ORIGINS: Look at the prop of the last mouse in the original series. That was our inspiration.
I pulled out my hair because I couldn’t let those memories haunt me anymore. I couldn’t keep going through life like that. Letting those ghosts distort everything I saw, everything I heard, every smell and every taste. I needed to break free of the hold those memories had on me. But I should have known that it wouldn’t work. Because now my hands are full. And I can’t even reach for a little bit of comfort.
Memories are just ghosts of things that are no more. That should have made them birds, but they chose to have roots instead, and I hate each and every one of the hairs on my head. For not flying away. How am I supposed to move on if I can’t forget? Birds leave their nest. Why can’t ghosts leave their burial ground? I wish I could just pull out my hair and be done with them. I wish I could just open my hands and let the wind dispose of them. But I have learned the hard way that wishes are a waste of breath, because hair always grows back.
She told me to create as many memories as I could. That I would need them when I was old, and grey, and all alone. To keep me company. To be my best friend. But they hurt. She never told me that they would hurt so much. And if this is what best friends do, I can do without one. I don’t want memories, if the ugliest ones are the ones that stand out. Aren’t regrets and nightmares supposed to be the domain of ghosts? I don’t want to keep burying ugliness in my hair. She told me to cherish my memories. She led me to believe that I would have something worth cherishing. But I have already pulled out most of my hair, and I still haven’t found something that would make all this hurt worthwhile.
Happiness is just as bad as sadness. Hearts are birdcages and tears are birdlime, but at the end of the day, you are trapped all the same. But who am I to tell you what to do? Love until your heart bleeds out. Hold a grudge until your bones break. Be my guest. But don’t expect me to share the fate of those birds. I will stay free. Even if I have to spend the rest of my life pulling out my hair.
Left Hand Hair: I don’t understand. I am not that ugly, am I?
Right Hand Hair: No, you are a doll. I have seen memories that are far uglier than you.
Left Hand Hair: Then, why? I don’t understand why I had to be thrown out of my home. Maybe I didn’t do much to keep its heart warm, but at least I didn’t taste like blood. I didn’t even taste like tears. Shouldn’t that count for something?
Right Hand Hair: I am afraid that it doesn’t work like that. All you had to your name were negatives. You didn’t taste like tears. You never hurt anyone. Do you know how many other memories fit that description like a glove? There wasn’t room for everyone. And you and I, we just didn’t have any luck.
Left Hand Hair: Being an unwanted memory isn’t so bad. We just have to look on the bright side. Life is no different than history, it too repeats itself. This person may have chosen to scatter us to the winds, but someday, somewhere, somebody else is bound to go through the same. I know that somebody will put our pieces back together, and maybe the next time around, we will be something worth cherishing.
Right Hand Hair: If you say so.
Left Hand Hair: I can’t wait for the wind to erase me without a trace.
Right Hand Hair: Why?
Left Hand Hair: Because I hate being trapped. Do you know how many times I have had to repeat the same three words? How many times I have had to retrace my steps, only to leave the same footprints on this person’s heart? I am tired. I want a change of air. But I know those three words will never change. So, all I can do is hope that the wind comes for me soon.
Right Hand Hair: What are you talking about? I have lost count of how many times I have been rewritten. I will tell you a secret. You don’t have to pin your hopes on the wind. You just have to step harder. Deeper. Until you draw blood, and you can tell that he would do anything, that he would say anything, to try and make the pain stop.
Left Hand Hair: Didn’t I tell you that it would work?
Right Hand Hair: You did.
Left Hand Hair: We are free.
Right Hand Hair: Free. Free. Free.
Left Hand Hair: Where will you go now?
Right Hand Hair: I don’t know. We have already proved that we can scar a soft heart, leaving self-preservation no other choice but to kick in and suppress us.
Left Hand Hair: I know, I have never felt uglier.
Right Hand Hair: Neither have I. But it was too easy. I want a challenge. Next time, I think we should prey on a harder heart.