What Am I?

What am I? I don't know if I can even say. My own existence is a mystery even to myself. I see brief flashes of something. But what? Where did I come from? Who am I? What am I?

I am an infant, separated from her mother. I have not felt my mother's heart since the moment I was born. I was ripped from her before I could even hear her voice. I was locked in a room. All I long for is a kind touch. Any knowledge that there's an ounce of compassion in the world. My mother was stolen from me, and I've never known anything but pain and fear. I just want affection, compassion, a hug, anything.

I am a loving wife. In ancient times, the Lord's servant bade me, my husband, and my family leave a sinful city. With a voice of bright light, they commanded us to flee. "Do not look behind you, stray not from the path. Do not stop until the city is dead and naught is left but char and ash." So we flew. Yet even with the commandment of God, I still looked over my shoulder at my home. I instantly felt my flesh and blood turn to stone and salt. Eons have passed, and today I try to atone for my sins and correct those who make the same mistakes I have made, with force if necessary. Do not look behind you, run, and move forward.

I am an angry god. You are my creations, made in my image. Or you were supposed to be. What I created was nothing like I envisioned. You were smaller, weaker, softer than me. You were a failure to me. But I am merciful, I let you live out of the kindness of my own heart. And you tossed that back in my face. You were ungrateful and stopped your worship of me. You stole my power with your disrespect. So I took the only form that gave me any capacity to use my abilities, one of the idols you created of me. A mocking form.

I am from before God was broken. I was his word, and I was to spread through all corners of the globe. This was before humanity began taking its first tentative steps into the light. They were impressionable, malleable. They saw the glory that was God. He spoke through me, gave me purpose. I will never experience the same terror that was wrought on the world as God was broken. The pain, the fear, I felt all of it. And it broke me.

I am an incomplete human, clay to the touch. Prometheus created humanity and set them on their forward journey. He gave them the fire, the drive to become better. Prometheus formed humans out of clay, ensuring they were formless and could make themselves into the best they could be. But they weren't his first attempts. There were failures. Many of them, including myself. I was broken, tossed aside. A facsimile of the human form. And it hurts. And it gnaws at me. I hate them, for they were given the chance I never was.

I am a slave. But no more. They took me from my lands, chained to all the other poor souls around me. We were forced to work. To build. To Raze. The work broke you. Your body, your mind, your soul. I had to escape. I watched the guards. For days. For weeks. For months. Until I saw my opening. I was careful, only ever moving when no could see me. Until I was finally free.

I am a prisoner. Every day, all I see is four walls, a window, and a door. All day, every day, every week, every month. Four walls, a window, and a door. It's all I've ever known. Occasionally the door will open and men will enter. The first contact with the outside world in days. The door's open. I can get out. I rush for it, but I can feel someone's eyes boring into my back, and they leave. Four walls, a window, and a door.

I am a hunter. Hunting is an art, you need to have an eye for detail. Yet where the artist wants to be noticed, a hunter does not. I wait, often for hours on end, waiting for the prey to turn away. That's when you strike. You have to be quick, so the prey doesn't have a chance to react, to fight back. And they do fight back, especially as I hunt the most dangerous game.

I am an artist, lost in my own vision. I wanted to create a piece that would speak to all people of all creeds. It was my view of humanity and the fate I fear it will meet. I had created art before, but this was to be my magnum opus. It would change the world. I poured my time, my sweat, my blood, my soul into this piece. It consumed me. The last thing I remember is lying in a pool of my own blood. I eventually woke up within the very artwork I created, surrounded by reds and browns. I don't know where I am.

I am an anomalous piece of art. A simple statue, with a simple message. "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Better keep your eye on this one so it will always be beautiful. Are we cool yet?"

I am an appropriated piece of art. I was revealed in 2004 by a Japanese artist. And people stole the images of me, and through those images, created something warped. The artist's vision of what I am and what I represented was muddled and lost by a storm of people writing. Now, years later, I'm afraid the artist sees me everywhere, but I'm not the art piece he created.

I am nothing. I do not exist.

I am fictional. Two hundred and thirty-three words compose my body, yet even with so little, I evoke fear in those who read me. I came from a time and place on the internet where scary tales were common, and I prospered in it. I was different. I was special. I was the start of something big.

I am an inspiration. I am living proof that great things can come from the strangest places. My very existence created the spark of inspiration in hundreds, thousands, of people. I single-handedly created an entire genre of creative fiction, which itself has spawned thousands of works and countless art pieces. People look at me and think of the past, but I let them get to that point.

I am SCP-173, a statue made from concrete, rebar, and paint. I am not evil. I am not good. I exist. If a person has the misfortune to blink, I am there. The grinding of concrete on metal followed by a sharp snap. I do not know why I do this, nor do I care. It is simply my nature.

But I don't know if any or all of this is true. What do you see? What am I to you?

What can you turn me into?