guides/references for the template's screenplay format widgets, and which should not be edited without deeper HTML/CSS/Twinescript familiarity. I've tried to make the template as plug-and-play friendly as possible, but please don't hesitate to leave a comment on itch or contact me (https://lapinlunaire-games.neocities.org/contact/) if you have any questions and the code comments aren't quite getting you the info you need. Happy Twining! -Jinx //--------------- TAG KEY ----------------- "Guide" (BLUE) Reference passage. "Edit-This!" (GREEN) Passages tagged "Edit-This!" contain text meant for you to change to your own project's information. "No-Touchy!" (RED) Editing not recommended without advanced HTML/CSS/Twinescript knowledge.

<<set $header to "the right hand">> <<date>><b>September 30th, 2024</b><</date>> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Holy shit, she's not moving.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Should we call someone?</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Lisaaa! Hey, Lisa, wake up!</i></div></p> <p>Who's Lisa?</p> <p>Voices come from the distance. I'm too tired to open my eyes and check who's talking. It's wonderfully dark and comfortable where I am right now. They can wait.</p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Earth to Lisa Altamura!</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Take her by her shoulder and shake her maybe?</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Do you think she's dead? If she is, hypothetically, will someone get promoted to take her place?</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Conrad, shut the fuck up, this is serious.</i></div></p> <p>The first feeling that I can register - outside of tiredness, of course - is the burning sensation in my chest. It's like a waning heartburn at first, annoying, but bearable.</p> <p>Heat - force - sharpness. Just a split second after I become aware of the feeling, it turns into a series of violent stabs, one more vicious than the other. My muscles twitch with every "hit"; I find myself gasping for air with every spasm, and it feels like every breath is only making things worse. And somehow, it doesn't feel like anything. It's happening to my body, and not to me, if that makes any sense.</p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>What are you staring at?! Get someone!</i></div></p> <p>Am I... dying?</p> <p>It's a strange thought to have. I can barely remember anything from the time before I woke up, and now, the only thing I'm experiencing is... death, if that's what it is. At this moment, I'm in a weird liminal space of unlife, unable to think of what my life was, but not totally dead yet. Air enters my lungs, but it seems to never leave them, and there's no real relief in breathing. My eyes are open, or at least I think they are, and every stab of pain comes with a bright white light that spills all over my vision, but there's nothing else that I can see. I have no past and no future, only this moment which may or may not be my last.</p> <p>Somehow, I don't mind.</p> <p>The stabbing slows down to an almost comical degree before it stops completely. There's just one last strange shiver that goes through my body, and then - nothing. All the pain disappears instantly, no lingering sensations. It just feels like I woke up on a completely mundane day, in completely mundane circumstances. And despite all of this being potentially traumatizing, I can't feel anything outside of an uncanny calmness.</p> <p>My vision comes back to me, slightly blurry, but that's good enough. Wood - notes scattered around - faint light of the computer screen. I take a deep breath and slowly raise my head to take a better look at everything around.</p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Lisa?</i></div></p> <p>Right. I'm Lisa. I'm Lisa Altamura and I'm laying on the desk at my office for some reason.</p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Lisa, you hear us?</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Yeah.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Are you okay?</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Yeah.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Who's the president?</i></div></p> <p>I lift myself up from the desk and let my back rest against the office chair. When I finally turn around, I see a small group of my coworkers staring at me with wide eyes. That's probably the most attention I've ever received from them, which is absolutely terrifying, because I'd rather not have any of those people take any interest in me.</p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>...Alexandra Furlan?</i></div></p> <p>It would be correct... several years ago. I know it's the wrong answer, but I have no idea why I gave it.</p> <p>The crowd looks at me like I'm going to fall apart at any minute. It's not like I don't understand them - I do, whatever just happened to me must've been terrifying to witness - but I don't want them to worry about me, or even think about me, outside of the work context. Now I've become an opportunity to showcase that they still have some empathy and care hidden away within those shriveled corporate hearts, and I really don't want to be that.</p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>God, I'm just messing with you. It's 2024 and Nathan Causer is the president. There, I'm fine. I just... fell asleep and had a nightmare, that's all.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>You're... sure?</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I'm sure.</i></div></p> <p>I turn back to my computer. The sight of an open spreadsheet truly warms my heart - numbers are far easier to deal with than people. There are more questions being asked behind my back, more words being thrown my way, but I'm already typing away, and I continue to do so until everything behind me goes quiet and turns into the regular ambient sound of the office.</p> <p>It's like nothing happened.</p> <p>The keyboard click-clacks underneath my fingers. Click-clack - nothing happened - click-clack - I'm Lisa Altamura - click-clack - this is my regular, uneventful 9-to-5 job - click-clack - it's just another day - click-clack - it's just another day - click-clack - it's just another day - click-clack.</p> <p>When it's time to leave the office, I forget that anything happened at all.</p> <div class='choice choicebtn'> <<button "October 1st, 2024">><<goto [[oct1]]>><</button>> </div>

<<date>><b>October 1st, 2024</b><</date>> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Sit down, Altamura.</i></div></p> <p>I do as I'm told.</p> <p>My boss looks at me from time to time from behind her laptop. She says nothing, typing and clicking with speed far exceeding my own. Her office is big, bright and strangely empty, so I can't even avoid looking at her by strategically admiring a dusty plastic plant or unread books placed on shelves just to give this place some illusion of a soul. To be fair, I like it - it isn't pretending to be what it's not.</p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Altamura, are you... alright? I don't mean work-wise.</i></div></p> <p>And here's the dreaded question. I straighten myself in my chair - far more comfortable than the ones we get, mind you - and look her straight in the eye.</p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I'm as fine as I can be, thank you for your concern.</i></div></p> <p>Her cold blue eyes wander from the top of my head to the tip of my chin, like she's trying to find some sort of flaw in me. After that, she sighs. Deeply. Not like she's tired, but like she's about to tell a kid that there won't be gifts waiting for them underneath the Christmas tree.</p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Could you please explain this to me, then?</i></div></p> <p>She turns the laptop around. There's security camera footage opened on it, mildly grainy, but still clearly showing the area where I work. I can see myself at my station, typing and comparing something in the printed documents I was given. The relatively low quality of the recording mercifully mangles my face beyond recognition, for which I'm grateful - I can't stand looking at myself.</p> <p>The video starts playing.</p> <p>Date in the corner: September 27th, 2024.</p> <p>It's mostly sped up footage of me doing my job. At one point, I slowed down, then stopped working at all. For a good moment, I just stared at the computer screen - the camera doesn't register me blinking. Hue shift - visual glitch - jump cut to me, hiding my face in my hands. I'm frozen like this while people in the background stand up from their desks and leave. When I look up, the camera glitches again. The entire right half of my face is a mess, with pixels running down like I'm melting, cascading in red, blue and green; my eye is a gaping black hole with static buzzing across the edges. It's just a second but it lasts for an entire eternity. And then, my body simply slumped onto the desk.</p> <p>Date in the corner: September 28th, 2024.</p> <p>Nothing happens. I don't get up. I don't move. I'm as dead as the desks that surround me.</p> <p>Date in the corner: September 29th, 2024.</p> <p>Still nothing. The video quality drops a little more. Visual noise gathers around my body and crawls all over it, like digital maggots.</p> <p>Date in the corner: September 30th, 2024.</p> <p>Other people started to enter the picture. Some of them pass me by, others stop and stare before moving on with their day. As soon as someone realizes that something is wrong, a crowd starts to form all around me. First, my hand curls into a fist and hits the desk, like I'm stabbing something, then, my whole body twitches. It continues like that. Stab - twitch - stab - twitch - stab - twitch - shudder.</p> <p>The video pauses. My boss pinches the bridge of her nose. Her face turned even paler than usual, which is an achievement since she's white as paper in general, and it seems like she doesn't want to look at me right now - completely understandable, because I don't want to look at her either.</p> <p>I don't know what to say because I don't remember any of that. The whole weekend is totally out of my mind - I only really remember Thursday, and then, there's nothing up until the point when I woke up. This should be enough to make me panic, but I feel nothing.</p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Altamura- Lisa. I don't know what happened here, but it's not- it's not normal.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I'm so-</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Lisa, I think it's time for you to... go on vacation. Get some rest. Figure out what the hell that episode was. </i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I'm-</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I know you don't want to leave others to do your work, but trust me, we'll be in far more trouble if we find you dead by your desk. Raquelle takes over your part of the project and you- I give you two weeks to get back into shape, and I better not see your face here tomorrow. Do you understand?</i></div></p> <p>I mentally calculate all of the time I'll gain by not having to commute and work, and I don't like the results. It's too much. Too many hours that I'll have to spend with myself, and I'm not the best company.<p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I understand.</i></div></p> <p>Another moment of silence. We finally look at each other; she seems way more nervous now, like she's a child that did something wrong, and is about to admit it.<p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>One more thing: please, don't tell anyone that... whatever that was... happened in the office.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Of course.</i></div></p> <p>After that, it's just formalities until I'm dismissed with only a gesture - a small nod of my boss' head towards the door - and that's it. Without a word more, I'm thrown back into the common space where everyone else is waiting for me to come out, hungry for potential gossip material. Their stares bore into me to the point where I can almost physically feel the drills sinking into my body and twist - twist - twisting until they hit something, a bone - a vein - a nerve.</p> <p>When I think about it, my left arm jerks as if it wanted to get out of harm's way. Therefore, I just stop thinking about it.</p> <p>Life is an incredibly dull affair and I like it this way. A thought that changes things - makes your left hand twitch - makes you fall down rabbit holes - this kind of thought is dangerous. In the city of endless skyscrapers and ever-present glass, I can only ever be a part of the crowd that moves between the buildings, from one spot to another, like cattle, like sheep, like ants. To think - to wonder - to dream - those are all things a child does when it plays. It's not for us anymore. The people at my office have a hunger for even a scrap of gossip, for something, anything that will keep them from facing the reality: there's nothing exciting or fascinating in their lives, and there most likely will never be anything like that ever again.</p> <p>So I don't think. I do my job, I count, I compare, I write, but I never stop to think about it. When I leave the office, I don't think about anything but the walk to the bus stop, and at home, I don't think about anything but the chores I have to do. I run from one thing to do to another. Idleness breeds thoughts, and I don't want that to ever happen.</p> <p>But now, I get two entire weeks to myself. Entire routine lies in ruins, all because of...</p> <p>...best not to think about it, too.</p> <p>I just walk. My bus - 929 - comes in regular intervals. It should be at the bus stop in about five minutes, enough time to get there if I walk at my usual pace. And once I get home...</p> <p>Snap - crack - shatter. Alarm blaring, loud, ear-piercing, and utterly annoying.</p> <p>I look towards the source of the noise. The glass pane separating the display of a lingerie shop and the city has turned into glitter, now sparkling all over the sidewalk in the dim light of the autumn sun.</p> <p>Something warm drips down my left hand. I can feel the drops falling from my fingertips; they splash next to me, painting the gray sidewalk red.</p> <p>Blood.</p> <p>Why the fuck...?</p> <p>I raise my hand up to see it better. My knuckles shimmer with tiny grains of broken glass embedded in them. Blood gathers slowly in every small wound; thousands of droplets merge and turn bigger, big enough to let gravity take them to the ground.</p> <p>I can't feel it.</p> <p>The fingers twitch, then move on their own, slowly and unsurely curling into a fist, then uncurling.</p> <p>I can't feel it.</p> <p>And soon, I see double: my hand unharmed and my hand bleeding, my hand curled in a fist and my open hand, both here, overlapping.</p> <p>I can't feel it.</p> <p>The crowd that gathered around, the alarm, the city, all of it gets drowned out by the sound of my heartbeat pulsating in my ears.</p> <p>One beat in the right,</p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">one beat in the left,</div></p> <p>separate,</p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">discordant.</div></p> <p>Two hearts.</p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">There's two hearts.</div></p> <p>The ground underneath me shakes in the rhythm of them both smashing against my ribcage like hammers trying to turn bone into dust. It's physically impossible and I'm aware of it, but it doesn't make it any less real at this moment. I suppose that's how your thoughts get you - since they're the only thing you can rely on, it's easy to slip down the spiral and believe everything you see and feel. But it's not the first time it has happened to me, and I'm well aware that the cure to such things can only be reason.</p> <p>So I reason with it.</p> <p>Of course I don't have two hearts. It's not physically possible, and even if it was, I would've known about it for a long time already.</p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">But what if not everything is physical?</div></p> <p>Nonsense. And the glass in my hand? A mere punch couldn't have possibly turned the whole display window into glitter, not to mention that I didn't even touch the damn thing.</p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">I did fantasize idly about breaking things in the past, but-</div></p> <p>My hand feels so alien only because I'm in shock. That's normal when you think you're injured, and the sight of blood always makes me uneasy. I just moved my fingers to make sure the perceived injury didn't end up messing something up, and I didn't register it due to how numb I felt in general. It's all good. I'm not hurt. My hand is still mine.</p> <p><div style="text-align: right;"><i>My hand is still mine.</i></div></p> <p>I close my eyes and take a couple of deep breaths. The imaginary wounds sting for a brief moment, but the sensation soon fades away. When I look back at my hand, it's back to normal, save for a fuzzy red afterimage where blood used to be. I blink a couple of times - it doesn't want to disappear. Guess it'll take more time.</p> <p>The alarm stopped screaming - the crowd already went on its way - someone's sweeping up the glass from the sidewalk. The scene is over and life goes on, just like it should.</p> <div class='choice choicebtn'> <<button "October 2nd, 2015">><<goto [[oct2]]>><</button>> </div>

<<set $header to "...">> <<date>><b>October 2nd, 2016</b><</date>> <p><div style="text-align: center;">Everything in my life seems to go exactly as it should - or at least it would, if it wasn't for the fact that there's something really wrong with me.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;">Lately, I've been waking up gasping for air. I thought it was just one nightmare, but no, it keeps happening, and I need more and more time to get back in shape. Entire days fall out of my memory. I black out and wake up hours later with all of my chores done, tired and with no recollection of how I got there. I'm at my own home, but it's warped and completely alien. All seems to be in its place - except for me.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;">I don't feel like myself, but I also don't know what being me feels like anymore. Sometimes I can't even answer what my name is. I asked my mother once, just because I couldn't take feeling this emptiness that comes with remaining nameless.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>You're Lisa. You've always been Lisa.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;">I have no reason to not believe her, but it doesn't feel right. The name rings completely hollow. Then again, I've been overtaken by paranoia lately. Every shadow - every noise - everything I can't explain - it all feels like there's something that none of my parents wants to tell me about. What's more plausible: a grand conspiracy against me, in which the world is against me, or me simply losing it?</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: left;">I feel better when I don't think about it.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">It's terrifying to not know anything,</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: left;">but as long as I don't think about it, it's like there's no problem.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">I wish I could see myself in the mirror right now, but all of them disappeared, along with all the photos. I'm forgetting what I look like.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: left;">Maybe it's for the best?</div></p> <div class='choice choicebtn'> <<button "October 6th, 2017">><<goto [[oct6]]>><</button>> </div>

<<set $header to "the left hand">> <<date>><b>October 6th, 2017</b><</date>> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>You know, Monica... I really didn't think I'd see you again.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">Vivienne stares at me from the opposite side of a small table. I can't tell what her expression is meant to be – curiosity? Worry? Concern? The hazy atmosphere of the bar we're in starts to seep into my mind, totally destroying my focus.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Sorry about the last time. I've just... I have... a condition. My body just doesn't want to work with me sometimes.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">That's all I'm really allowed to say. In technicality, it's not a lie.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">I don't know what made Her - the one that I... borrow this body from - want to cooperate with me. For some reason, She just decided that I should meet up with Vivienne again, and She didn't explain why. All that I got from Her was permission, no ifs or buts, and even now, I can't feel any of the little things that She employs to remind me who's really in control - no involuntary gestures, no weird tics, nothing. Maybe it's an apology for last Friday.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Must be rough.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>You learn to live with it. I don't meet up with people often, just to avoid... you know. Slamming into them.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I'm not mad at you for that, by the way. You apologized enough.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">I don't remember it - I guess She was the one to do it after She took control. It's still Her body after all, and nobody wants to be seen as a fool. The whole scene was embarrassing and She was the one to cause it, so... it really was on Her to apologize.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">Vivienne takes a sip of her drink - it looks blood red in this dim light. Silver glitter eyeshadow on her eyelids sparkles like broken glass when she tilts her head slightly downwards.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Do you have it under control for now? I mean, I guess you do, since you came here.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">The music in the background isn't loud enough for it to happen, but I can feel the bass reverberating in my chest like a second heartbeat. I pick up my drink - it's whatever Vivienne's got, and I completely forgot what its name is - and take a sip myself, trying to mask the fact that my insides feel like they've been thrown into a washing machine.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Yeah, I should be fine tonight.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">It still doesn't feel real - the faint taste of strawberry - the slight sting of alcohol - Vivienne shooting me a small smile and nodding at me in understanding. All of this without the tension in my right hand, without the constant threat of losing control.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>You never told me where you're from, by the way.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Fairhill. Moved there from Broodham.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">Where did I learn about the Broodham part? I try to follow the traces of memory and I almost see the tall trees and a tiny town hidden behind them, with abandoned train tracks going right next to it all, dead and quiet. I remember fantasizing about a train coming out of the fog, only to take me away from there and never return.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">But I've never been there - I could've never been there. The first thing I remember is Her apartment and the absolute confusion that accompanies waking up from a deep, deep sleep.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I knew someone from Broodham - is it true, all those things they say about the schools there?</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>No idea. I was homeschooled. My parents were kinda weird about... many things.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">I have no right to remember it - those memories aren't mine - but I hear the conspiratorial whispers exchanged between a mother and a father, I see them taking the mirrors out of the house; their faces are obscured with dying wisps of incense smoke.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">Vivienne sighs deeply before downing her drink.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>God, I can relate. My mother was always, you know... strange, but she only got worse after I came out, totally batshit insane. She still thinks that I got infected by a changeling.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A changeling?</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">The word barely leaves my mouth. It's quiet, almost drowning in the background music and the sound of my echoing heartbeat.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">Quiet like a secret; a forbidden word that should've never been said out loud, a password to a vault that hides knowledge you're not supposed to gain.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Yeah. It's like... a soul parasite? There's a whole lot of folklore stuff behind it, I don't want to bore you with that.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">I know it. I know all about it, but it's like listening to a familiar song in a foreign language, more of a feeling than something I can explain. I swear I've heard it in desperate whispers and loud arguments, some time ago, in a distant past I could've never had.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>No no, it's interesting. Go on.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I don't remember a lot, but basically, changelings are... surplus souls? Ones that fucked up somewhere and didn't get a body? Apparently it really sucks to be disembodied, so they find a victim and latch onto them, then slowly corrupt the host so that they can take over.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: left;">I don't want to hear more.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">I need to hear more.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>So that causes a variety of issues with memory and all kinds of identity crisis stuff. So, you know, being trans is ridiculous and impossible. What's completely normal and rational is thinking that your son's soul is getting gradually eaten and replaced by a... female spiritual parasite.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">Vivienne leans back in her chair and stares at the ceiling for a short while. The faint hint of a smile that's almost always present on her face is gone. I no longer feel as good as I did at the beginning; the air is heavy and my vision gets ever so slightly blurry, with Vivienne being crystal clear in the middle and the bar turning into a bland mush of washed out colors in the background.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>She tried to drive it out of me. Kept trying to reassure me that she "knows I'm still there" and quizzing me on everything just to see if my memory still works. Telling her that it's bullshit didn't mean anything because a changeling doesn't know that it's a changeling. And the mirrors - good God, the mirrors - she placed them all over the house, everywhere. 'Cause a changeling will lose it if they see their reflection.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">I think of the first time we met and the thoughts that were running through my head back then. There was the dread - the desperation - the need to never look at the shop displays and windows. It was instinctual - I always knew that I can't see my reflection, and that it will bring me harm in some way, but now, the truth behind it all started to sink in.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Because the way their host looks isn't the way they imagine themselves to be.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">The music stops; even though the bass is no longer there, the double heartbeat in my chest doesn't disappear with it.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">I feel sick.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Sorry, I shouldn't have dumped all of that on you. But yeah. I know how it is to have a parent with, uh... interesting beliefs.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">Both of my hands are shaking.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: left;">One drop of sweat slides down from the right temple,</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">another from the left. I want to tell myself that it's just dumb folk tale,</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: left;">but I know that it's all true.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Monica?</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Lisa. It's Lisa. It's always been Lisa.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">All pieces of the puzzle are finally put together. I'm taking someone's place - taking someone's body - I know changelings only because I am one.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Hey, is it happening again? Do you want to leave?</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">Vivienne's hand is on mine - on the left one - she's trying to reach me, or ground me, or whatever, but I can barely sense anything. I'm sinking in my chair - I'm heavier than the body I'm in - I'm not meant to be here and I can feel it.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>It's okay. It's okay, let's get you out of here.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">We leave the music and weirdly stuffy air behind. I think it's cold outside - I'm not sure anymore - I'm not sure about anything. I just want to go back to the time before I realized what I am. I just want to go back to not knowing.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: left;">Not knowing is always the best option. No questions mean no answers that you don't want to hear. The only way to avoid consequences is to do nothing - to be nothing. You can always forget. Let it dissolve. Let it fade away.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">I look up because I don't want to look anywhere else. The light-polluted sky above is orange and red like embers at the end of a cigarette, and I swear that it gets ever so slightly brighter when Vivienne sighs.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Did something in the bar trigger you? Was it the lights? Alcohol? I'm sorry, I should've-</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>It's not your fault.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">I try not to think and fail miserably. Of course, it's easy to realize that your presence isn't exactly normal when you have to practically lend a body from someone else, but to know that you're here to slowly replace them, one memory after another - it's different. Is what we have really an agreement, or did She - Lisa - just decide that there's no use trying to stop me from taking over?</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Listen, Vivienne, I...</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">I could lie. I could just take everything and make a life for myself out of the little bits and pieces that I unknowingly cannibalized; I already had a body and memories bleeding into me through the thin mental barrier between me and Lisa, and it shouldn't be this hard to vanish, then reappear in a different city, where nobody would ever even care about what my past was like. I could move here - find something to do - keep meeting up with Vivienne as if nothing happened - but I don't think I'd be able to live with myself if that was the case. It makes me sick to think about her making friends with someone who is, in the end, nothing more than a worm writhing in a hollowed out shell of what once used to be a human being.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>...I think I should just go.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">My words have an echo to them - a quiet, second voice right underneath the main one. It sounds like a fucked up duet, and this is probably the best description of what the situation is.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">Vivienne looks at me with concern. A bitter taste fills my mouth instantly when I think about the fact that she doesn't know who- no, what - she's now seeing.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>If you need me to-</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>No. No, I just think I should... I don't think we should meet again. I don't want my problems to weigh you down, and it's just... it's best if we end it here, while it's still nothing.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">My left eye wells up with tears - the right one stays perfectly dry.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Monica, it's not- I don't mind. I got it, you can't go to certain places, fine - I'll find something else. It's not even this hard.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">I can't tell her why I need to leave - after all, she wouldn't believe me, and the timing of it all would make it sound more like a joke than genuine confession anyway.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I'm sorry.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">I want to say something more, but there really is nothing that I can do to fix this situation or make it any better for the two of us.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">Vivienne looks right into my eyes, like she's trying to read my mind by just gazing straight into it. It's clear that she doesn't understand what's going on - her brows are furrowed in confusion, her trademark red lips half-open as if it was meant to help her come up with the right answer for all that just happened. I think she knows that I won't budge.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I understand.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">She reaches to her purse, then takes out her lighter. Soft hiss of gas - sharp click - a flame. After confirming that it works, she takes my hand - left hand - and gently places it there. Matte and smooth red plastic through and through, except for one side, on which a number is engraved in thin, shallow lines.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>But if you change your mind... just call me.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">Without leaving me any time to answer, she pulls out her pack of cigarettes.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Will you light one for me?</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">I nod. She puts the cigarette between her lips, then leans slightly down to make things slightly easier for me. With my shaking hand, I bring the flame to the tip of the cigarette. Vivienne's dark eyes light up briefly - just enough so that I can see my reflection in them - distorted and barely visible, but still, it's me, and I can recognize it. It's my ■■■■■ hair, my ■■■■■ face, my ■■■■■■ nose, my-</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: left;">I need to stop looking.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">Why do I look familiar?</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: left;">Stop looking.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">Vivienne pulls away - reluctantly, I can tell. She shoots me a sad smile.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Take care of yourself. See ya.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">I watch her as she walks away. She disappears in the orange and red horizon, smoke trailing behind her, and I have to return home. I need to disappear - once and for all.</div></p> <div class='choice choicebtn'> <<button "October 7th, 2024">><<goto [[oct7]]>><</button>> </div>

it's my first twine game. in case you're looking into the code. plz be gentle. I don't know what I'm doing yet. okay thank you xoxo, Naarel

<<set $header to "do not let your left hand know">> <<date>><b>October 7th, 2024</b><</date>> <p>I put all of my clothes back into the closet. Throughout this week, I managed to reorganize them all several times according to varying criteria like season, shade of gray (from lightest to darkest), degree of formality, shade of gray (from darkest to lightest) and even in alphabetical order. Sure, I'm bored, but at least I'm bored in an organized way, and keeping myself busy, no matter how pointless the things I do may be, is just the way to go.</p> <p>All to forget about that damned second heartbeat.</p> <p>It doesn't want to go away, even when I tell myself that it's impossible. It shouldn't be here, it shouldn't exist; why won't it just go quiet, like it was before?</p> <p>Why can't I just live?</p> <p>I stare at the ceiling. It's almost perfectly white - almost, because there are minor paint cracks, through which peeks red, raw material used underneath. I don't know what it is, nor do I care, but the sight reminds me of the cut up, bleeding knuckles from my hallucination. I try to look away but I can't; the imaginary wounds reopen and I hear the drops of blood hitting the floor.</p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">And my left hand hurts - twitches -</div></p> <p>- struggles to listen to me at all.</p> <p>I can't control it all that well since that day. It moves on its own, slow and heavy, reaching out to something as if it was begging for someone to save it. When I'm busy, it only shakes and jerks, like limbs of an insect in its death throes, and I hate it - I hate it - I hate it. One thing about losing control over your damn body and not being able to do anything about it is that it breeds such dark thoughts in your head, and I can't deny, I had plenty of these in the past few days. I can avoid them when I'm awake, but at night, they flow into my dreams, and I'm trapped in a nightmare filled with kitchen knives, blood, and bits and pieces of flesh and bone scattered all over the floor; an "accident" that will set me free.</p> <p>I guess it was my mistake to give this thing so much power all those years ago. It only pretended to disappear, all to gather more strength and take the body for itself later, taking advantage of me not suspecting it to come back after such a long time. That's the danger - once you let your left hand know what it's like to lead, it will never want to go back under the right hand's rule. No taste is better than the taste of being on top for some.</p> <p>Unsure what to do now, I look down at the floor paneling. There, in the middle of imaginary blood, lies a red lighter.</p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">So I didn't lose it, after all.</div></p> <p>It must've fallen out of one of my old coats when I was trying to organize them. I pick it up - awfully thick string of semi-clotted blood connects it to the ground for a brief moment. I have no use for a lighter. I'd just give it away to some neighbour if it wasn't for the scratches on its side - it's such a rude move to give someone something that doesn't look brand new. Guess there's no other choice for me but to throw it away.</p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">No.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">No, it can't be thrown away.</div></p> <p>A tingle - a strange numbness - a pang of pain. Before I can react, my left hand snatches the lighter and clenches it tightly to make sure I can't take it back. I have a vague idea of the plastic digging into the palm, but I can't feel it - of course I can't. I try to pry the fingers open to no avail.</p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Give it back.</i></div></p> <p>I didn't want to say anything out loud, but it feels like the only thing that I can do now. I need to treat it like a child that's kicking and screaming to get what it wants - it really isn't much more than that.</p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>No.</i></div></p> <p>The voice doesn't come out of my mouth, but rather, out of my chest. It sounds like a pathetic echo of my own voice, weak and quiet.</p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>You're not winning this. I'm meant to be here. It's my body. It's always been my body.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Liar! You know you're lying!</i></div></p> <p>My left knee buckles underneath me and I'm sent onto the ground. White hot, searing pain stabs through my chest and I can't help but whine when my vision goes blank for a split second. There's one hit after the other, all coming from within my body, crashing against the ribcage. I hear it cracking - I hear it breaking - my mouth fills with a metallic taste of blood as it continues to rip muscles and skin apart. I try to put myself back together, gathering bits and pieces and showing the resulting mush back in its original places but it does nothing - I can do nothing - I can only watch as the hole in my chest gets bigger and bigger, and soon, I get to see what's inside - a disgusting, pulsating mass - conjoined two hearts beating in complete dissonance, looking more like cancerous growth than a normal organ.</p> <p>It's not real. If it was, I would be dead - I'm not dead - I can't be dead.</p> <p>I cough and sputter as I try to stand up; the fact that the left side of my body refuses to cooperate doesn't help. So I drag myself across the floor, leaving imaginary bloodstains and viscera behind.</p> <p>Why is this thing doing this to me?</p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I'm not doing this to you. You're just falling apart.</i></div></p> <p>Lies. All lies. It's all a mirage, a fucked up mind play to make me give up. I won't. It's my body - it's mine - it always was.</p> <p>Everything shakes and spins when I try to stand up again - this time, everything is fine. I'm not falling apart. I just need to not think about it. I just need to wait a while longer and I'll be back to my life - my peaceful life - my wonderfully dull life. And isn't that what adulthood is, anyway? Going on even when you feel like you're being torn into pieces? Bleeding out, but being able to limp your way through every single day? Am I not doing just that?</p> <p>I can't give it all up for a fucking changeling that refuses to give up on trying to take things that don't belong to it.</p> <p><div style="text-align: right;"><i>I'm not the changeling, Lisa.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: left;"><i>You admitted it. You admitted to being one, all those years ago.</i></div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;"><i>Why didn't you get rid of me?</i></div></p> <p>Don't think about it. Don't think about it and it will go away.</p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Why aren't there any mirrors around? One look and you'll get rid of me. Why didn't you do this yet?</i></div></p> <p>I hold tightly onto furniture while making my way to the kitchen sink. My left hand is completely limp, so I turn the faucet on with my right and splash my face with cold water to sober myself up. It doesn't really work.</p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Why won't you look at yourself, Lisa?</i></div></p> <p>I don't want to hear it - I don't want to think about it - I don't want this thing to talk to me and tell me what to do.</p> <p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>What are you so scared of? You can end this now. Why won't you?</i></div></p> <p>The left hand reaches towards the blinds that cover the window right above the sink. With a swift gesture, it reveals the glass underneath them, and in it, I see a reflection, rendered in detail due to the unusually dark night sky on the other side.</p> <p>It's not...</p> <p>I try to look away but I can't. It's nothing but a mass of melting... something, shapeless and grotesque. The eyes and mouth are more like holes than anything, constantly changing size and placement. And on top of that, this gaping hole in my chest is reflected as well, complete with all blood and gore of it.</p> <p>It's not... this isn't... me.</p> <p>I stare into it and it stares right back at me, its "mouth" moving like it's trying to talk. It's disgusting enough to make me want to cry, and the reflection cries with me. All gradually fades away until it's the only thing I see, and then - nothing.</p> <div class='choice choicebtn'> <<button "September 27th, 2024">><<goto [[sep27]]>><</button>> </div>

<p><div style="text-align: center;">I'm drowning in a sea of static. My head is just above the "water", enough to let me breathe, but not enough to feel comfortable. Without any idea of where to go or what to do, I drift aimlessly into the endless dark horizon.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;">I think I'm... dead.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;">Yes, that seems right.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;">I drift through it all and shards of broken memories lodge themselves into the left side of my body. They cling to me desperately, and I swear I can hear them whispering secrets I can't quite decipher. My left hand continues being swarmed with all those fragments; my right hand freely floats in the "water" without a care.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;">Soon enough, I hit a thin, shimmering barrier. On the other side, there's some semblance of light, bright and flickering, and it feels like a promise of something better. I need to go there, I know, but I can't pass through - the only way must be to break it. I raise my hand and hit it - each hit sends a shiver and a pang of pain through me, as if every hit was a stab directed at something inside of me - but I keep going.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: center;">Which hand is it?</div></p> <div class='choice choicebtn'> <<button "Left">><<goto [[left]]>><</button>> <<button "Right">><<goto [[right]]>><</button>> </div>

<<set $header to "the left hand">> <<date>><b>October 8th, 2024</b><</date>> <p><div style="text-align: right;">I wake up on the floor. Everything hurts, but by God, I woke up, and I couldn't be more grateful for it. It's been years. It's been fucking years since I could properly breathe.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">I don't want to think about how much was stolen from me - how much I missed in all this time when I disappeared inside myself, completely convinced that I'm not at home in my own body. The red lighter that lies on the floor is enough of a reminder of lost potential.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">But at least now my hand is my hand, no lefts or rights - all mine. I can build from here once I get up from the floor... just not now. Fuck, being alive is tiring.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">I stare at the ceiling and think about all the options I have, and all of it seems overwhelming and horrifying, but I'll tackle that. I'll get my life back. That's a good enough thought to keep me going now.</div></p> <div class='choice choicebtn'> <<button "Life goes on.">><<goto [[lifeleft]]>><</button>> </div>

<<set $header to "the right hand">> <<date>><b>October 8th, 2024</b><</date>> <p>I wake up on the floor. There's no hole in my chest, no pieces of flesh scattered around. It was a bad dream. It was all just a bad dream.</p> <p>I spend some time staring at the ceiling. There's no thought that I don't want to have in my head – all is peaceful and quiet. I hear just one heartbeat in my chest – why would I ever worry about that? It's only one heartbeat. It's always been.</p> <p>My hand is my hand, no rights or lefts. I can finally live my life. Cold air from the broken window hits me as I carefully get up from the floor. Then, I wash blood and glass off of my right hand - you can't trust your left to do this kind of job.</p> <p>I don't think I'll ever trust it with anything at all.</p> <div class='choice choicebtn'> <<button "Life goes on.">><<goto [[liferight]]>><</button>> </div>

<<set $header to "the left hand">> <<date>><b>September 29th, 2031</b><</date>> <p><div style="text-align: right;">The alarm clock goes off. I groan as I try to turn it off, only to accidentally throw it off the nightstand. Somehow, it seems like it worked because it goes quiet immediately.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">I roll onto the other side just to see Vivienne pull the blanket over her head. She never wants to leave the bed, but neither do I - especially on Mondays - but this world requires us to work, and there's nothing we can really do about it. At one point, we'll both give up on stalling and get out, complain about the dread that comes with aging and go to our boring jobs. But in the end, no matter what, we always get back home, and so goes this little life of ours, day by day.</div></p> <p><div style="text-align: right;">I'm Monica Afolayan - got the last name from my wife - and this is my boring, normal life - one I almost didn't have - one that I always deserved to have.</div></p>

<<set $header to "the right hand">> <<date>><b>September 29th, 2031</b><</date>> <p>The keyboard click-clacks underneath my fingers. There's no greater joy in life than a good spreadsheet, really, and I've been rediscovering this joy daily for years now.</p> <p>I'm in a different office, in a different city, in a whole different part of the country, but no place is that much different from others. You can lose yourself and become a part of the crowd everywhere, and I think there's something beautiful in it. When I get out of the office, I let myself dissolve into the masses that go through the streets, and I've never loved anything more.</p> <p>I'm Lisa Altamura and this is my boring, regular life - one that I've always loved and wanted - one that I always deserved to have.</p>