ivan forrester, district seven | cbd3

I didn't like who I was becoming.

Or, at least, who I was prophesied to become.

It's hard being a Forrester. As far as I know, anyway. I left the commune when I was old enough to see everything for what it was. No gods, no myths, just a bunch of freaks and their strict rules. They called me an omen when I was born, said my dark hair was bad luck. That I was destined to bring upon something terrible.

They were going to train me to be an executioner, a beast made of steel and bone — but I disappeared in the night, nothing but the clothes on my back and a rusted compass. And maybe they were glad to find my bed empty. I don't know. I just kept walking, until my feet were blistered and I found somewhere to stay.

I was young, and hopeful; the kind of orphan that had a chance. I didn't stay on the streets for long, and my scars healed quickly. I was enrolled in school, doing household chores for my foster family, trying to be a normal teenager. Always ignoring the memories of my past. I bleached my hair to burn it all away.

That's not my life. Not anymore.

I am not some ancient wolf with a hunger for souls, or whatever.

I'm just a guy trying to pass his finals.