I came here when I was six. That's what they told me, anyway. I don't have any memories of that time, but I trusted them. It was the only thing I knew about myself. The only thing they let me know, so I took this sole piece of information I owned and kept it close to my heart.

Despite my numerous efforts over the years, I have failed to retrieve any meaningful memories. Every time I try to remember something, even a minor detail, I fail. It is as if my past has been erased from my mind.

Headaches. Flashes of light. Pain. Unbearable pain. That was the result of me trying to recall my past. Every time I tried to access even small parts of my past, I felt a surge of agony that blurred my memory even more. This became a regular occurrence for me over the years, and I started to question its normality; after all, I had never heard of anyone else who has experienced the same thing.

Driven by my curiosity, I gathered any bits of courage I held and went up to ask my aunt why I was unable to remember the past.

The answer wasn't surprising or at least shocking. I was informed that what I had gone through when I was young was so hard on my brain that my memories were lost as a result.

The information of me being in accident wasn't something new to me. I had already heard and even been told multiple times that I was in some sort of accident. What kind, I have no idea, they were reluctant to talk about it. Perhaps that was because of their fear that my memories will resurface and I would have to go through the struggle of remembering everything myself.

The family doctor even reassured me on numerous occasions that it was common for traumatised individuals to forget all or portions of their memories. It served as some type of safeguard, a survival technique, something to help you calm down, allowing your body and mind to unwind while protecting yourself from developing any further psychological problem.

Whatever it was, they didn't want me to know about it.

As a eight-year-old, I did not question her reply and instead fully trusted her.

Ultimately, it appeared to be the most logical thing to me at the time, and so my life proceeded.

But perhaps I should have. After all, they were not normal.

As I grew up , I learnt that because of the accident I was involved in when I was young, my parents had sent me away to my aunt and uncle with the belief that they were unable to take care of me, and that her sister, who has much more security due to her wealth, would be able to do a much better job.

Them being the only adults that were constantly around me, I whole heartedly believed them—that is, until I entered my early teenage years and my migraines, due to my my attempts to gather some memories, had progressively gotten worse.

At that point in my life they appeared to be anxious all the time. It was as if they were walking on eggshells around me.

They only spoke to me if necessary. Avoiding me more than they already did. Assigning people to watch me at all times, even going as far as making sure I didn't interact with others. Not like I did that much anyway.

That was until they got Alice, my cousin.

She was born around the time I entered my second year in secondary school.

I have known for a while that they wanted their own child. It was a frequent conversation between them but we're unable to. As a result, news of my aunt being pregnant prior to giving birth, led to tension in the house deescalating. They didn't focus on me as much as their attention moved elsewhere. With my aunt going through her first pregnancy, they had no spare time to even consider my well being. This continued after Alice was born. For them, Alice was there number one priority and so there wasn't much space for me in the family anymore.

The once soft smiles that were once directed towards me were no longer of existence, instead they faced the little blond that held all their love. They did anything imaginable with her. They played with her, took time out of there unbelievably busy schedule to look after her, and most importantly they made sure she was happy and comfortable all the time.

It was only then I realised that I never really knew what love was. The smile I received when I passed them down the corridor, a praise when I got the top of the class for all my subjects yet again, the pat on the back when teachers complemented me. That was the extent of their kindness, their love, but that was all I ever knew so I was content with it.

The love I received was not even a spec of what Alice was given.

That was not love; it was just kindness.

I know they couldn't love me as their child; I wasn't theirs to begin with. What more could I have asked for. Their job was to take care of me, keep me safe. Nothing more.

I'm not theirs.

I will never be theirs.

I'm just a burden, a responsibility.

An outcast.

I often had to remind myself this as to not cause them any further trouble that my very existence caused them. It's not right for me to be jealous of something that was never mine to begin with.

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I hope you guys like this first chapter.

This is my first time writing so updates may be slow. I know that this book won't reach a large audience, but for this who do decide to read this please comment and tell me your thoughts as feedback will really help.

Thanks.

-Ignis