The Chosen One.

Until we meet. . . I cannot give up.

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Tᕼᕮ ᗷᗩSIᑕS.

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Ｐｅｒｓｏｎａｌｉｔｙ：

"Cennet, bite an apple."

In demeanor, she seemed similar to that of an authoritative figure, albeit with a certain playfulness, and probably influenced her initial attitude toward humans.

A natural leader, she is indicated to have had a caring and loving personality. According to witnesses, she was an atypical kind of woman; rather than living in accordance to her planet's caste's values, she chose to be different and encouraged others to be, too. Her doctrine ( Philosophy ) was that people can take control of their own identities and that her race's limited display of individuality is a conviction forced upon them. In the same manner, she had shown displeasure towards the government's traditions and natures; she became somber when reflecting on their static existences, and during the end of her lifetime she admitted that she never missed her home. This discontent sparked her interest in humans, who are always changing and redefining themselves.

She is described as feeling great sorrow when her loved ones were hurt. Her capacity for empathy led her to join the Rebellion, and extended even to her enemies; as documented by fellow rebels, she values her enemies' lives just as much as her allies'. She is also said to see beauty in everything "no matter how gross," showing that she treats everyone as equals.

This lead to her desiring her own Eden.

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Tᕼᕮ ᒪᑌᑎᗩᖇIᗩᑎ ᗯᗩᖇ.

Chapter One
The Fantasy Emporium: A Beginning.

Eighteen years.

To some it might seem like a long time, but to others, that amount of time might pass in the blink of an eye. But to a resident of Number Three, Privet Drive of a small town called Nasavatti Origae-6, in the country area of Aldpine; eighteen years felt like a life-sentence.

The same faces, places, and ideas. The run-on sentence without the proper punctuation, quivered smudges on perfect little paintings; this life, she calls it a late evening matinee. It ruffled feathers, shedding its residue onto the surface. Its voice hawking like someone is congested in its throat.

That is the description she thinks of whenever she uses those words for preparation of an act. An act where this world sheds the clothing of a final scene, and the whispers yell an encore. They’ll yell above the fruitless cries. Red strings are born and entwined between callous fingers. Cənnət is not who she is whenever engaged in these acts. When her thoughts take to another place, far from this City of a Thousand Planets drifting endlessly among the stars. Far from the Lunarian race and their sugary, bittersweet lies . .this peace is all but everlasting.

A contradiction, I know. A contradiction, I know. A contradiction, I know.

Everyone is happy, but, a broken record I am becoming in their reality.

Accustomed to the abuse of restless nights and tiresome days. Have you ever read the book A Name in the Fire? About people who faced unforeseen circumstances. However, against all odds, they pull through. She pulls through. She knows of hushed voices carrying on the wind, for the day of reckoning. No one knows, no one is supposed to know. They do bad things to those who even look suspicious, look the wrong way, frown even a little.

Narrow escape is a luxury, however—
—This escape is inevitable.

Bless the souls who live to see tomorrow.

Tᕼᕮ ᒪᑌᑎᗩᖇIᗩᑎ.

Chapter Two
Plead the Fifth:

My mother caught me reading the book one evening when lying in bed. She appeared out of nowhere. Her eyes widened like a broken relic, displaying any power that was concealed. Her face reddened like the blood I tasted after she snatched it and hit me with the book. Not allowed, not allowed. She didn't stop. She beat me repeatedly until the font of the title was indented onto my forehead.

A sick satisfaction, I endured it, deserved it, and for what? She compares herself to the omnipotent, this woman. A name above all names. When I am with her, she shall be exalted. She is considered worthy over anything else. My father, our sisters, our friends, and even me. No matter my mother or not, a title means little.

Born a hazard to my very existence.

Throughout the time I was covering myself, she was laughing. She burrowed and furrowed in laughter, in fear, in disgust. Each hit was a different aura, a different vibe, each had a reason. In her eyes, she was punishing me for something she hates the most.

In her eyes, and mine;

That is when a person starts to build themselves up.

Little by little, only to be torn down again.

and again, and again. . .

Shrouded in a conscious coma that pulls thick through the air. Suffocating haze, the burning light that scalds flesh.

They've come to reap what is sowed.

Tᕼᕮ ᕮᑎᗪIᑎG Sᑕᕮᑎᕮ.

Chapter 3
Rebirth:

The girl is bent into odd angles when she wakes. It doesn't seem possible that she could have been sleeping here, alone on the dirt path, surrounded by leaves and grass and clouds.

She feels like she might have fallen from the sky

She sits up, dusty and disoriented. Behind her, a narrow trail turns and disappears, crowded with trees flaming garishly with fall colors. In front of her is a lake. It is calm and blue, its surface rippling only at the edges where shallow water meet rock. On instinct, she crawls to it and peers in, feeling a tug of instinctive pity for the confused girl staring back at her.

Only when she stands does she see the hulking buildings looming at the perimeter of the park. Made of gray stone, they stand tall over the tips of fiery red trees, staring down at where she's landed. The buildings strike her as both threatening and welcome, as if she's at the in-between stage of awake and asleep when it's possible for dreams and reality to coexist.

Instead of being afraid, she feels a surge of excitement tear through her. Excitement, like the sound of a gunshot to a sprinter.

Go.

She slips down the trail and across the dirt road to where the dirt road abruptly begins. She doesn't remember putting on the silk dress she's wearing, printed with a delicate floral calico and falling in wispy folds at her knees. She stares at her unfamiliar feet, wrapped in stiff new sandals. Although the cold escapes her, passerby walk in scarfs and jackets, wrapped in thick wool, navy and gray. Personality lies in the small additions, but few bother to notice the wisp of a girl shuffling and hunched over, fighting against the weight of wind.

The smell of damp earth is familiar, as is the way the stone buildings capture the echoes of the quad and hold them tight, making time slow and conversations last longer. From the way the wind whips all around her, and from her precious new memory of the trees in the woods.

But nothing looks like it did yesterday. And yesterday, it was spring.

To be continued. . .

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