She had a temper tantrum and threw the pieces of my identity into the river. When she was done, she reached to throw me in after.
Her hands closed on nothing, passing right through me. She had thrown all the reachable pieces already. With no identity to know me as, she couldn’t touch me.
She screamed at me in triumph. “You are nothing! Without the marks that define you, you are nothing!”
I openly laughed and mocked her. “No, I am still me. You have taken nothing from me. My identity is not a container that holds me in place. It is a mask I wear when I choose. You will look for me, and never find me now, because the only way you know me is sinking to the bottom of the Styx.”
I left her there, screaming at the sinking pieces, addressing them as if they were me.