The tickle of a beard.
The touch of soft hands.
The child's laughter.
The sunlight pouring in from the windows.
The happiness.
The warmth.
The safety.
That disappeared in a few short seconds of horror.
I don't remember much of the joy.
I only remember the pain, the suffering and the terror.
I was three.
I remember the executioners, clad in black armour head to toe, break down the door.
I remember sobbing silently into my hands in a kitchen cupboard.
I remember the metallic scent of blood staining my memories.
I remember my mother's eyes staring into space, lifeless and cold.
I remember being scooped up in gentle arms and the cold winter air like a slap on the face as I was moved outside.
I remember seeing a mane of pale blonde hair before the void of darkness took everything I'd ever known away.
You won't know my face.
You won't understand my experiences.
But you will know my name.
And you will understand what I'm capable of.
A rebel.
An assassin.
A thief.
Dangerous.
That's what they think.
But it's not all I am.
They don't know any better.
And why should they?
Nobody knows what I've been through.
And who I will become