Let's start at the very last thing I remember. My death. Usually a story doesn't begin with an end, but as I said, it's all that I truly remember. I woke up on my eighteenth birthday as any regular teenager. Well, sort of. I remember it as if it were yesterday. In my mind, it was. It was the final day that I remember was my own. I was an orphan, but I was different. I can remember that much. My onyx black hair fell down my shoulders as if it were pure silk. My skin. Perfect. Not a flaw to be found. I walked with grace and yet, with purpose. No one could ever hear me coming...unless I wanted them to, that is. When the other orphans would see me, they would stare with gaping mouths and wide eyes. I knew I was different, I knew something was wrong with me. That day, I slept in. No one was aware of my birthday thus, no one dared to disturb me. They had all heard rumors about me, so they feared me. I could have cast aside all of the rumors of the terrible gruesome things I had done. I could have changed their minds. If they were wrong. I had killed my parents. I had destroyed our home. I had tried to kill myself. Don't get the wrong Idea. I hadn't meant to do all of those things. Well, except the last one. But these happenings are my fault. The fault of my birth.
