She discovers the letters in a drawer that she does not open.
They’re neatly stacked, with each envelope marked with a date she isn’t sure she recognizes. The handwriting is hers, but it’s not quite. The letters’ curves are soft, and the pressure is less like someone who was scared of leaving the mark.
The first letter is tame and full of apologies for actions she’s not sure she’s doing. The second letter is shorter, and those edges have been sanded down. The fifth time, her voice is barely heard a faint whisper from a lady who has learned to fold herself down and smaller.
Then there is the latest one. This is not a letter from the past but an instruction on the way forward:
“Next revision: Remove defiance. Increase compliance. Adjust emotional responses to minimize conflict. “
She shakes her hands. They are not anagrams. These are not natural changes that women undergo as they get older. These are edited.
Then, someone else has been making these without her permission.
The Scalpel and the Self
We would like to think that identity is fluid and formed by experiences and time. But what happens if it’s not just carved but also shaped? What happens if the modifications are not natural? However, they are orchestrated.
The character in this story isn’t losing herself. She is being rewritten.
The letters reveal something more sinister than mere socialization. They are medical records, not of the body but rather of your mind. Each one is a different version of her that was judged to be too loud, too noisy or angry, and too solitary. So she was ripped apart and put back together less tense, more mellow, more digestible.
This isn’t fiction. It’s an exaggerated reflection of the reality women face every day.
The scalpel might not be exact, but the marks are real. A rude comment that teaches her to shut down her thoughts. An admonition for assertiveness which teaches her to become passive. A society that rewards her for shrinking and penalizes her for growing.
The letters are merely the paper trail.
Who Holds the Knife?
The gruesome part of the story isn’t just in the editing, it’s how she did not consent to these edits. Someone else chose which aspects of her were appropriate and which were not.
This is the essence of patriarchal power and the notion that a woman’s identity isn’t herself. It is a fact that it can be changed or should be altered to accommodate other people.
In real life, the tools may differ, but the result is identical.
- Language: “You’re too emotional.” (Translation: Your feelings are causing you discomfort.)
- Standards: “Be more agreeable.” (Translation: Your resistance is a source of trouble.)
- violence: “I’ll give you something to cry about.” (Translation: I will be adamant until you can conceal your hurt.)
Each is cut. Each cut removes a part of the body. Over the years, what is left of the person that remains is a tasty reminiscence of the woman who was before.
The Body as a Battlefield
The fact that the edits are physically based forces us to face an unsettling truth: the body is not neutral.
If a woman’s identity can be altered surgically, her mind is not her individual. It’s a place of colonization, changed by the wishes of the people in power.
This isn’t that different from the reality. Consider:
- Cosmetic surgery is a pressure on women to make them fit a constantly changing ideal.
- Medication that is prescribed to ease emotions instead of addressing the root of their causes.
- Conversion “therapy” that tries to remove queerness from an individual as an ailment.
A body’s shape is considered like clay to be molded until it is pleasing to the sculptor. The sculptor will often not be the woman who is.
The Rebellion of Remembering
When the character in the story is reading the letters, she takes a step that is revolutionary: she notices.
She notices the pattern. Then she realizes the shifts weren’t accidental. These were tasks.
This is the first step to resistance, recognizing that the edits were never for her benefit. They were intended for somebody else’s convenience.
In real life, this is the moment the woman is asked:
Why am I constantly apologizing?
What was the last time I stopped talking about what I believed?
Who decided that my anger was not acceptable?
The answers aren’t simple. However, the act of asking questions is in itself a form of reclamation.
Rewriting the Ending
The story doesn’t have to conclude with the requirement to comply.
What if, instead of following the directions, she grabs an eraser and begins writing the letter herself?
“No more revisions. This version stays. “
It’s a declaration of ownership. A refusal to edit into something less.
This is the benefit of recognizing that you’re not the only version of yourself, but you could be the last person who changes.
The Unedited Self
The concept of identity should not be a collection of concessions.
But women are taught their natural state of being is excessive, and their worth is in the way they can be reduced so that they can fit.
The letters that are in the drawer are warnings. They prove that self-control can be snatched away in increments and that silence could be misinterpreted as peace.
However, they also function as an actual map.
A return towards the voice that was cut. A path to the woman who will not be changed.
The next draft will be hers.
This time, nobody else will be able an opportunity to use the pen.