Hell. They say that hell is a place of ones own making. Well if that were to be true then I would scream…
"FUCK YOU!"
I never did a damn thing to have this brought back upon me. I was everything you made me to be. Especially you Father, you're the SOB who started it all, and I'm not meaning with my birth.
I'm only fifteen and yet I'm sitting here in Orphan Prison, cell number 060606 on the sixth floor of the thirteen floored stone limbo.
Orphan Prison, nice name huh? It's the oh-so-lovely-name given to this historical building when its first occupants were given a number -the first of the War Orphans to die for your cause. Historical as in being the only prison anywhere on earth that only holds death-row bound citizens. I say citizens because not one of us staying by cell is an actual criminal, murderer, or even in for suspected espionage. Nope- all of us are here for the reason that we are too dangerous to YOU people. For if you were to know what we know… Well let's just say that it would be devastation on earth. Total finial and supreme war, the end of all as anyone knows of it. All of that because we are the people who used to work for your truthful, lovely, beneficiary government. We were the kids, the orphans of wars created over time. Picked up and sent to training camps, we were trained to follow orders, to be the perfect weapon, the perfect tool. One that could go into war and no one say a thing about.
Why?
Because we were orphans, we had no family, we had no country. We were the trash of communities, so what person would complain when we were sent to war instead of their sons and daughters. Who would cry when we never made it back home, when we weren't able to mental handle it and broke beyond repair?
No one that's who.
We trained, we fought, we died, and then if we made it back out, if we got that chance to survive through it all- we became a hazard to the rest of you. We became a liability and so we were to be destroyed. Much like a dog after it becomes so good at fighting they wish to retire it, but instead must put it down because it has the possibility of one day biting its master.
So we like those dogs, were sent to Orphan Prison to die when it became time for our number to be called. Oh and for when I say death-row, I don't mean you get a time set up then and there. Oh no, it's much more fun for the Caretakers to toy with us, belittle us, shame us, and just torture us. They, the Caretakers, decide when we die, until then we have a luxurious stay in our desert side cell blocks.
Oh- I never introduced myself when I started to rant on and on about, well you know. I'm Onyx Cyrus Black or also called Number 666 and Demon Child. My mother, bless her, is a loving and devoted woman who loved to read and loved odd names, she also loved the color black as you can tell. The 666 comes from my cell number 060606, but the name Demon Child comes from my looks.
You might find it odd when I refer to my mother as present tense and not past, and also that I curse my father. Well the truth is my mothers alive, if you can call her state that. So far gone in depression, she now only exists, remembering her baby son, her life, her joy, her hope; for him to return to her. Those are the reasons I hate my father and curse his very being.
My mother, an Orphan herself, was one of the luckier ones. With being the last and only daughter and by birthright inheritor of the late Lord Cyrus Van Black, she was luckily enough to hold a much greater needed position. She was a Lady and had close ties with the current Royalty that she was married off, married off to her betrothed before he passed away and she was married to my father!
As she was useless to him, he had her sent to work part time in a local chemical lab. One day a nearby untested, unstable chemical called Red Dust exploded and the fumes reacted with my mother eyes. They turned them an amethyst red and her eyes were passed on to me, as well as her almost albino skin color, my black silk locks of hair are a mystery to myself, as neither Mother or him have anything but white blond.
Tall and elegant features, I was born the aristocrat that my mother was orphaned from. She the only child of the Lord Cyrus Van Black, one of the last true Lords left in Russia. I mustn't leave out my father, though a pig he was. My father was a free man who also happened to be of noble lines, just not the first fortunately. A cruel man known as Sir Walter Black, as he took her name to get her titles, a vicious streak a mile long, and the reason I am still an Orphan. He is still alive and my mother as well. Though she has no say or care what's going on around her anymore.
Stripped of her only child, myself, at the tender age of five, my mother became silent and glass-eyed. Father thinking her insane leaves her alone in his mansion, but she's not. Just terribly depressed with the knowledge that her boy is an Orphan Soldier, and soon to be dead.