The Lost Boys

Literature holds the knowledge of the past, fantasies of the mind, truths of the soul, and if they should teach you anything it would be that the blood of the coven is thicker than the water of the womb.

In the solitude and slavery of my childhood, I believed these compositions were mere idealistic fantasies that held no possibility, as they reeked of the pathetic desire of human fallibility. While I disgraced these fantasies, I would never know how true those words would come to be. I would only learn something, such as love, from strangers who had no obligation or due care.

Following 15 months of my birth, I began the endless cycle of the hell I anoint my life. My creators believed me evil, my kin viewed me as freakish, and my companions saw me as expendable.

Hellish creatures had carved me to be their pawn, beat me into being their willing slave, manipulated me into being their drug mule, and become envious of the corpses that lay beneath the Earth.

Eighty-one moons would pass before my flight would succeed, and no mortal cage could hold the madness sowed in me. Whether it was migration or escape, I had found myself in a neverland; a home for lost boys.

A refuge for runaways, outcasts, and damaged and magical children whose newfound family, found in one another, would shape them to be ruthless and invulnerable warriors.

I am Hadrian Nero Black, and I am a lost boy.

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