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 dreams that held no reality as they reeked with the pathetic desire of human fallibility. While I disgraced these imaginaries, I would never know how true those words would come to be. The precursor of these truths would emanate from strangers who had no obligation or due care.
Ensuing 15 months of my creation, I began the endless cycle of the hell I anoint my life. My creators believed me evil, my kin freakish, and my companions expendable.
Hellish creatures had carved me to be their pawn,
Beat into being their willing slave,
Manipulated into being their drug mule,
And envious of the corpses that lay in the Earth.
Eighty-one moons would pass before my flight would succeed, and no mortal cage would bond 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 magical children whose traumas and damaged souls would shape them to be ruthless and invulnerable warriors.
I am Hadrian Nero Black, and I am a lost boy.
