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Chapter 1
Winter cast a white snowfall over a brilliant Red Square, Russia. St. Basil's Cathedral sat
in the center of it all, emitting a seemingly innocent legality imposed over the secondary buildings. The snow stopped, the skies having been bled dry of all frozen splendor.
Anya shook the snow globe again, eager to see the violent flurries cascade over her homeland. She clutched her few belongings in a backpack on her lap, as if she could absorb them, never have to worry about losing the few things she valued in the world. The cabin was empty, except for her. Alone, again. But that's okay. Always alone. She nervously tapped her foot against the floor, her shoes and socks in disarray under her seat. She felt her neck. Three slits on each side. Perfectly aligned. Odd feet; Mottled. Smooth green scaled ankles, legs, hips. Freak.
Just a lost, alone, freak.
She brought a fuzzy sleeved wrist to her eyes, wiping away makeup. It was near bedtime anyway, no bother looking nice for sleep. The corridor looked empty, so Anya stripped out of the rest of her clothes, save bra and panties, and put on long underwear and a long-sleeved tunic. Both dark. Easier to overlook.
She unbolted the fold out bed from the ceiling and swung it down, locking it in place. The door separating her cabin from the corridor wouldn't lock, so she gathered her belongings to take in bed with her. Anya hugged the cheap steamship blankets close to her. The single porthole showed night, but she wasn't terribly sleepy. Nothing to do now. She put her earphones in and played some MCR. Black Parade. Not relaxing, but easy to think to.
She hated having to leave. Russia had been less than exemplary in criminal activity and cleanliness, but it was the only home she had ever known. A loose job as a carny had earned her the money to get out. Away. To America.
America seemed a decent choice. Constitutional rights and all that. Less of a Secret Police complex to it. She didn't know where she'd go exactly; Anya planned on backpacking around until she stumbled upon a homely spot, or until she ran out of money. Four grand waded up in a ziplock bag in the bottom of her backpack wouldn't last forever. Apprehension nipped at the edges of her stomach. While safer, there was no promise of being exempt from the persecution that followed her because of the, condition, she had been born in.
No one stayed around long enough to see the beauty of it. They would see her freak legs and freak feet, then leave. Nobody wanted to be associated with a freak.
Freak.
Alone.
Lost.
Sixteen and freaky and all alone.
There wasn't a soul in the world that knew where she was, or cared.
But it's okay, she thrived just fine alone, vocality had never been one of her strongholds. Years of being told off for being "deformed" had taken it's toll; social phobia engraved in the deepest synapses of her brain. Everyone judges, everyone is full of lies. She hated to be dramatic, and all mellow and stuff, but it was true.
Just like love, it was true.
She missed the ocean, even though it was closer than ever outside the walls of the ship.
The boat kept a steady bumpy rhythm: lulling. Sleep couldn't be too far off now. All of this deep, heartbreak crap was wearing on her. Time to lighten up. Boys. Those things are pretty nice. Not that Anya had ever been in love or anything, even had a boyfriend, but the topic was mindless, easy to get lost in. Easy to fall asleep to.
And sleep came.
