[h2][b] Many On One [/b][/h2]
[h3][color=#ab9b9b]T[/color][color=#b8aaaa]h[/color][color=#c4b9b9]e[/color] [color=#ddd8d8]P[/color][color=#eae7e7]r[/color][color=#f6f6f6]i[/color][color=#dfdfde]n[/color][color=#c8c8c6]c[/color][color=#b0b0ae]e[/color][color=#999996]s[/color][color=#82827e]s[/color][/h3][hr]

[color=skyblue][quote]"Tough call that one at the pizza parlour. Not much you could do, but, hey, we'll go for the next one. Anyway, I'm aware you seem comfortable shifting from form to form, and what I have on my desk, I've got three forms so far. I guess the only question I have is are you okay as you are in this base form, Princess? I know you'll always pick a form when you get there. But when you're back at the office, are you all comfortable as you, and is there anything I can do to help? Within reason, of course." A delving question. But one that she could answer honestly.[/quote][/color]
Princess was someone used to questions. Questions of who they are, what they are, why they are eating fried hands, normal things that most people would think of. All things that she had no true answers for. How does one quantify self when one's being is but a thousand fractured shards of glass that grind against each other in s semblances of screams and cries begging to come out?

How does one express the limitations of form to a person who has ever known themself? How does one express the deep seated loss of something integral to what make you you when you cannot even remember or express what that thing was in the first place? How does one describe such an utter loss of self as to know you once existed as a thing greater but no longer have the frame of reference to even know what is missing?

To her, skin was not something to be comfortable in, it was a stop gap. A binding to keep her together because what else could? What else could keep fragments of what was together if not something piecemeal? Something that in of itself consisted of thousands of pieces? Can one call a bird by its name if it had no feathers? Could a book be called such if it had no pages? Can one narrate life without a voice? 

The princess does not know, nor does she know exactly how to voice it. So warped by others perspectives she no longer has one of herself, merely a funhouse mirror of blinding cracks. Even James, sensible James of the stalwart minds, kept her on the edge of something human and something like…static. Something based in fear and masks and tearful eyes afraid to look back, a nightmare for her and certainly for him. 

“No,” she says with a modicum of cheeriness. “No, there is nothing you can do.”

Her smile is fragile.