I have no name. No one to speak to. No place to call home. I exist, but it feels like I've never truly lived—a life that was never mine to begin with. I wonder sometimes if I was born for this emptiness, for this pain that never disappears.
The lasting empty memories of a family, even the love of my parents, were nothing but a lie. I never asked to be born this way. I didn't choose this life, this pain, this loneliness. But they don't care. All they see is a curse, something to destroy.
I can tell this is just another one of those endless nights. The wind feels like a stranger brushing past me, my existence nothing but a mere lie. Was it senseless of me to look for a place to call home? A place where I'm not an outcast? Where I can be seen, not just forgotten?
Some nights, I catch myself wishing. Wishing for someone to see me as more than a curse. I press my palms together, fingers trembling slightly, as if the act of holding myself together is the only thing stopping me from falling apart.
My breath hitches, but the silence that follows feels heavier than any words. Even my wishes, as desperate and raw as they are, seem to slip through my fingers like they were never meant to be real.
Living is supposed to be a gift. The world is filled with beautiful endless skies, colorful flowers, rivers sparkling in the light. I've never really noticed before, but now, it feels different. Somehow, a small smile tugs at my lips as I imagine it, though I don't know why. Sometimes, as I stare at the night sky, I wonder what life as a normal person would be like. Even in the darkest of nights, the stars still shine. Maybe there's a lesson in that, even if I can't feel it right now.
I sit alone in the dark, my fingers reaching up towards the stars as if I could touch them. Maybe this sorrow, this endless regret, isn't real. Maybe I've just been too trapped in my own pain to see the truth. Maybe there's a way out, a way to escape this life. But even as that thought takes shape in my mind, I can't shake the feeling that it's just a fragile illusion—something too far for me to ever reach.
I can't keep lying to myself. Deep down, I know that for me, life is nothing but an endless, cruel punishment. Sometimes, I wonder if they're right. If I really am a monster, like they say. I wonder if the stars would look down and see me, too. Or am I too small, too insignificant for even the heavens to notice?
Sitting on the cold grass, I bring my hand up and stare at my palms—worn, marked with scars. Why? I ask myself. The question echoes in the silence, as it always does. I've asked it so many times, yet there's never an answer. Why is this my life? Why was I born to endure this endless torment, alone and abandoned? My fingers tremble as I trace the faint remnants of a past that feels like it belongs to someone else.
I never did anything to them. I never wanted to hurt anyone. Never wished anyone harm. Still, they see me. They always see me. Every single one of them—every single one—hates me. And I don't even know why. What did I ever do to them?
The thought presses down on me like a weight I can't shake off. My fingers dig into the dirt beneath me, gripping it like it's the only thing keeping me grounded. The hatred—they feel it, don't they? It's always there, right behind me. If I stop, it'll catch me. It always does.
Their eyes—so dark, so sharp. I close mine for a moment, trying to block them out. But they're still there, still cutting through me. Every glance, like a blade, stripping away what little hope I can barely hold onto.
I curl tighter, arms wrapped around my knees, wishing I could disappear.
The cold wind brushes against my skin, whispering like the voices in my head, and the darkness around me feels alive, pressing closer. Just like the hatred that never leaves me.
Maybe I deserve it. Maybe this is all I'm meant for—just to carry the weight of their disgust, forever. It settles deep in my chest, cold and heavy, like a stone I can never throw away.
I want to scream at them. Shout until my throat burns and they have no choice but to listen for once. I've begged them, over and over, pleaded with them—told them countless times I didn't want to hurt anyone. I never did.
But it's like they're deaf. No matter how much I beg, no matter how raw my voice gets, they never hear me. It doesn't matter. I see it in their eyes. I've always seen it. The judgement. The certainty that I'm guilty. That I'm something to be wiped out, erased from existence.
I've wanted to fight back. I always have. Every part of me screamed to make them see, to make them understand. But how do you fight a world that's already made up its mind? How do you stand against something that's already decided you're their enemy?
I press my palms into my face, willing the tears back. No one's coming to save me. No one ever will.
Each day, it's a battle just to survive. A battle against their stares, their harsh words, the fear and disgust in their eyes. It's like I'm always on the edge of a cliff, waiting for them to shove me over. They call me names. Talk behind my back. Sometimes, if I'm unlucky enough to be close enough, they'll shout it straight at me.
"Monster." They say it like it's my name, like it's all I am. They tell me I'm a curse, that I bring nothing but misfortune, that I'm… the Queen of Curses.
And every time they say it, every time those words slice through the air, it feels like something inside me dies. Like a part of me is being erased. It used to just hurt, but now, it's more like the life is being drained out of me, slowly, piece by piece.
I glance down at myself, tugging at the short sleeves of my old white dress. The fabric's faded, its once-pure color long gone, and the edges are frayed from constant wear. The sleeves, once long enough, now barely reach my hands, a sign of how much I've grown over the years. The fabric is stretched thin, and in places, it's torn from the countless attacks, the rips and cuts a constant reminder of their hatred. They've tried to hunt me down, to finally remove my existence, and it shows in the state of my clothes—rough, worn, and jagged.
The hem of my skirt brushes the ground, its fabric just as aged, still clinging to its form despite the years of use. I can't remember where or how I got this dress, but I feel like someone precious to me once gave it to me, and I can still sense that faint warmth in the memory. Yet, no matter how much I try to remember it, the dress, like me, has only gotten more tattered with time.
I tug at the sleeves once more, but they barely cover my arms anymore. They're too short, the fabric pulling tight as if it's trying to hold onto me, but it never quite manages. The thinness of the cloth does nothing to protect me from the cold, especially now that winter's here. The wind bites at my exposed skin, making me shiver as I try to pull the fabric tighter, though it's no use. It's just another reminder of how little I have left.
And the worst part? The thing I hate the most about myself? I can't escape my reflection.
My red eyes. They're a curse in themselves, burning with a color that makes people look at me like I'm dangerous. Like I'm evil. It doesn't matter that I don't want this, that I didn't ask for it. They see the red, and that's all they need to decide who I am. The one thing that's always been mine, that I can't change, is the one thing that seals my fate.
I hate them. I hate those eyes. But I hate myself even more for not being able to escape them.
And then… silence. Silence and emptiness, where I thought there'd be anger. The anger I should feel for them, for what they've done to me, but it's not there. Only this heavy weight that drags me down. I don't even have the strength to hate them back. I don't want to fight anymore. What's the point? There's no victory in it, not for me. All I want is to escape… to leave behind this life that was never mine to live. Just a cruel existence I was forced to endure.
I pull my legs closer to my chest, wrapping my arms around them as the cold air cuts through me. The emptiness in my heart spreads, and I can feel the weight of it pressing against my chest, suffocating me.
Sometimes, when the nights grow long and I'm alone, I wonder if it's even worth it. This life. This fight. I wonder if they're right—that maybe I am cursed. Maybe… I am a monster. Why else would they look at me like that? Why else would they scream at me, telling me to die, shouting for me to leave, to disappear? "You're nothing but a curse! A plague!" they yell. "Go die, monster! You don't belong here!" The words echo in my mind, a constant reminder of the hatred that's always there. Why does it feel like I've been living this same nightmare, over and over again, from the moment I can remember?
I try to push away the thought, but it comes back, like a shadow that follows me no matter where I run. Maybe if I'm meant to be hated, meant to be hunted like this, it would be better if I just... stopped. Stopped running. Stopped fighting. Maybe if I just gave up, they could finally rest. And so, could I. Because I'm tired. I'm so tired of fighting a world that doesn't want me in it. Tired of pretending that this pain inside me isn't real.
I could hear them. Footsteps drawing closer with every passing moment. They were coming back. The sound of boots crunching against the dry leaves, the rustle of underbrush as they moved through the night. They were hunters. Highly skilled magic and sword wielders, hired to kill me. I could almost feel their eyes burning into my skin. Their hatred. Their disgust. Their desire to kill me.
This isn't the first time they've hunted me down. No, I've faced them before. I remember the searing blasts of fire magic and the sharp whip of lightning, each one aimed to scorch or strike me down. And then there were the swords—blades flying through the air, hurled at me with deadly accuracy as I ran, barely able to dodge in time. Some wielded their swords with expert precision, others with wild abandon, but all of them moved with the same intent—to hurt me, to kill me.
But it's not just the chase. No, I've faced worse. Unlike normal people who are disgusted just to look at me, these hunters find joy in it. They laugh as they hunt me, as they torture me. Their cruel amusement is the worst part—the way they relish in my suffering, in knowing they can break me.
I've spent countless nights hiding in the dark, a cold, lonely companion. The wind whispers around me, carrying with it the same emptiness that clings to my heart. The trees above sway, but their rustling is no comfort—it only heightens the silence, makes it feel louder than any shout. It's a constant reminder that I have no place to belong. No place to be safe.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, pressing my palms against them, trying to block out the memories, the torments. But they keep coming back, uninvited and relentless, like shadows that refuse to fade. Faces, twisted with rage and fear. The crack of a whip. The heat of fire on my skin. I can't forget them, not when they're always there, lurking in the corners of my mind.
Before all of this, the hunters caught me several times. They would drag me back, breaking my body and spirit, beating me until I could barely breathe. Sometimes they'd leave me alone in a cell, just to hear my cries echoing in the darkness, before dragging me out again to be tortured, to make me beg for mercy I would never receive. It was always the same—my body bruised, my will broken, as they enjoyed every second of my suffering.
I could feel their joy in it, their laughter booming as they watched me bleed. They tortured me to the limits, making sure I was still alive, no matter how much it hurt me. They kept me in a constant state of fear and torment until they finally handed me over to the village to die. And that's when they tried to hang me.
I still remember the rope. It burned into my neck, its rough fibers choking me with every breath as they tightened it. The village had succeeded in hanging me. The faces in the crowd were twisted, their eyes filled with cruel pleasure as they watched me struggle. Their laughter echoed in my ears, cold and mocking, each chuckle a knife twisting deeper inside me. When they finally pulled the floor away, I cried out in my mind, begging them to stop, but I knew no one would. The pressure on my neck was unbearable. I could feel it cracking, but all I heard was their laughter.
I couldn't fight it anymore. My vision blurred, my strength leaving me, and I just... let go. I thought I was ready for it, ready to surrender to the darkness closing in. But instead of death, I woke up in the forest, my hands covered in deep, raw cuts—proof of the struggle. The rope was gone, but I could still feel the tightening pressure on my neck, as if it were a shadow clinging to me. I was alone. Broken. But somehow still alive. The question I never wanted to ask, Why?
Then there was the time they tried to burn me alive. The flames—God, the flames—burned my skin, scorching it, filling my lungs with smoke. I could feel the heat, the way it tore at me, burning like it was trying to rip me apart, piece by piece. They thought fire would cleanse me, purify me, rid me of whatever curse they thought I carried. I remember the pain—agonizing, suffocating. It was all I could feel. I gave in to it. I closed my eyes and accepted the fire, waiting for the end to come. But when I woke, I was near a river, my skin still marked by the burn's heat, but the flames were gone. The water washed over me, but no matter how much time passed, I could never wash away that fear. The fear that clung to me, that I would never be free of it. I'd survived—again—but why?
I draw my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms tightly around them, trying to hold onto whatever small shred of comfort I can find. The weight of it all sinks deep into my bones, pulling me lower, making it harder to breathe. The night feels colder now, like the shadows are pressing in on me, suffocating me. I rest my forehead against my knees, the rough fabric of my clothes scratching against my skin, grounding me in this moment. But it doesn't help. Not really.
I wish I hadn't survived. I wish the darkness had swallowed me back then, or the fire, or the rope. Anything to end it. But no... I always survive. Always. No matter what, I'm still here. Still breathing. Still trapped in this never-ending pain.
I can't escape it. The thought gnaws at me constantly, deep inside, like an unending hunger I can't satisfy. Every night I survive, I ask myself, why? Why am I still here? What did I do to deserve this cursed life? Why am I the one who has to suffer, over and over again, in a world that never wanted me to begin with?
A quiet sigh slips from my lips, barely more than a whisper. I look up at the sky—filled with stars tonight, scattered across the dark canvas. For a moment, I try to see beauty in it, to feel something beyond the emptiness. But instead, it feels like a reflection of the void inside me, cold and distant.
I wanted to live. I wanted to know what it's like to smile without it being a lie. To feel a happiness that isn't just a fleeting dream, something that burns bright and cruel, only to disappear before I can even touch it. But when I look up, I realize... there is no happiness out there, no light that can fill the darkness inside me. The stars are just like me—distant, cold, untouchable. And I'm beginning to wonder if happiness ever really existed at all, or if it was just a cruel illusion, like everything else.
But that's not my reality. Not now. Not ever.
I couldn't hold it in anymore.
The tears came again, flooding my face as I buried my hands in my hair, clutching at the strands like they could pull me out of this pain. But they couldn't. Nothing could. For four years, I've been drowning in my own misery, each night desperately crying to myself in the darkness. A cry no one bothers to see or hear. My only wish to the world was for this nightmare to end.. I've pleaded for just one moment of peace, for the pain to stop, even for a second—to feel something other than this crushing weight inside me.
I wanted to feel... anything but this endless torment. But it never stops. It never goes away. And I don't know how much longer I can keep pretending that I'm strong enough to survive it.
Through the blur of my tears, everything felt distant—the sky, the trees, the rustling grass. It all felt so far away, as if I wasn't even part of this world. I knelt in the field, my hands trembling as they gripped the cold earth beneath me. The wind passed by, brushing against my skin, but it didn't soothe me. It never did.
I wanted to stand. I tried, pushing myself up with shaky hands, but the moment I placed weight on my right leg, pain shot through me. The rock they had thrown earlier—it had hit me square on my leg, the sharp impact leaving a bruise and a burn I couldn't ignore. My vision blurred with the pain, but I couldn't let myself fall. I couldn't give up. I'd never give up. Not yet.
They'd attacked me again—people from the village, throwing rocks and jeering at me, as if I were nothing more than a target. They had thrown everything they could at me, desperate to make me run, to make me leave. One of those rocks had found its mark, but I couldn't let it stop me. Even as the pain throbbed, I had no choice but to endure. I had to keep moving, because if I didn't, I'd be caught again. And I couldn't face that. Not again.
I leaned against a nearby tree, still trying to steady myself. The world around me felt so empty, so hollow. I just wanted someone—anyone—to hear me. To understand. To see past the pain and the brokenness. But I was alone. Always alone.
But as I stood there, broken and alone, I realized no one would come. I was trapped in this endless nightmare, with no one to pull me out.
I've come to accept the truth. For someone like me, that life doesn't exist. It never has. The only escape from this misery, this relentless nightmare... is death.
Maybe then, this nightmare will finally end.
I could feel the weight of the world pressing down on me, my breath ragged as I tried to steady myself. The pain in my right leg was sharp, relentless, from where they'd hit me with a rock. I stumbled, barely keeping my balance, but I couldn't stop. The fear—this constant, gnawing fear—coursed through my veins. It never stopped.
I wiped my tears, but they only came faster, heavier, as if my body couldn't help but break down. What did it matter anymore? What was the point of holding on when every step, every breath, only led to more pain? The memories of their cruelty haunted me, and now... now I could feel it. The fear crawling up my spine, colder than anything I'd ever known.
And then—footsteps. Heavy, uneven. Crunching against the dry leaves. The snap of twigs breaking underfoot.
My heart stopped. They were here. That sickening feeling tightened in my chest. They'd found me again.
They're coming for me again. This time, to finish the job. To kill me.