alice farley / six. cb. fin

You have always been an odd child.

Not necessarily odd in the ways that most would think of when they hear the phrase, but at the very least, different from other children your age. There was no fascination with the mystical, no fascination with things that you couldn't immediately believe in. Gods and monsters, it was never a game that you wanted to play.

Your parents drilled into you, from as far back as you can remember, the importance of obedience, of biting your tongue and staying quiet. There was something about the games though—that portent of darker tides, it was fascinating, and for all that you bit your tongue and stayed quiet, you liked trying to work out the logic of each child's actions, the decisions that they made for survival reasons and the decisions that they made with their hearts.

You liked, it turned out, trying to figure people out.

When you were a kid, another girl said you were 'devoid of magic.'

Even back then, tiny as could be, you'd rolled your eyes and bit right back at her pathetic poetical musing. Believing in magic is for people who don't get to choose their own fate.

Then you'd flicked your hair over your shoulder and stomped away. The chasm where your heart belonged grew just that little bit much wider, and sooner rather than later, you were sure the beating thing would fall away. Well, if you were someone who thought silly things like that.

But you're not.