Today is Christmas Day.

I'm in England in a big and sombre manor. I was born in France over Christmas. My mother died giving birth to me. And because of that my father hates me. He named me Narcisse because he said that it was the name a selfish person should have.

I'm not selfish! It's not my fault if my mother died.

I'm blond with very white skin and grey eyes. I love my eyes because when I'm angry they're grey but if I'm happy they're blue. I think they are the most beautiful thing I got from my mother.

Today I'm going to tell my father that I'll quit home soon. But where can I go? I don't know anybody. And nobody knows me.

Doing that is totally stupid but I want to be free.

I'm tired of doing everything my father wants. He is calling me. I'm going to eat… I don't want to see him! His evil face soils my beautiful eyes, my lovely eyes. You know, it's the only thing she gave me. I'm exactly like my father except that he has black eyes. He is looking directly at me. I can't. I don't want to see him. What is the colour of my eyes now? Are they grey because I'm angry? Are they blue?

"Narcisse!"

I hate this name. Why is it my name? Why did he give me this name? Maybe he wants to be sure that I will not forget.

"Narcisse!"

"Daddy?"

"DON'T CALL ME LIKE THAT!"

"Why should I call you father? "

"You're beneath me."

I'm beneath him? Yes I know it. He already said that a long time ago. This sentence hurts me. I don't know why? He is too cold. I run to my bedroom and look at myself in the mirror. Am I beneath him? So why do I have her eyes? They are so beautiful. Sometimes when I just look at my eyes I see my mother. Unless I imagine her face smiling. I know she loves me.

But now I see him in the mirror. And he is saying: "You're me. You're not her. You will never be her. Your eyes are a mistake." I know it. He doesn't have to say that. I am a mistake. If I was dead she would be alive. And I'm totally submitted. I'm not blind. I realized it a long time ago. But even though I don't know anybody else I know that everybody is submitted to him.

I'm asking myself: could he be hurt by my death?

I don't think so.

Do I want it?

Somebody said that the eyes where the reflection of the soul. I'm still in front of the mirror. And I see him. And I see her. And I see him. It hearts me. I've a headache. I'm her. I'm him. I'm not me. I'm nobody. I'm going to sleep because I think I'm going crazy. But during the night I knew. If I want to be me I just have to stop being her. I took a pen-knife from the kitchen, opened it and deliberately cut my eyes from their sockets. I did what I should have done a long time ago.

I killed her.