What's in a name?

"That's not my real name", she sobbed, her voice muffled by her hands and fragile balls of soggy tissue paper.

Raymar knew all about names. His was cobbled together from remnants of his parents'. Raymond and Mareldia. Neither one nor the other, his was not a whole name, it would never be. But yet it told the tale of his childhood. He had never felt like he belonged, Raymar with his patchwork name, living in a country filled with people struggling for their identity. He was a chimera, a mosaic, a jigsaw puzzle with pieces from different boxes.

There were perks of course. He received presents for Christmas and new clothes for Eid. His mother made great koeksisters and tomato bredie, and he had only half the guilt his Catholic father had.

"There are things about me you don't know", she whimpered into Raymar's shirt as he held her close to comfort her.
Raymar could not tell her about his dreams, the ones which, every night, usurped his sleep. He could not tell her about his art, his work, and the satisfaction he got from doing it well. He could not tell her about his bloody past, his bloody past.

"But you don't understand", she continued, while Raymar tried to show her that he did understand and that it didn't matter, that she was safe, and that this was a new beginning.

Muniko. The name had infected him, wormed its way into his brain and swelled, taking up space which should have been used for common sense. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, but Raymar had been snagged by a thorn.