I Am Nobody

I was somebody, I'm sure of it, I used to have arms and legs and a nose and lips. But now I'm nobody.

I sit on a park bench, a hardcover book in my hands as my eyes begin to grow sore from the minute text I read. A collection of Emily Dickinson’s poems, bound in teal covered cardboard holds my attention. The beautifully scripted text asks me to analyze it and seduces me with its powerful symbolism. I begin to turn the page as my thumb slides over the sharp edge of the page, and I feel the paper cut a crevice into my skin. I hiss while I bring my hand up to my face to look at the injury, but there’s no cut, no thumb,  not even a hand, it seems that I am not there. Though I must be as I am holding a book in what I believe is my hand and I’m sitting on a bench, but the only thing I can recognize is my clothes. I look up and see the many people pass me by and try and get their attention in a multitude of ways. I stick my leg out in front of a woman jogging past me, but her feet go through my cellophane limb. I try and yell to get a man’s attention, I am sure I can hear my voice leave my mouth, yet he and others around him don't even glance my way.

I am beginning to question if I'm dreaming, if all of this is some strange fantasy of my mind, that maybe soon I'll be awake and bring hands to my face and marvel at their solidness and how beautifully crafted they are. I take my fingers and pinch where my arm should be and feel a phantom pain shoot through my invisible nerves. I am awake, but I still can't see my hands. Where did they go, why do I still feel their presence even though I can no longer see them? Why can nobody see the pile of clothes sitting straight up on a park bench, with it's arms raised in the air, and an Emily Dickinson book dropped down where the shoes are? Where did I go?

Suddenly I feel a weight shift on the left of my form, and it draws me out of my panic as I glance and see a comforting sight. Another mass of clothing sits next to me, it has no face to admire, no hair to run my hands through, nothing that would make it look beautiful. But I feel their beauty radiating off of them with the intensity of a sun. I feel pressure on my hand as I assume they want to make sure I'm like them, and I enclose my hand around theirs. I see the hat on their head shift upwards from where our hands should be, to look near where my scarf is. I can think of no conversation we can make, or if they'll even hear me say anything, but I do remember this piece of text I had only just moments ago been reading

“I am nobody. Who are you? Are you nobody too?”

Author's Note

Anything you want to mention!