The cat ate my pet mouse when I was 13. I felt her presence like a purr in my chest, rumbling and soothing. I should have been angry about the mouse but I wanted to curl up with her, comfortable and close. She hissed when I reached out, knowing the struggle to come when we touched, knowing that one of us would be consumed by it. She didn’t pull away: there was contact and she disappeared. She curls on my thigh now, a black shape on my skin, and I slumber soundly in the warmth of the hearth.

I found my first splinter at 8 years old. The rain had pushed the worms out of the earth and the tug of something strange pulled me out into the downpour. It called to me, without voice; it called to something deep inside me. I knelt down before the worm, knees wet with mud, and touched it. Pain, a burn running through me, and my soul expanded. It left its mark on the back of my wrist: the black squiggle of a worm. Ever since, the rain always makes me restless, like a worm in the deluge.

My 17th spring took me to the woods to hunt. My father had died and I had to help feed the family. A call led me to a shrub, to a green caterpillar with tufts of hair. He looked up at me and I looked back. A heartbeat later, my soul expanded and he was a black shape on the palm of my hand. My skin tingled as if it was unfurling, like wing membranes, and my senses stretched further than they ever had before. Now I know I will evolve into something new one day.

My neighbour got a chicken flock when I was 16. One of the hens kept scratching at our fence: scratch, scratch, scratch. I could hear it even when I wasn’t near. I could feel it under my skin. Finally, I went to the fence and stretched my fingers through and the hen pecked me. I drew her inside. My soul expanded and she was imprinted on my foot, and my neighbour was furious about her missing hen. From that day onwards, I kept what was precious to me close and warm until it was ready to hatch.

I apprenticed to a fisherman in my 14th spring. I was hauling up the pots when I felt a familiar call growing closer with every pull. The crayfish clutched at the bars of the pot, shinier than the rest in my eyes. I reached out to clutch him in turn and his claw cut my fingers. Blood spilled and struggled, and I made him mine. My soul expanded. Ink stained my forearm in the shape of his body and claws. His gift to me was his amazing grip: since that day, I do not relinquish anything easily.

I never believed the stories. The more pieces of yourself you embrace, the stronger you become: that’s what they promised. Like a full belly at mid-winter, I thought it was a tradition more full of wishes than reality. Then I gained my 8th splinter. My senses came alive in a way they never had before, extending out from my skin and connecting me with the world. Brighter, sharper, warmer. I am more myself and also a part of everything around me. And there is more, so much more to come.

Stories hold kernels of truth. It’s not as romantic as they say: finding splinters of your own soul seems like it should be a joyous event, not the struggle for supremacy that it really is. Only one of us can remain, the other absorbed, and we are more whole for it. The tattoos of our absorbed splinters on our skin pay homage to the parts of ourselves we have found. The stories don’t say everything, though. I am bigger on the inside now. I am more. And I am becoming something else.

The cry of a falcon is a lonely, dangerous sound. I was hunting for a meal for my beloved when I heard it: a high, sweet cry that tugged at my heart. I followed it far from the path and my quarry to a lone tree high on a ridge. The falcon dove at me, talons raking. There was an explosion of feathers and blood, and I wound up with deep scratches down my arms. The falcon was branded on my back. After that, hunting for my sweetheart was easy and we ate like royalty that night.

A travelling salesman cane to town and everyone turned out to see what he had brought to show us. Such a wide variety of creatures, from the mundane to the strange, and his rule was simple: if we wanted one, we could buy or exchange for it. A cage called to me; or more accurately, the pink armadillo within. I gave the salesman a brace of hares in exchange for a single touch. My soul expanded and the armadillo etched himself on my ribs. Now I am better protected than I ever was before.

When the mine opened, it brought ponies to town. Tough, scrubby creatures built to haul heavy loads out of the dark until they died. Except for the palomino with the glint in his eye: my soul tugged me to him and he kicked me in the chest. We fought and he disappeared when I won our battle; my soul expanded and branded him on my flank. Now I am stronger than I look and will kick if a stranger gets too close.

It had been three years since I had met my last splinter when a late spring drove hungry animals out of the wilds towards the town in search of food. Among them was a family of porcupines. The female got caught in one of my traps and I set her free, but not before I felt the pull of one of her babies. He was tiny and pink, his quills still growing, and I stroked him without thinking. My soul expanded and he was imprinted across the back of my right hand. In me, his spikiness has a home.

I have unlocked something unexpected. It’s more than expanded senses or a sense of who I really am. It’s like I can feel nature breathing. It is power and control. Last week, I found prey without a trail to follow. Last night, I lit the fire by merely thinking of it. The more splinters I have, the more clarity I gain; I am so close to understanding what is truly happening to me. I must find more. I must travel the world and find all of myself. Then, I will be gloriously whole.

When I first heard its buzz, I thought the wasp was coming to sting me. Then I realised that I felt its buzz somewhere inside as well and found myself reaching towards him. He called to me just like the first splinter and I answered, and it stung when we touched. He disappeared and his tiny winged shape was seared into my skin below my collarbone. I carry him with me, always, my souls expanded with his, and my tongue was sharper for it, always ready to strike when someone tried to touch me.

On my first hunting trip with my father, I cane face to face with a wolf. I was terrified except for the feeling in my chest that pulled me off to the right. Another wolf leapt out from there, striking its packmate aside. She saved me then turned her growl on me. She meant to devour me, souls and all: she leapt on me and we fought so hard my heart nearly burst. I didn’t want to die that day and she was fierce even in defeat. Now I have her marked on my hip and I’m never afraid to bare my teeth.

The wren sang to me on my 11th birthday. He was a gift outside my window, one that pulled me towards him like a magnet. I wanted nothing more than to get lost in his song, so sweet and calming, as he winged towards me. I reached out and he alighted on my finger, his tiny talons wrapping around and biting in so deep he drew blood. He bit in and in, and then I consumed him whole. My soul expanded and he was branded on my back, wings spread. I am sweeter for him now and more prone to singing.