My name is Lola. Lola Luft.

That’s honestly all I can confer to you, for I’m not even sure who I am anymore.

When speaking about myself, I can’t find the words to say. For all my life, the words were just shoved into my mouth by other people.

I have two names. I have two personalities. I have two lives.

One is glorious in comparison to the other; the other is lowly and miserable. I’m not going back there again. Lydia will be left to wallow in her misery in that damp, dark cellar.

I suppose you can call me lucky. I suppose you could call me anything you want to, for that’s how things were thrown around in Lydia’s life. I suppose you can call me cursed, call me wretched, call me anything. Call me those cutesy pet names that Lydia grew accustom to. Call me those imprudent choice words that the guys would spew around while drinking.

Just don’t call me Lydia anymore.

That was his name that was brought onto me. That was his favorite name. He called it pretty and graceful, just as I was. Of course he wouldn’t just call me that all the time. He liked pet names that only couples would use. At the time I had no right to speak against calling me sweetheart. The disposition had put a piece of sticky duct tape over my mouth.

It has been removed, but the sticky substance left behind makes it hard to talk to people.

My name is Lydia Sankt, and this is my story.