He'd awoken in the cell, without a shred of memory of how he'd managed to get himself trapped.

It wasn't a "cell," per se, he supposed, as the "bars" were some sort of fleshy substance, slathered in a dried, sticky red substance that he hoped wasn't what he thought it was, as though he had been engulfed and swallowed by a monstrous creature. Perhaps he had, he thought. Mother had told him that she would always keep him safe, Father had whispered his endless reassurances, but they meant nothing now. He knew full well that he would most likely never see Mother and Father again.

Indeed, he was alone in his fleshy prison, unless you counted the Eye. He'd decided what seemed like months ago to call it that, as he could think of no better name. At first, he'd thought it to be the beating heart of the creature that had swallowed him. It would writhe and convulse with endless twisting veins of blood, but there was something more to its movements. It was when he was asleep that the Eye revealed itself to him.

And oh, what a terrible creature the Eye was! When sleep had finally claimed him for what seemed like the millionth time, he was awoken to a ghastly peeling sound that made him cringe in terror. The heart was beating, writhing, as it always did, but layers of its red, fleshy veins had peeled away. More veins intersected in the inky abyss of black within, but behind the veins was an unmistakable shape - a red, glaring, eye. The Eye was studying him, coldly, as though deliberating what best to serve him with when it ate him for a second time. Of course, it noticed as soon as his two eyes opened (he was fairly certain he had two, wasn't he?) and the heart's veins began to twist back into place, to block the inky black void within, to block his view of the Eye.

He screamed without words, for he had never learned to speak the beautiful language that Mother and Father had sung to him in, had lulled him to sleep in… but his scream was useless. The heart began beating once more, but in a new rhythm. He sensed a deliberation in its motions now that he had learned its true nature. The Eye had swallowed him, and he did not know its purpose.

A chill went through his globular body, as he realized that perhaps he would soon find out.

Mom always said I was special. So did yours.

At least I hope she did. If yours didn't, then I'm really sorry. Someone screwed up and matched you with the wrong childhood. Happens to the best of us. Because everyone deserves to have a mother who they can hear that from.

And if you didn't grow up with a mother, or never were able to know her? I can't begin to imagine what that must have been like. But you can take comfort in the fact that she existed, she gave birth to you, and she (hopefully) knew and hoped to convey how special you are.

And, you know what? Everyone's special. Sure, not all of us are prodigies in a field, or fantastic athletes, or heroes, but everyone's special to someone.

I don't think I've known anyone who understands that better than a mom.

"Adeleine," she would tell me, "you are destined for so much more than this dreary life we live. You are a wonderful young girl and you will go on to do wonderful things in this world."

And I would smile. Because even though neither her nor I had any future, she had me, and as far as I can tell parenthood seems to be an amazing blinder to the truth. Even as I knew her words would never bear fruit, they weren't empty. She truly believed in me; she believed in my future.

Mom was a musician, and to me, there was nothing more beautiful than hearing her sing as she strummed her guitar. Her songs would take me far away from the dreary alleyway we lived in, where we shared our living quarters with rats and mice, to a world where dreams could come true, to a world where a little homeless girl and her mom could have a future.

The guitar was all she had. We lived off the little scraps of food and coins that kind strangers would leave in a little tin cup as thanks for the music Mom gave them. It wasn't often that strangers were kind enough - most would turn up their nose after they listened to my mother's music, if they listened at all - but Mom made it work. I only learned later how exactly she was doing it.

I always wondered where the strangers were coming from, and where they were going. They always wore clothes much fancier than ours, and walked with a deliberation that suggested they knew exactly where they were going - not just that day, but in life.

"Dry your eyes, Adeleine," she would tell me. "One day, you are going to have a life just like them." I might have been seven by then, old enough to know better. "You will live indoors, and have many people who love you, and all the food you can eat. And I will be so proud of you." And I would still smile, but sadly and wistfully. Because, much as I'd jumped at her encouragement early in life, I was beginning to see how impossible it would be.

Other than my mom's music, one of the few things that brought me joy in life was art. It was something I'd stumbled upon by accident, when a group of rowdy boys a few years older than me charged through the alley - they'd left behind a small, whittled-down piece of sidewalk chalk. Mom was asleep at the time, but I eagerly picked it up and began drawing a picture of her. I couldn't wait to show her - she'd be so excited!

A few hours later, Mom woke up, and I scampered over with my tiny little kid feet.

"Mommy! Come look what I drew!" At first, she was confused, but then saw the chalk in my hands and gave a wrinkly smile. And then she glanced over at my chalk drawing, and then her eyes widened in an expression I hadn't thought possible from her.

"Adeleine… You are amazingly talented, my girl!" she told me. I smiled again, for I knew it was another piece of flattery that she, as a mother, truly meant. But something about it seemed different this time. Was my drawing really that good? Sure, I'd paid close attention to the shading, and the details of the face, and the wrinkles, and the hair, and, like, everything. But that doesn't make the drawing that good, right?

Apparently it did. Mom, in her well-meaning but embarrassing way, proceeded to tell all of the strangers who passed by our little corner about my drawing on the ground.

"Come look what my little Adeleine has drawn!" she would tell them. They would roll their eyes upon seeing how little I was, step into the alley… and as soon as they laid eyes on my drawing, their jaws would drop in an expression somewhere between awe and fright.

"You are so talented, it is as though your drawing comes to life." one elderly gentleman told me before hurrying along to who-knows-where. That day, our little tin bucket seemed to have more coins and food scraps in it than we'd normally get in a year.

I was, obviously, encouraged to continue. That night, as Mom strummed her guitar, I took the rest of the chalk and drew a mural - a mural of the feelings that her music awoke in my heart. I drew a world of dreams, where a little girl and her mother could live in prosperity. I drew a shining castle on a hill, owned by a kindly king who was a fair and just ruler. I drew a forest, a mountain, a battleship piloted by a guardian of the kingdom… I was carried away as I usually was by Mom's music, but rather than manifest it into tears, I manifested it into the drawing that I was making. Though I only had one color, I imagined the world of dreams coming to life in rich hues, every color of the rainbow.

The next day, strangers were even more blown away. I received so much doting attention - apparently I had suddenly become "cute" and "precious" overnight, even though just a few days ago I was just another homeless child that no one would look twice at. Our bucket continued to overflow with gifts from well-wishers. Our bellies were full that night.

My chalk, however, had run its course. "Mommy?" I asked. "What's going to happen now?"

Mom looked into my eyes. "Now you, my sweet Adeleine, will hone this talent of yours. You are a star, and you will get the chance to shine."

I didn't realize what she'd meant by that until a few days later when she woke me up out of my tattered little blanket with a surprise. "Happy birthday, my precious daughter!" I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes. I knew what they were, but birthdays weren't something that we usually celebrated. It was just another reminder of our stature in life.

But Mom had a surprise this year. She had went out and bought a beautiful set of paints, massive jars full of them, in all the colors of the rainbow and then some. A fine brush accompanied it, along with more paper than I had ever handled in my life. I can swear my jaw dropped to the floor.

"But Mommy… how did you get the money for all of this?"

She just smiled sadly and did not answer. My seven-year-old self, meanwhile, began to play with my new toys, began to pour my heart into new creations. No longer would the kingdom I painted be crudely rendered on chalk. It would be given justice on paper.

Unfortunately, I only learned the answer to my questions a few nights later. Mom had been giving me the lion's share of the food for some time now, and buying the set of paints took far too much out of her. She had lost her ability to fight the hunger that threatened to consume both of us. She had, in her own noble way, sacrificed herself for my own future.

She was incredibly good at concealing her own ailment until the awful day I awoke to find her lying on the ground, eyes glassy. Her chest didn't rise and fall, she didn't blink… She was dead. I shook her corpse, tears consuming my sight, praying that it was all just a mistake, a dream. It wasn't fair!

At first, I was mad at her. Mad at her for putting myself over her. If only I'd known she was hurting so much to give me this! I could have made her return the paints, and we could have dined comfortably the next few nights.

Then the realization sunk in that I would never see her again, and my sorrow became overwhelming. But rather than channel my sweeping emotions into tears, I channeled it into the kingdom. Dark clouds and rain loomed over the kingdom of dreams - if a little girl couldn't have her mom, how can a perfect, picturesque kingdom exist? My paintings quickly turned melancholy.

Meanwhile, when Mom's body started to smell, I hid as strangers came to take her away. I didn't want to be taken away too. This was all I'd ever known.

I continued to draw, to paint, to create life. It was all I had. The tin bucket continued to fill itself with coins and gifts, little by little, and slowly but surely I got by. A little girl, all alone in the world, drew more sympathy than a little girl and her mother.

I would thank them, I would smile, but inwardly I would frown. Because what was the point? I was never going to get anywhere with this. I would stay on this street corner, with only the paint to keep me company, until even that ran dry and I faded into the concrete like my mom had before me.

At least that's what I thought. Until someone, a few days after the day I turned twelve, bought the building in front of the alley.

At first I had no idea what this meant for me. Sure, I'd heard some more hubbub coming from the other side of the building, but I didn't really understand how it connected to me. Until I saw a gruff man standing over me later that day.

"Who are you, and what are you doing on my property?" he asked. His eyes did not twinkle like my mother's had. They glared, with all the kindness of a rock. He had a mustache that twisted down, mirroring the disapproving frown he had for any poor little girls who happened to step on property he'd bought. He wore a plaid two-piece suit that abhorred any bright colors, instead opting for brown and grey.

"I don't understand." I told him. "I've been here for years since my mother died, painting." I grabbed some of my art to show him, hoping he'd sympathize, but rather than do so, he grabbed my arm gruffly.

"Panhandling is more like it. This is my property, kid." He exhaled in my face, and I got a nasty whiff of alcohol. "I'm giving you twenty-four hours to get your ugly little face off the face of my world before I call the police and they take you away." He laughed at his own little "joke."

"And what will they do to me? Will I find a nice home?" I asked him. God, I was so naive back then.

That prompted the man to let out a mighty guffaw. "They'll lock you away, kid, where no one can find you again. If you don't get the hell off my property, no one will love you, no one will care about you, and you'll rot away in an empty jail cell for the rest of your short, miserable life!" He was spitting in my face. I cringed away from him.

"You said twenty-four hours." I crossed my arms. "I need time to get my stuff together. I'll be gone by tomorrow, and you can open your, uh…"

"Club." he finished. "And good. If I wake up tomorrow and see you or any of your idiotic drawings here, I'm going to get rid of you for good." He flashed me a toothy smile that didn't reach his eyes before re-entering "his" building, that he was going to turn into a club for who-knows-what.

I collapsed on the asphalt. What was I going to do?

Many days and nights later, his own heroism gave up on him.

At least he liked to imagine that days and nights were still passing, even if he was stuck in his mysterious prison with only an eye that watched him when he wasn't looking. All he had to go off of, however, were the times he collapsed because he just couldn't stay awake anymore.

Every time he woke up, however, he felt more tired, more drained. He wondered if the Eye was sapping something from him, draining him of his powers, whatever those might be.

One "night" while he slept, a pink, glowing heart left his body, soundless, without alerting him to its plight. Glowing with a light that pierced the darkness of the prison, it flitted around for a moment before squeezing through the cage, much more effectively than his body could in any of his halfhearted attempts to escape his prison.

Unfortunately, this drew the attention of the Eye. As the heart began to fly up and out of the fleshy prison to the continued lack of suspicion (or consciousness) of the body it had just emerged from, the Eye, too, peeled itself back from the heart that surrounded it. It ripped and tore at itself, and eventually popped out of its heart in a bloody mess. This woke him up, even if his heart had not.

The Eye's true form was truly horrifying. It was a small Eye, covered and oozing in blood from the heart, surrounded with a cloud of darkness. The cloud extended into multiple black, oozing tendrils that connected to its body. Using its dark tendrils to propel itself, it dashed after the pink heart, seemingly hoping to grab it.

He screamed wordlessly, an encouragement to the heart to leave, to escape, to save itself. He wondered if the heart was his own, but dismissed the thought. He still felt a heartbeat in his own body, right? That didn't make any sense.

Nevertheless, the heart had drawn the attention of the Eye, and it was responding with its full power. Its tendrils split away, forming smaller clouds of darkness each with their own Eyes. A powerful, dark hole opened from each of them, attempting to suck the heart in.

The heart struggled, shaking a bit with the power of the Eyes' powerful suction. He continued to screech at it, to encourage it to escape, to break free. He screamed louder, louder, louder! And this seemed to empower the heart. It broke free of the Eyes' suction and blasted its way upwards, away from the Eye's reach. It withdrew its tendrils into itself, narrowing its single red eye. The Eye then turned towards him.

A chill ran down his spine. This couldn't end well.

Fast-forward to a few hours later. I was lying in the same spot, pondering the same question. I was a twelve-year-old girl with some good paintings, sure, but I didn't have a home, no family to speak of, and no one to turn to. I had a few hours to vacate the premises or the police would be called to lock me away.

I'd packed all my paints and my brush, but what good was that going to do? I had nowhere to take them.

Night had fallen, and I stared up at the cosmos. As diluted by light pollution as it was, maybe it would have an answer. I shook my head, laughing sadly.

"Think, Adeleine, think… How are you going to-"

BOOM

Something, falling very quickly, had just landed right in this alleyway. A chunk of asphalt struck me on the shoulder. I wondered quickly if it was a meteorite. My suspicions seemed to be confirmed when I headed over to the crash site and found a small crater, as though whatever fell had fallen from space.

"What is that?" I breathed, staring at it. It wasn't a meteorite after all. It was glowing with a strange color - was it pink? - and radiating a warmth that I just couldn't describe.

Tentatively, I reached out and picked it up. It was weightless, almost, with the shape of a cartoon heart. Something about it felt so right, so perfect, that all of my worries melted away as soon as I held it. For that moment I wasn't weighted down by the melancholy that had covered my heart with the death of my mother, had covered the world of dreams that I painted. For a moment I thought of the shining castle on a hill, the forest, the mountain.

I was so absorbed in those sudden, overwhelming feelings of radiant positivity that I didn't notice the heart pulling my hands closer to my chest. I didn't notice it fade into my essence, didn't notice its pink aura surrounding me before fading into me, didn't notice the world around me becoming muted…

I didn't notice everything vanish.

At least before it was too late to stop it from happening.