"My name is Jasmine Evans, and I am a killer.
I could deceive you easily if I wanted to, with my chronic talent for lying, and you'd believe my words without question, just as you accept everything your masters so generously hand to you each day:
'A...
Jasmine Evans sat on the worn curb of a nearly deserted street, elbows resting on her knees, her gaze lost in the horizon. She wore an old, faded t-shirt under a light black leather jacket with a rock vibe, paired with slightly torn jeans and sturdy boots. The early spring sun traced the outlines of buildings, illuminating her long, golden hair, while a gentle breeze stirred dust and small scraps of paper, making the air dance around her as if casting a spell. She waited, quietly, for the bus that would take her away from Crystal Lake. The silence was broken only by the distant hum of a few cars racing by, each one heading to some unknown, indifferent destination.
Beside her sat her backpack, containing all of her twenty-five years: a few simple clothes, a book of poems that had belonged to her mother Josephine, an old MP3 player loaded with a handful of favorite songs, and a worn photo of her once-united family. It was Sunday, and in the reflections of the closed storefronts, she could see herself back in a time when smiles were genuine, when her little brother Gary was still alive, laughing and playing in those long summer afternoons, and when her father, Christopher, had not yet become the hollow, absent figure she now wished she could forget.
The memories invaded her mind, filling it like old toys from a childhood cut short. She could see again the shadowy halls of her school, the sharp stares of classmates who had thought her too strange, too different, too fragile. The sound of their cruel laughter still echoed in her mind, a painful refrain that had never completely faded.
Jasmine had never known popularity nor had she ever craved it. Her refuge was in the comforting pages of books and in vivid daydreams, where she could be anyone she wanted, far from sneers, cruel insults, and indifferent eyes. The "Harpies," as she had dubbed them, never missed a chance to torment her, pushing her deeper into the quiet darkness of her own misanthropy, wounding her until she was left with a hollow label: "unsociable." Yet, in those moments of quiet isolation, Jasmine felt the heavy weight of a destiny that seemed to have been written long ago and a smoldering rage beneath her skin, like an itch that pulsed, alive and waiting. Each strained breath was an act of fierce defiance against a future she hadn't chosen, and each heartbeat was a sharp reminder of her inner struggle.
Lost in these memories, she barely noticed the bus coming into view on the horizon, slow and lumbering like a tired old beast. It was an aging model, its paint faded, its seats likely as worn as the years behind it, yet to Jasmine, it was an escape. A ticket to the unknown, to a fresh start in Astral Heaven, where she hoped to find herself again, far from the lingering shadows of her past.
With a deep breath, she grabbed her backpack and prepared to board, feeling her heart pound harder with each second. The bus's wheels creaked over the rough pavement as the doors opened before her, ready to carry her into a new chapter. Without looking back, Jasmine stepped on board, leaving behind the pain and haunting ghosts of Crystal Lake.
This was only the beginning.
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