I was born a killer. To whoever's reading this, it will sound crazy dramatic, but I am not making this up. I wish I was. But read on, and I'll show you just what I mean...
I'll start at the beginning, a few short months before my birth, at the point I became a killer. I've heard the story thousands of times: my parents went to get an ultrasound of their unborn twins, a boy and a girl. They were thrilled: a perfect family in one go is what they only dreamed of. But that moment never came. From the moment they saw the ultrasound image of my brother, strangled by my umbilical cord, they resented me as a cold-blooded killer. Still, they refused to have an abortion, and just months later, they gave birth to two babies. One born dead. The other alive and healthy.
From that day, it was clear who the family favourite was: after his death, they kept my brother sealed in an airtight glass container, like Snow White, had Snow White been half a foot tall and bald. Around the fetus, they built a shrine to my brother, consisting of unused toys, miniscule clothes and the deadly ultrasound scan. I was forbidden to go near the shrine, for fear of breaking it. My folks were constantly reminding me that I was bad luck, a curse on the family. They never had any photos of me, apart from the ultrasounds. Even if I brought home perfect grades, and never made a mess, they went on like I was psycho. Even the names they gave me and my brother showed how biased they were.
My brother's name is Gabriel. Messenger angel. Blessing from above. How adorable. Me? They called me Lilith. The sinner. The killer. Satan herself.
Of course, my parents obvious hatred of me meant I had next to no friends, and never brought anyone round. I was teased mercilessly, and once, when I came home from school with a black eye, my parents silently thanked the Lord.
By the time I was sixteen, their hatred was full blown. They were past the days of glaring resentfully whenever I was in the room, and now they were on to accusing me of things I couldn't possibly have done. Fights were frequent, often ending with some kind of reference to Gabriel, or even a slap in the face.
After one particularly bad fight, I'd had enough. The words "It should have been Gabriel who had lived, not you!" still ringing in my ears, I ran to their precious shrine, and screamed, tearing down toys, pictures and clothes, tears running down my face, as I looked down at Gabriel's coffin.
It was open
This was impossible: the coffin had no way of opening.
"Unless I open it from the inside." A cold, raspy voice issued from the coffin. I stared down at his lifeless body, confused.
"Gabriel?" He was dead. He was a baby. There was no way he could have said that.
Just as soon as I thought it, the body sat bolt upright, and opened its eyes. No whites, no pupils, just pure darkness, like a hungry shark. A shiver ran down my spine. And that's when it spoke.
"You took everything from me, sister. My life. My future. And now, I'm going to take it back."
Was it my imagination, or had the baby grown an inch? I looked down at myself. I was rapidly shrinking. Within mere seconds, I was close to the floor. I tried to scream, but no sound left my mouth. I tried to move, but a cold, thick casing stopped me. I was in Gabriel's coffin. I looked at the figure leaning above the coffin: a boy, about my age, who looked almost exactly like me: same thick, dark hair; same sharp, strongly defined jawline; same reddish brown eyes. The last thing I remember, is seeing this boy say: "All is right in this world now."
