Natasha is the name you give someone so cold and heartless you can only love them with cowardice obsession and fetish fixation saved for perversions and professions. Natasha is the name of snow and mother Russia. It is poised beauty and emotionless eyes. Natasha is a fabrication, a stereotype, a golem created from half remembered memories and the fingerprints that are etched upon your childhood soul.

Remember this: we are three things.

We are the soul, which is clean and perfect. We are the thing which came before the body. We are energy and miracles. We are beings, which reside in the realms of both science and magic as well as that place called god. We are aware of the inherent morality of the universe. This is the essence of what we are, this is the perfect you and I. If all things were fair and all things were innocent we would wander this way forever.

We are the mind, which is both logical and remembering. We are mapped by language, this is both the only way we can form thoughts and the only way we can totally corrupt the soul. We are the great gamble and we are the great sacrifice: Innocence for the labyrinth of logic and reason. We are math and reason, but more importantly we are memory. We live in a moving world, bound by that which forms us through childhood and set free by the structure our minds create.

We are the body, which sustains us and pollutes us. We are controlled and tainted by our chemical reactions. We are thrust upon by pleasures and pains, hormonal, biological, our finite nerve ending twitching and shuttering us into ecstasy and horror. We are hunger and filth. We are survival and confusion. We are caged in this meat never to fly in the infinite universe that the soul was borne from and never to ride crystalline in the pure logic and deduction that the mind can construct. Yet we are wild and untamed in our primitive filter. We are unfettered by the morality that is clenched deep in our souls if we see fit to ignore it. We are free of our mechanical minds if we choose to overlook them or choose to poison them with the chemicals of the world around us.

We are these three things but Natasha is none of them.

Natasha is cold and as perfect as the hidden moon. She is as constant as the tides and as unfathomable as the sea.

Natasha is beautiful and porcelain at eighteen. Sitting as still as a stone at the piano, her eyes of blue, with all that which comes with that color. Skin pale, as you can imagine it would be since she has no heart, no human body stains or fluids. Hair gold and platinum, spun from some mystical loom, forged by some toymaker, a mockery of humanity, perfect for all we are is imperfect.

A girl. A girl at a piano, unsmiling, unwavering, fingers poised to play. To strike keys and perpetrate an imitation of music, made by her fine boned fingers that are too beautiful to have been fashioned in something as messy as a wet womb’s vile chemical filth.

The lilting waltz sprinkles and jingles over us. My family nods in approval.

I am David, at twenty, but not a man. I am effeminate David, who watches his distant cousin, distant in a million ways both blood and soul, play the waltz before Christmas Dinner. I am David, at twenty, a memory of myself kept perfect in my mind but polluted by this body and its lusts and loves and sick petty shame.

And she is Natasha. She is always Natasha.

And the hurt starts again.

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