[Doncompany]

THE INTRODUCTION

Thirty-Four Years. My first memory, was a library. A tight hand around my wrist.
I wanted to stare at the colorful fire that clashed the dull room.
Red--Orange--Yellow 
I was a human--or more so, what was classified as a: Potential Nephilim. 

I was not recognized as human by my own parents.

A kitsune. A human; raising Nephilim triplets. We were born to live a legacy. 

I would wonder if I was human.
But what kind of human carries divine blood?
What human has a heart that only pumps ink?
What human has darkened hands--stained forever more.

I am Yaeka's Chosen Pupil.
Aethelwine's Nephilim.
No longer am I human, I am more.

I was raised to be caged. I did not have a say in who I could be.
So I had to fight to be seen, even when it meant my parents would no longer love me.
.
Imagination; A gift. One that was mistook for rebellious behavior.
I painted. Every emotion. Every moment. Every silence: painted.
In return, they tried to take my will to live: The gift of Creation.
They managed. 
I pushed.

I found an old diary in the apartment Cirrus and I stayed in for a few years.
Reminded me of a past I once tried to run from, the pain and trauma that molded me.

---

ENTRY ONE

Camilia Sulibella

YEAR: 2204AC 

Mom told me she hated me today.
It didn't feel new, but it was the first time she had actually said it. I heard a saying before: Actions speak louder than words--I guess in this context, that was literal. They also say mothers are suppose to be caring, tend to you with warmth. I never felt that warmth since I was seven winters old, that day in the art gallery when I acted in a way they finally did not approve of. Years of walking across glass, finally to shatter a shard beneath my foot. It felt like they abandoned me, even when present. They became people who just happened to feed me, and tried to correct me ever chance they could.

I use to think dad had still held some kind of love for me, like there was still hope somewhere for me. That dwindled, I worn him down until his special drinks came out. I noticed empty bottles in the kitchen that weren't there before, Cirrus said they were yeast beverages that adults drank.
I stole one, it went unnoticed. In story books, the people would put letters in glass bottles and toss them into the water so that they'd wash up somewhere for someone to find. There was several doodles before settling on a sun drawn with black crayon, it was stuffed inside through the tiny hole. Claire Ainsworth threw it into the ocean for me, even if she kept saying it was a stupid idea because it was littering.

I thanked her.

It was one of the first times I managed to do something that I would have control over, even if I wasn't the one who threw it into the water.
It was still my special piece inside of one of dad's special drinks, drifting somewhere now for someone else to find and be inspired by the sight of art. Maybe I'll meet them one day and we can become artists together, known everywhere. 

If anybody finds it.