The Life of Me
From all my years of experience I have learned that the beginning of a novel is, more often than not, similar to how you would great a stranger. You start out with your name, which is often forgotten within the first few minutes of introduction, and on rare occasions, when their face appears trustworthy enough, you might tell them your story. However, I have no name, and I am no one, I am simply me, and so there is no need for you to worry about trying to remember what I am called. I tried names once before, but they all too quickly evaporated like smoke with each decade that blew by. I 'm not quite sure of my exact age, but I do know that I am centuries old, impossibly old, yet I have the face of one so young. How, may you …show more content…
When I left my love, I selfishly took our children with me. They served as beautiful memories of him. The eldest had his eyes, the second, his smile, and the baby, had not yet greeted the world. I looked forward to his birth and the days with him that would follow. But, those days did not last. "The plague. Mass graves. Sightless children clutching toys as they sleep, never to wake up. My children. My screams. I could not save you little ones. Such pain. And yet still, still I am not brave enough to die, to let go of this retched life. I will endure, but no more babies. I cannot, will not suffer such heart break again. From now on, it 's me against the world." I considered saving them with the same object that saved me. I had another. I had not yet used it for fear I would regret using it on the wrong person. "I felt once more around my neck. The tile was there of course. It is always there. The tile that shares immortality. Waiting to be given. I looked from face to face. I had tried to cut it. I had sharpened my knife, so many times. It will not cut. It cannot be shared. Would it be my brave, my brilliant Essie? My sweet, my loving Johann? Or my laughing baby, whom I do not even know?" I could not choose. It was too painful. And so, they died. Rage then filled my grieving heart. "Oh for all the times I have been tried as a witch: if I only could, truly, curse the man who did this to me, if I could pull his blood out across the stars, slowly, drop by drop whilst he screamed the heavens apart, then I would." That was the day I became my true self. The day I became
From all my years of experience I have learned that the beginning of a novel is, more often than not, similar to how you would great a stranger. You start out with your name, which is often forgotten within the first few minutes of introduction, and on rare occasions, when their face appears trustworthy enough, you might tell them your story. However, I have no name, and I am no one, I am simply me, and so there is no need for you to worry about trying to remember what I am called. I tried names once before, but they all too quickly evaporated like smoke with each decade that blew by. I 'm not quite sure of my exact age, but I do know that I am centuries old, impossibly old, yet I have the face of one so young. How, may you …show more content…
When I left my love, I selfishly took our children with me. They served as beautiful memories of him. The eldest had his eyes, the second, his smile, and the baby, had not yet greeted the world. I looked forward to his birth and the days with him that would follow. But, those days did not last. "The plague. Mass graves. Sightless children clutching toys as they sleep, never to wake up. My children. My screams. I could not save you little ones. Such pain. And yet still, still I am not brave enough to die, to let go of this retched life. I will endure, but no more babies. I cannot, will not suffer such heart break again. From now on, it 's me against the world." I considered saving them with the same object that saved me. I had another. I had not yet used it for fear I would regret using it on the wrong person. "I felt once more around my neck. The tile was there of course. It is always there. The tile that shares immortality. Waiting to be given. I looked from face to face. I had tried to cut it. I had sharpened my knife, so many times. It will not cut. It cannot be shared. Would it be my brave, my brilliant Essie? My sweet, my loving Johann? Or my laughing baby, whom I do not even know?" I could not choose. It was too painful. And so, they died. Rage then filled my grieving heart. "Oh for all the times I have been tried as a witch: if I only could, truly, curse the man who did this to me, if I could pull his blood out across the stars, slowly, drop by drop whilst he screamed the heavens apart, then I would." That was the day I became my true self. The day I became