Story Type: Magi SI AU

Synopsis: I lived a simple life. I died a simple death. Yet curiosity made me an unwilling pawn in some else's game. I became the Heiress of abnormality.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot and characters.

Chapter 1

The World I(Forcefully) Migrated To

Seven lives, six names, five bodies, four hearts, three births, two souls, one death.

Blood splattered against the wall. The hole that housed my heart gaped openly at the fool that held the gun. At least it was quick. At least I didn't have to suffer. At least I didn't have to hear my mother scream (even though she said she wouldn't). The deed was done.

I slipped away.

I hoped I was remembered. That last couple of seconds before he blew my chest cavity onto the disgusting wall behind me (hopefully now someone will clean it, with bleach. Not just with water.) I hoped I was loved enough not to be forgotten. If not, that would honestly suck. I already knew my mother despite her stories would cry and my uncles, especially the elder one, would be unable to cope.

Then guilt settled in my stomach. The barrel aimed at my chest. (I was innocent of your crime.) At that moment I felt this undeniable guilt. As though it was my fault that this boy-child, barely a man, decided for me the time I left this world. That did nothing to squash it.

I felt guilty about leaving my mother behind.

I felt guilty in depriving her of her only child.

I felt guilty for being her only child.

I felt guilty for dying before her.

I felt guilty for dying.

The boy-child with his hand shaking in fear (he'd never taken a life before. So why now mine?) The boy-child looking at me with fractured determination (he'd made up his mind). Closed his finger around the soft metal, there was no way it could be hard, and pushed it back. The metal pierced the air and sank into my flesh. Ripping it a part and casting aside what it believed did not belong there. It took less time to draw a breath. It took less time to scream for help. It took an infinite amount of time for my soul to rip itself from flesh and a body to tumble to the ground.

It took him forever to say he was sorry.

I was seventeen.

I was not home.

I was protected from the violence of the world by 166 square miles.

I was not protected from the human mind.

Yet I still existed. And those who exist are powerful in their own right. To exist is meaningful. For a being to exist is an unforeseen variable that allows for the mechanisms of a plan and of power to never have a stable flow.

And so I became a conundrum, I existed.

"Push!"

I knew I was selfish.

Mostly I was lazy but at times I exhibited that inane human selfishness we can never truly get rid of.

I was dead.

Yet I was alive.

Somewhere, somewhere very far away I still existed. A tiny part of myself was being born. A tiny part that was still alive. I could feel it. The tiny heart going pitter patter resembling rain hitting a window pane. It wavered for a slight moment and then it began to beat again. Reaching out I touched it. It jumped. I giggled softly. It felt like butterfly wings brushing against the palm of my hand.

I gripped it. Honestly, a bit scared. It was me. Yet it was not. It was everything I wanted to be and yet not. It was…it was a dream. To bitter and too sweet, to happy and too sad and to perfect and too imperfect but it was real.

"Push!"

And it was soon gone. I needed to choose. Just like that little boy. Just like that man-child.

So I did.

I squeezed it, holding on as tightly as I could. I saw its journey was nearly at an end and I was going with it. I was going where it was going. I was going live as it lived. I took a breath and the little heart stopped beating, the little being stopped existing.

Then the heart started beating again. It was strong and healthy. This time however, I noted I was all alone. I was warm and alone. The tiny being had disappeared. Then I realised that it hadn't. It encompassed me. It clung to my being. The tiny clean slate was still there but it was different now. It was littered with indents. Tiny pinpricks of a future already lived bordered by a past that was waiting to be created.

The slate was me. Dirty, soiled and already written upon.

Yet the slate was not me. Clean, unsoiled and ready to be written on.

I gave an indignant cry as my skin was bombarded with a cold, scratchy material and someone above me laughed. It was a tired but happy laugh. The material encompassed me completely binding my hands to my chest making me uncomfortably warm but safe. Another laugh came. This time it was soft and cold. As though what it wanted had been fulfilled.