02. BIRTH
The day I was born is not a day recalled in happy memory by my coven members. It was a stressful and emotionally frustrating ordeal, I am sure. My mother spent two days in extensive labor with me; I have always fatigued her. I was born in the morning, around the time the stars start to fade in the western sky and the sun's first glimmer of light breaks over the horizon. When I asked my father to recount the events of my genesis, a twisted expression had marred his face and ghosts lurked behind his crystal-clear eyes. He told me, very slowly, carefully, that I was stubborn, as I always have been and always will be. I came later than the expected due date, frightening every one of the mends and my family members into thinking I would be a stillborn, a broken, breathless body of newborn flesh. He told me that I was small. Weak. Around my neck, choking me like a noose was the very thing giving me life, the umbilical cord. He told me that my mother and I were lucky to be alive, and that he praised the Twins every day for that great gift. I suppose from his perspective, we were lucky... But I know the truth. I have dug beyond meaning and reason, beyond face-value, to recognize who and what I am. I was born violently, born to kill. I threatened both my mother's and my own sad, palpitating heart with the savage spirit possessing me. I was silent, my cries locked inside a chest of fragile-as-butterfly-wings bones; I didn't scream because I was a snake, noiseless and poised to destroy. I was battle-born by my very hand. I will never know gentleness.
