Dear Ms Lady Demigod

0 1 It started

Happiness craves war.

It is a human instinct to feel afraid whenever one is too happy. Those who are ignorant to such a mystic reality shall perish. After all, dawn falls on those who have suffered the darkness of dusk.

Behind a silver moon, is the sky. But it's dark so people don't usually look at it. One has to do one thousand good deeds to be a good person but one bad deed to become evil and corrupted. How fragile the morals of this impudent world are—This world, what a disgusting affair to ignite.

I am Vierne Obolensky, the last surviving member of the Obolensky family after the Black blood tragedy. My father was an Earl—Rich enough to build an empire here in Russia. My memory has grown hazy but not my vows. It was a fire that burned down everything, and I rose up from the ashes of the dead.

What can the dead possibly give birth to? Another dead one I suppose. It had been a decade since my death to the world—The world who forgot my name. And now here I thrive, in the darkness of this abandoned mansion somewhere in the woods. Nobody knows that this place exists and they will never.

Every visitor had seen the same face as the last one. I've read books, books that talk about me and those that don't. Far away in the heart of Russia, among the fierce woods of Moscow, lies an abandoned mansion with a deadly curse. All that she touches will lose its breath, you witness a beauty followed by death.

Time has followed me to the path I've come. For the seventeen years I've existed, I've only brought misery and death with sprinkles of bliss to fool those who thrive for it.

It made people wonder; how could something so beautiful be so deadly?

When I was seven, I suffered from an acute illness and lost my sensitivity to touch. I cannot feel anything from my hands anymore. However, that's not where it left me. Anything I touch with my right hand will break into thousands of pieces—as small as a grain of sand—be it an object, a plant or a human, anything living or nonliving.

Surprisingly, my left hand is worse. Anyone, who I touch with my left-hand beaks from the inside. My left hand can shatter emotions and precious memories, which is why my mother covered it with a black glove. It has been there ever since.

Nothing in this world can kill me. I can safely say I'm not mortal anymore. But then, what am I? I've asked the same questions to these four walls. But with every question comes that unexplainable silence and emptiness.

My body no longer performs any metabolic activities. I do not breathe, nor do I ever find the need to eat. Even my heart has stopped beating. It's as if I'm a living corpse. I have lost the ability to live as well as the ability to die. I'm stuck. Somebody please—Help me.

How pitiful have I become? Mom would be sad if she saw me now. But unfortunately, we don't get to choose what we feel. It was time to go out. I needed some new books since I had read everything I brought in the previous month.

So, I decided to pick up my black umbrella and walk out into the sun. I purchased books from the money my parents had left me. Because at that point, I was addicted to reading like an alcoholic is addicted to drinking. After all, I was living in the era of the great novelist, Akagi Scheczalier—A Russian parody whose name was familiar to every street of mother Russia.

His writings were powerful and yet elegant. What an array of sophistication that he possessed, the entire European and Asian continent was under the direct influence of this young man—From royalty to the peasantry.

I was busy having this literary conversion in my head while walking on that busy street and suddenly I bumped into someone. They must've been extremely hard-headed because they nearly winded me.