Ｂｕｒｎｅｄ - ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴀʜʀᴇɴʜᴇɪᴛ ᴄʜʀᴏɴɪᴄʟᴇꜱ (Under Construction)

Chpt.1: Gods and Devils

I have a name, a proper one, I'm sure I do, but the one who gave me it hasn't used it in years. She's dead after all.

I don't know how long it's been, but my hair has length enough to lay on and my limbs are longer than they used to be.

I am not the fifteen-year-old I once was, I know that for sure. Yes, that girl is long gone.

How long had it been since I had seen the sun? Too long. My skin was pale, paler than it should be and my hair, while long, was also brittle. The nutrients it needed hadn't been provided.

The scent of burning iron and salt flooded the cellar where I am kept, like an animal in a cage. A prisoner serving out a life sentence.

Blood, tears, and musk that hinted at a leaking pipe in the walls; That was all I could smell, though I tended to block it out. I had become used to it.

The only scent I needed to notice was the putrid smell of alcohol that permeated the house above when my father became drunk.

That wasn't the only time he hurt me, but it was when the beatings were at their most brutal.

You may wonder why I am here when I wear no chains. Why don't I run the first chance I get?

That is very simple; Two things.

The first would be the many, many, locks my father kept on the cellar door. I had tried to escape once before and discovered that even with the door handle destroyed, I couldn't force the door open.

The second? Fear.

I was taller than my father now, possibly stronger too, though I had never tried to overpower him. I could easily push past him and make a run for the stairs and out the usually open door -He never liked trapping himself here with me- but I was scared.

Fear and pain are the chains that bind me, that hold me to this house that I wish never existed in the first place.

I was petrified by my father because... well, he's my father. He's cruel and terrible, and even before he locked me in this cellar he beat me for my oddities.

That was the kindest word he had used for them, my abilities. You see, ever since I could remember, I could snap my fingers and, like magic, a flame would appear. Flickering, and small, but hot and bright.

The first time my father saw me do this was when I was eight. We were camping and he was teaching me to build a fire, but I asked him why he didn't just use his hands. He laughed like most parents do when their child tells them something ridiculous, such as them meeting a fairy in their back garden.

My mother told me that wasn't how it worked, but I was determined to prove otherwise. I then made the mistake of showing them how to do it. I expected my parents to smile with wonder, to laugh in amazement or celebration even, but I got none of that. With a literal snap of my fingers, I lost my parents' love.

My mother screamed in horror, crying and calling me a witch, but my father... He had quite a different reaction. He was unspeakably angry with me.

The next day they called a priest to our home, he was a good man and he told my parents he would not perform an exorcism on a child who seemed entirely normal. After all, I wasn't speaking in tongues, or harming myself, or presenting any repulsive reactions to the name of the Lord.

I was just a little girl whose parents were terrified of her.

My mother spiraled into depression and drink. To her mind, her daughter was lost, and what inhabited my body was a demon.