Adaliah Endevi {D10}

Fairytales are simply wicked crafts by Authors towards the innocent souls of society. Happy ever afters have never truly existed, especially for the bloodline of the Endevi clan. At the petite age of five years old, I discovered these illustrations of pure fiction beneath the layers of dust upon Mother’s old things. For hours I studied the stories of Princesses, and Knights, with beautiful gowns and twists of sorrows - the meat of these fables always related to truth, while every time their endings sang of solely lies. What occurred past the final page? Did they bare children, and continue their obnoxiously pleasant life? Or did their happiness crumble to a close as well, just as it does in reality? Did the next Protagonist kill their Mother in Childbirth, as I did?




Truly I should not be one to judge the wicked, as I am no better myself. Demeanor wise however? The myths of evil do not grace against my exterior, as it does within my core. Sweet locks of gold collapse far past my shoulders, framing the display of an overly-youthful face. Radiating blue gleams from my irises, standing as the only resemblance I seem to share with my older Brother; while above shapes the single physical depiction of my corruption - the permanent villainous arch of my eyebrows. The heinous presence I should pertain is often overlooked by the plumpness of my cheeks, the button-like appearance of my too small of a nose, and far too many other qualities.

The scents of the monstrous Woman I meant to become has yet to even scarcely charm my presentation. Attributes belonging to children still resemble my thirteen-year-old form. Length refuses to gift me, and assist with my desire to be seen as more then a mere youngster. Features of adulthood carol to be distantly within my future, if it resides there at all. They say I mirror the beauty of the Mother I never knew, while in actuality I’ll never even vaguely compare. As she was viewed like a Queen amongst the clan of our group, I’m unable to even receive the mental honor of our genetics. Perhaps I’ll never be a Seer. Perhaps I’ll never contain powers. Perhaps I’ll always solely be the killer of their Queen, the murderer of her own Mother.




Interior traits of mine don’t quite match the characteristics on my outside - unless I desire for it to. Unfortunately the other members of my Household are keen to my trickery; but the rare occasions a Stranger crosses my company, a pleasant impression may take hold. The sugary Princesses, amongst the Stories that captured my interest as a child, unfold across my crude manners, masking the traits most don’t desire to see. And for occasional events the Daughter, my Father wishes he had raised, presents itself for the Naive. As for the majority of the time however? That luscious persona is no where to be found, and the one that parallels to my true self illuminates.

Hatred has been within me and upon me since my earliest memories. Talents that my Bloodline must pertain has yet to bless me with it’s presence. The pristine Brother of mine has gloated his gift since the day of my Birth; and for that, I despise him the most. My Father has continuously frowned upon me for not following in my Brother’s footsteps; and for that, I resent him just as much. My Mother cursed and titled me with her Death; and for that, I have not discovered a miss for the companionship I never had - but solely bitterness. Will I only ever reside as the unwanted black sheep of this family?

A quality I refute to share, is my envious desire to pertain a different position amongst my Family. What if my Mother never passed in her struggle to bring me into this cruel Panem? What if the past, present, and future graced me with it’s knowledge? Every moment alone I enfold my fingers together, and plead to my grasp that I become a Seer, as the others are. Each lesson on containing the abilities of our bloodline I listen intently, even if it seems that patients is dwindling from my hold. They believe I simply don’t care to be like them… but I do, though I’ll probably never be that lucky.




The day of my Birth is sorrowfully a tale that’s consistently been told - not because of my Mother’s death, or the addition of a Daughter, though all of that’s included. But on that day my older Brother wailed and grieved, far before the climax of the story occurred. Countless of pats grazed my Father’s shoulders in congratulations. Pride and congrats did not overtake him due to his new offspring, but that his Son had proved signs of being a Seer at such a young age of four. Apparently his tantrum predicted our Mother’s death. Pity shined down on me for being the fault of all this, and it still does to this day. Easy to say, I enjoy the disgust of fairytales more then that event.

Glory continues to smile at my glamorous older Brother, while I remain invisible within his shadow. Spells and sight of the future relishes in his ability, as failure solely accompanies my attempts. Acceptance would be granted if I didn’t become a Seer - but still grasped the skills of another ability. Though as I venture amongst all the talents they view as true and real, destruction seems to always follow me. No matter the spell -of witnessing the future, flourishing of nature, manipulation of others- only the lick of death tastes at my subjects. The reason for my continues effort appears futile, yet the art of giving-up hasn’t embellished me either.

My sole talent of deceiving others with my facade is presented rarely, as we’re homeschooled and mainly kept from the society that differs from our believes. The basics that they learned are fed to our knowledge, and even more hours are provided to understanding these so-called abilities of our Bloodline. A house distant from the population even shelters us, to ensure our minimal communication with the Norm - and isolate me within the relatives that look down upon, and see me as no better then the normal others. At the age of eighteen will they cast me out if a talent hasn’t illuminated from my Being? Or will I forever be the undesirable normal, trapped amongst the Skilled I strive to be one of?




The concept of my story is not one of Fairytale. I’m not a heroin that one would crave to read of. A Prince will never rescue me from the hardship of reality. The character I must play has been carved as the worthless villain, across a stone that refuses to erase a word. But even the foes pertain a tale and a reason; And mine is the struggle to be more, and override the mistakes I was destined to cause. But if I did discover the abilities I plea for, would I alter from the enemy? It’s a tale that not even I know the ending of - perhaps my all-seeing Brother does though.