 What am I? was written by May D. You can find it in a link in the description and in the comments down below. It is under a Creative Commons 3.0 share a like attribution license. What? 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 locked in a room. I am 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, hug, anything. And I am a loving life. In ancient times the Lord's servant bade me, my husband, and my family to 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. And do not stop until the city is dead and char and ash. And so we flew. Yet even with the commandment of God I still looked over my shoulder at my home and I instantly felt my flesh and blood turn to stone and salt. Aeons 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. Move forward. And I am an angry God. You are my creations made in my image where you were supposed to be. But what I created was nothing like I envisioned. You were smaller, weaker, softer than me. You were a failure. But I am a merciful God. And I let you live out of the kindness of my own heart and you tossed that back in my face. Ungrateful. You stopped your worship of me. You stole my power with your disrespect. And 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. And I am from before God was broken. I was His word. I was to spread through all the 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 and He spoke through me, gave me purpose. I will never experience the same terror that was brought on the world as God was broken. The pain. The fear. I felt all of it. And it broke me. And I am an incomplete human. Clayed the touch. Prometheus created humanity and set them on a forward journey. Gave them fire, the drive to become better. Prometheus formed humans out of clay, ensuring they were formless. They could make themselves into the best that they could be, but they weren't his first attempts. There were failures. Many of them, including myself. And I was tossed aside. Broken. A facsimile of the human form. And it hurts. It gnaws at me. I hate them. But they were given the chance I never was. And I am a slave. But no more. They took me from my lands chained to all the other poor souls around me. They were forced to work, to build, to raise. The work broke you. Your body, your mind, your soul. I had to escape. And I watched the guards for days, weeks, months. Until I saw my opening. I was careful. Only ever moving when no one could see me. Until I was finally free. And 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. A door. It's all I've ever known. Occasionally the door will open and men will enter. My first contact with the outside world in days. The door is 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. 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, the hunter does not. I wait, often for hours on end. Waiting for the prey to turn away. And that's when you strike. You have to be quick. So the prey doesn't have time to react. And they will fight back. Especially since I hunt the most dangerous game. And I am an artist, lost in my own vision. I want 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've created art before, but this was to be my magnum opus. It would change the world. I poured time, sweat, blood, even my soul into this piece. And it consumed me. The last thing I remember is lying in a pool of my own blood. And I eventually woke up within the very artwork I had 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. And now, years later, I'm afraid the artist sees me everywhere, but I'm not what he created. I am nothing. I do not exist. And I am fictional. 233 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 then. I was different. I was special. And 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, now 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'm the one who let them get to the now. I am SCP-173, a statue made from concrete, rebar, and Krylon brand spray paint. I am not evil. I am not good. I exist. If a person has the misfortune to blink, I'm there. The grinding of concrete on metal, followed by a sharp snap. I do not know why I do this, and 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? And what can you turn me into? And pledge at any level, like everybody here on the screen already has, including Synderiki, was pledged at $100. It's nice to know that I'm not alone out here, and I will see you all again on Tuesday.