Apparently, the moment Elrohir came out, I turned my wee little head, stuck out my arm and proceeded in a failed attempt to rip out his eyeballs. Of course, I didn't really remember and know for sure that all of this happened, but these are some of the stories that my dear father and Uncle Glorfie would tell me from time to time, as I was growing up.
Oh, Uncle Glorfie. Uncle Glorfie was my hero when I was an adolescent, from that time he had those razorblades and feigned suicide for the camera. Was that the beginning of my messy emotional distress through exhibitionism? Perhaps. Or maybe we'll never know, because this shit can be rather irrelevent and I can't quite place any anecdotal merit in it, other than the fact that I stole those razorblades and proceeded to try and gut my brother open with it, alas, unsuccessfully - that was the first time I was placed in a straitjacket. I was twelve years old.
I suppose that in my first life, I tended to strike outwards in order to drain all this panic and frustrations in me noggin. Of course, my brother Elrohir got the bane of all of this, as his body is covered with scars from my attempts of fratricide. It was neat, you know, taking up weaponry, or at least stealing all those ancient artifacts with fuckloads of sentimental value from my father's armoury, and running your finger over the blades and imagining what sort of lovely gushing sounds would emit from orcs and other living and breathing individuals when that shining blade would strike their throats, their skull, oh, the skull - such a glorious noise that makes! The sound of a melon when you attack it once with a knife - peals of ecstasy that the melons create!
But then I died. It was this situation: I decided that I wanted to go West, to Valinor; a proper thing for an elf to do, right? But I thought that I could, like, swim across the sea. Mind you, this particular section of the sea I was located at had glaciers floating on the top. Not a particularly good idea of mine, at the time. So I was turned into fishfood and it was 'bye bye Elladan' - FOR THE FIRST TIME!
Nienna was kind enough to turn me into a maia - something of which I have been puzzling over ever since. Maybe she just felt sorry for me? Although pity is something I never really appreciated for everyone and anyone.
After great pestering, I came back and stayed at home again, in my old room in Rivendell. I made an iron maiden in the likeness of Elbereth which I'm sure she appreciated very much, and I took up boinking my cousin Tindomiel. Oh, Tindomiel, how I love you so. Possibly more than everyone else I've ever given any shred of attention to, ever. But there is a factor which came into being - you can't wrestle someone so hell-bent on destroying themselves and loathing themselves to simply stop. They have to do it themselves. They have to realise that what they are doing is stupid and it hurts others (although this self-obsession is purely selfish and nature and therefore the factor of hurting others is deemed irrelevent) - and they have to decide for themselves to pull themselves out of that lull and get on with their lives. It's the tiny things that make you happy: maybe it's the smile on Tindomiel's face when you gave her that crocodile's head for a present and she put it on her own head, laughing. Maybe it's reading a story and falling in love with a character that seems so much more real to you than anyone you've ever met in your entire life. They live and breathe inside your head and seemingly, that's all that matters.
Then I died again. I tied myself up in that old fetal bag that Faramir used for my therapy many moons ago along with heavy stones and tossed myself into a river.
So it goes.
And now, I am wondering; is living a third life really necessary? First, I had lashed outwards, and then I lashed inwards. What other possibilities can there be?
Of course, I can just shove all of this aside and treat myself to a nice bowl of ice cream and another dose of Amadeus. Which I think I will do right now.