Perspective

Perspective.

…yeah.

It’s all a matter of perspective.

Because if you wear another person’s skin, for a day, for a week (monthyearcenturygodit’sbeensolong) wouldn’t it be conceivable that you’d become them? Pretend to be them, and suddenly you find yourself thinking the things they’d think, feeling the things they’d feel…

….loving the things they’d love.

Envy knows this.

When he spends each passing minute hiding behind another person’s face and body, it’s a constant reminder to him that he can no longer feel these things emotions, they’re called emotions that he seeks to imitate. It’s a dangerous game he plays, carefully sculpting personas and throwing them out for the world to see, and all the time balancing on tip toe, fighting not to lose himself in the other’s hopes and dreams, fears and beliefs.

An art he’s mastered…

No.

An art he practically created, because there had to be some way to spend the hours in the impossibly long time span that elapsed since he was created in this sorry excuse for a world.

Born.

Not created.

Born!

Living thing.

Person.

Alive.

But never nevernever human, gods no, never human, because humans were weak. Because to be one would mean weakness. That was not acceptable.

No.  

(nonononononono!)

Always shifting, always changing, and all the time trying to forget and trying to not forget. His preferred form was always at best a kind of blissful escapism. A beautiful, perfect, flawless dream. A dream. Even years later, when his mother inhabited an entirely different body, and his had long rotted away, Envy still kept up the masquerade.

Perspective.

That was the key.

Better to live in a dream then face the truth every morning, staring back at you out of the mirror. That face- his face- that stupid, bastard human’s face-

Perspective.

Create a body. Become someone else. A play.

Theater.

He’s always hated theater- so-called actors couldn’t hold a candle to the real professionals. Read the script, say the lines, take the bows, dressing room, and then off to the pub for a drink. It always amused him in a perverse sort of way. How easily the amateurs shed their roles, while he, the only serious one among them, was stuck living his, every second of every day, one, big, extravagant lie.

A lie!

That’s all any of this is!

One, big, goddamed lie, and I hatehatehate it!

Perspective. Just… calm down. Calm down and pretend the hurts don’t hurt and the lies aren’t being said. A role like that could numb you to the pain you’re trying to forget. But play that role often enough, and you’ll start to forget it’s just a play.

But that’s what I wanted, right?

To forget…

A person could forget, but only for so long. And the memories would always be there, just beneath the surface, waiting for upheaval to set them loose.

Perspective. That’s what it came down to. Relief was just a change of perspective away, even if it was just a fleeting, temporary relief.

Change the perspective, and maybe you can forget.

Envy knows this.

It’s the only thing that’s been certain in all his life.