Summary: I knew that humans are delicate glass figurines. So, I thought that if I fell from somewhere as high as the heavens, everything would be over because I'd break into a million of pieces. Then, I found out that you never really stop falling and you will continue to fall, until you forget why you fell in the first place.

Tag(s): OC, character has no prior knowledge of TG.

1. The Fall

When I was younger, my mother told me many things.

History, fiction, tall-tales and lies, all molded carefully and woven delicately into a story that would fascinate me. I remember soaking up all of her words like a sponge and demanding her, in all my childish glory, for her to continue or make a new one. True or false didn't matter to the young me, because my mother told the best stories. I didn't want to give up on that, so I asked her to carry on as I focused as hard as I could on her.

But then, one day, she stopped telling me her stories.

I didn't know why, but she was always in bed, always wore a thin line on her face. At that time, I couldn't help but liken it to one of the many drawings the kids at my school would draw; a stickman with a line for a mouth. I didn't get it why people did that, on their face or on paper, because I always drew with smiles, not frowns. The younger me thought that lines were terribly ugly and icky. She thought that they were sad, because they couldn't go whichever way they wanted, because there was no turn, no curve, nothing. It was either left or right, up or down.

One day, my mother told me this.

"Humans are so fragile," she said, this time her lips no longer a line, but a down curved, hideous thing full of creases and wrinkles. Suddenly, mother became so, so ugly and I didn't even know why. "Delicate, actually. We're all so easy to break, just like glass figurines. Drop them a few centimeters off the ground and they become tiny shattered pieces no one can fix."

I realized, that mother was no longer "mother", but just a scary woman who lived with me. The fact that she always had this strange darkness surrounding her, the fact that everyone else ignored it but me. It would wrap itself tightly around her, like an uncomfortable blanket and it was especially tight when she held the photo that had my father in it. When she gazed into the man that I never knew, the darkness would no longer wrap, but strangle her.

When it happened, she would break things. Break the plates, the cups, the windows and everything in the house that was breakable.

It made me fear her.

I was scared, because I knew that she would eventually run out of things to break. There would be a day, where everything in the house would be beyond fixing and since she never stopped, she would continue breaking.

I was scared, because this was not the mother I loved, the mother who would tell me stories when I asked.

If humans were glass figurines, I would break ten times easier than the glass cup I used to pour my orange juice in.

I was scared, because this woman, would eventually break me.

This person, this scary woman, was the monster that chased me in my nightmares.

One day, the woman stopped. It's not that she stopped telling stories, or breaking things, because I was used to the strange timings of what she named as her "resting hours". No, this was... I didn't know how to describe it. She stopped moving about and just like a sick animal, she instead laid in her bed, her body going in a strange up-down-up-down rhythm and her breaths coming out in puffs, like from the train I saw on telly.

Then, she would vomit this sticky red puddle and she would ask me to bring her more booze and coke, though at that time, I didn't know what they were. Sometimes, she'd switch it up a bit by asking me to bring her vodka and some funny pink pills. I hated the times when she asked me to bring her the pointy thing though.

But I enjoyed the peace of this time, because it was so quiet. She didn't shout at me and I think I was happy that she didn't.

One day, the woman completely stopped.

I didn't understand, so I continued with the routine.

Clean up the house, clear the glass shards (not that there were any of them on the ground anymore), sweep the dust, wash the clothes (by dunking them in water and then drying them), open the windows to let some fresh air in, etcetera, etcetera. Since the woman stopped moving too, I started cleaning her as well. It was no different when she knocked herself out and I was left with puddles of vomit and sweat to clean. I didn't like doing it, but I didn't want her to get mad at me, you see.

One day, some funny people knocked on the door. They were the police but at that time, young me didn't know. But she did thought that their clothes were cool, like a super hero's outfit. That's why I let them in, because they didn't look like the bad guys.

"Hello, young lady." the tallest greeted and I greeted back, because it was the polite thing to do. "Can we come in?"

I nodded, opening the door for them. I didn't mind, because I knew that bad guys didn't have manners. They're called bad guys for a reason, you know. So these people must be the nice guys.

"Little girl, where's your mum?" one of them asked.

Young me thought that he had a really cool mustache, but at that time, I didn't say it. When my mother was still my mother, she would tell me not to speak my mind, because I might make someone upset. I didn't like making someone unhappy.

"Upstairs." I said as I pointed at the stairs with my index finger. I didn't like thinking that the scary woman was my mother, but she would be mad at me as well for not telling others that she is my mother. Was this counted as a white lie, if I lied to protect myself from her fists? I hope so, because I didn't like to lie. "She's stopped."

"Stopped?" another questioned. "What do you mean?"

Like a student in class who was asked by the teacher to answer a question, I was excited to give the correct answer, because I knew it.

"I'll show you!" I smiled.

When we reached to her room, one of them kicked open the door and found the sight before them, all of them looked sick. One of them, I think the one who's the youngest, considering that he was the most nervous, darted to the living room and I heard sounds. I think he was vomiting.

"She's stopped for a while now." I answered, not knowing the growing horror of the men around me. "I dunno how to wake her, but I just clean up whenever the room smells bad. She'll get mad-" and then my hands went to cover my mouth, because I wasn't supposed to say it.

"Oh dear god," one of them muttered, his hand reaching for this black thing at his belt. I looks like the walkie-talkie this boy in my class has. "This is Unit 1 and we have an emergency-"

Later on, they asked me for the "full story". I didn't want to tell them, because she would get super crazy angry mad and I didn't want that. Then one of them told me that I would be able to get a nice hot bath with bubbles and spaghetti, so I told them.

I haven't had a nice bath in a while, since the heater didn't work anymore and I never had one with bubbles. I really wanted to try it. There was also spaghetti, which I have never eaten before. She wouldn't allow it, since it made the darkness wrap around her.

When they told me she was dead for three weeks, I didn't know how to feel.

It was strange but I knew why.

When I was younger, my mother never told stories about heroes dying, or dying in general.

. . .

Life wasn't so great after that.

I was going through the system one too many times, because no one wanted to permanently take care of the "weird kid whose mother committed suicide". The adults would often look at me with pity in their eyes, or sometimes, disgust and rejection. Sometimes, they couldn't stand looking at me at all.

The young me didn't get it. Why were they so mean to me, when I didn't even talk to them?

They were the ones being weird, not me, never me, was a reoccurring thought in my head. I wholeheartedly believed them, because they were the ones staring, spiting and whispering. I did none of those, yet they never listened and continued like I was the loony one.

Gradually, as I grew older, I realized many things. I was a child of death and no one wanted someone who had been so close to death, to be a part of their families. They didn't want a stain to be so close to their precious, dearest, clean people. I also learned that the woman, who was supposed to be my mother, was crazy. Or, at least everyone thought she was. She had been doing many bad things, like drinking, being high, being abusive, etcetera, etcetera.

I finally knew, that the woman I feared so much, was the one in the wrong. I wasn't particularly joyful or grief-stricken at the discovery. I was merely apathetic, because I didn't really love her after she became just "the woman". I lost all the love I harbored for her and it was not like I replaced it with fury or hatred. It was like misplacing a key and never really wanting to find it back, because you can't be bothered by the loss.

This was how I felt.

The doctor who told me to lie down on the sofa told me that her death had a big impact on my mentality. He said that by being apathetic, by acting that it was never a loss in the first place, I was coping. He said that what I was doing, whatever it was, was a coping mechanism.

I honestly don't get why I'm the one who's on the sofa, because I think he's the one insane.

But I guess he's right about the impact it had on me. After all that, it was hard to muster up any care for another human being. Like a loved toy thrown away to become a replacement doll, I guess it perfectly described me. I was full, I was perfect, I was okay, once upon a time. Now, I'm just as broken as the rest of the unwanted toys stuffed in boxes and chests.

I think that it was then I realized the world stopped.

So I stopped too, by climbing to heaven and falling off from it.

. . .

I didn't remember what happened after.

All I remember drifting off and suddenly I was caged in some warm prison. I would kick and kick the weird walls to try to escape. It never worked, but that didn't mean I would stop trying.

I wondered how I ever got to wherever I was. I thought I was falling and everything, including me, would got "splat" and I would become nothing. Why didn't I break like any other glass figurine you could find?

Once again, I didn't understand.

Then I was finally free from the prison, but it was so hard to get out. It was strange, especially when there was so much hot goo and breathing walls. It felt like someone was sucking me in through a tiny straw.

But instead of in, I went out.

It never really came to my mind that I never did stop falling.

I couldn't stop the yawn and oddly enough, I sucked in air that felt very cold and foreign and started screaming.

A/N: Please review and tell me what you thought about the beginning. It'd be much appreciated. ^^