Just look at that.
Look at that little girl sitting alone in her room with her headphones on.
She never asks for help, does she? Looks so tough and uncaring, she does. Always so composed.
But let me tell you something. A tiny, weenie secret. She actually does care, so very, very much. And she’s not tough, no tough little cookie, no-no. She’s fragile, so very, very fragile, imagine that. Hard to believe, yes, so very hard, but true. Completely true.
How I know this? Why, because I am her. I am, I am. The little, little voice in her ear. The little, little presence in her head. The little, little figure hearing and watching everything. Her every, every move. Through her own little, little eyes and ears.
And let me tell you what I see and hear almost every, every evening. I hear her sobbing, see the big, big tears streaming from her eyes. How much she cries, how very, very much. The sobbing, so very lonely and miserable, so very, very. And with every tear, every, every sob, I take up a little more space. Not much, not much at all. Just a tiny, tiny bit. Sometimes she feels it, feels me inside her small, small head.
I scare her, very, very much. I don’t understand it, not at all, not at all. I’m only her very, very own Joker. Her very, very own Hannibal Lecter. Why is she not happy? Why do I scare her? Is it not me that fascinates her, so very, very much? Insanity. Insanity. I’m sorry, my child, but I will win, I will. Just you see, my darling, just you see.

H. María Líndal