My merciless face is what once was my deepest cut. To show any other sign of emotion in my fights is a weakness.

Love was a disaster; to lose one is to lose yourself. There was no misunderstanding, just a cruel mediator whose body is of the likes of…

You.

Your playful innocence means nothing to me, just as the life of my mother means nothing to them.

From just one body, the ghouls took the lives of two.

Her life became their feast.

Her lover became their clown.

Her womb became their banquet,

And her child became their snack.

With my eyes closed, I wasn’t there to harbor their pain. I wasn’t ready to shed an ounce of my innocence in the most innocuous of nights, nor was I ready to see a casket in my sight.

My teacher. My queen. My mother. Slain by their urges. What remained of her unborn child were tendons and bone, and what remained of my father was me.

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His grief was that of mine, and their empathy was that of his. The curator simply shook his head—One more reason to kill them, he said.

But the battle wasn’t over. Her loss was the genesis of his, and the entire barrio was there to see it.

His life became their gossip.

His lover became their reason.

His body became their banquet,

And his actions became their snack.

With my eyes closed, I wasn’t there to harbor their pain. I wasn’t ready to shed an ounce of my innocence in the most innocuous of nights, nor was I ready to see another casket in my sight.

My mentor. My king. My father. Slain by his own urges. What remained of his dying mind was my mother and his unborn child, and what remained of me was nothing.

Their empathy was that of mine, and my resentment was that of his. The curator simply shook his head—One more reason to kill them, he said.

And thus by morning, I am an ordinary girl, but by night, I am death; holder of the sickle, the woman who leads paranormals to the gates of hell on this trauma-driven land. Only age was my hindrance to deliver justice myself.

But when the paranormals pry into the rays of daylight, I am just as dangerous, and the people will not dare provoke my brawn.

The torch they left me, whose flames are now fueled by anger, vengeance, and tragedy, is mine to bear.

It’s not like me to be like this, does it now?

You ghouls don’t stop your quench for tragedy, so it won’t make sense to stop mine.

With every punch I land, I can feel my heart pounding.

With every ounce of blood you lose, I can feel my soul healing.

With every patch of skin I bruise, I can feel my pain dying.

And you will crave the afterlife even more, but it will be nothing but a distant ambition of yours.

Once the curation facility gets rid of its dross, It will be an honor to put you in it.

Trauma, truly, is an amazing disease.