“I want to tell you I am a thousand years old. That I have seen things you have only read about. The horrors, the birth of nations, the extinction of monsters. But it would be a lie, and as easily as they often fall from my lips, I will not offer them to you, never to you.
You were born in heavy weather to a broken girl and a wraith. A madman, an ordinary man, with an extraordinary talent for breaking things, and women. Nothing like the man who created me.
He did not steal me in the middle of the night. He stole me slowly, from the mother who never fully loved me, but would have wept if she had known the patterns repeating.
The night you were created was warm and static. The insects played a symphony as I writhed in the dirt, under suffocating sweat and whiskey breath. He left me for dead when he was done. Made the sign of the cross then wiped my bloody lip.
This is the part of the story where one might say ‘and I never saw him again,’ but I did. That’s a story for another day though, and I am both sorry and swelling with the only emotion close to happiness that I can achieve now, at the ending of his life.”