"We are shaped and fashioned by what we love." - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
As I looked outside through the small window complete with wrought iron bars, I felt a pang at my heart. I could see the snow falling perfectly, like in a cheesy film that I was once rewarded with the pleasure of watching.
I craved so much to be out there.
In my whole, entire life I had never been granted the desire of leaving the almost barren room, much less the Manor. In fact, I couldn't recall any memories that had featured me outdoors. It just didn't come to.
Through the painful period, I was rewarded with a sliver of a silver lining. A friend of the people that kept me locked up in their attic, like I was some sort of animal. I watched him, like the stalker I was; memorised his features, his stance and his everything. Was it so abnormal to be so in love with somebody you had yet to meet, and probably would never meet?
Apart from looking over the blonde haired angel, I did not do much.
I dreamt and I painted. But however much art I created with love, it was taken from me and promptly replaced with another blank canvas. Watching the angel had become the very bane of my existence.
It was soon later, that I learnt the angel was not an angel. Instead, he turned out to be the devil in disguise.
It turned out I had learnt too late as I was finally allowed outdoors for the first time in my life, I was executed, my purpose in the supposed war, over.
He had signed my death warrant.
The worst part was that I had allowed him, out of my obsessive love.
It was kill or be killed.
I choose the wrong choice.
I wonder now, if things had been different. If I had not been born with strange, freakish powers. If he had returned my love. If he could've returned my love.