Who am I?
I'm Jack.
But 'Jack' won't make me more human. It has no meaning to me. It's only a word, like nothing. It doesn't define me, it's just an identity.
I'm not a person.
Does a person have a barcode tattooed to the back of her head like a can of soup does? The only thing you check a can of soup for is its expiration date. It's only good for a certain amount of time, and then it's useless. But there are hundreds of cans, so an expired one isn't just useless. It's unnecessary.
I'm expendable.
When you look at me, what do you see? Trash. There isn't anything more to the appearance. There's nothing deeper when you scratch the surface. This is all there is to me. I'm good today, then gone tomorrow. I'm only useful for one thing – I kill without hesitation. I do the job that's too difficult for everyone else. And in my own sick world, I enjoy it.
I'm a monster.
I'm the thought of strangling that crying baby just to shut it up. I'm the person who helps you up, just to kick you down harder. I want to see others in pain. I want to make others hurt. I want to know that for once, just for once in my life, I'm not the one who's crying.
I'm a coward.
I'm scared of letting go. I'm scared of growing attached. I'm indecisive and unsure. I've been let down too many times. I put walls up and distance myself. I guise my insecurities with a strong, abrasive personality. But I know it's just a ruse. I can't begin count how many masks I wear. I don't let others get close to me, and I don't let others understand me. Maybe I like the confused looks they give. Maybe I like the pitied attention.
A person dies, and you call it a tragedy. Two million people die, and you call it a statistic.
I'm just a statistic.
I'm just a number.
I'm not Jack.
I'm Zero.