Disclaimer: I do not own X-Day.
Synthetic Angel
By Silver Sailor Ganymede
It is cold outside, but that does not bother her in the slightest. She never used to like the cold: now however she thrives in it, the cold, the wind, the rain, the snow: all things others are drawn to hate. She hated them too before, just like everybody else, but she is not like everyone else now; she has become so much more than that, though she is less in their eyes, she knows that much at least.
She can see their fake-smiles, their parodies of friendliness: she knows they lie to her but she plays along as best she can. It is a pity really that they still see her as something she is not; they still know her a pretty girl with good grades and a god-given gift for jumping. She no longer feels pulled toward the sky when jumping; she stopped being that girl a long time ago; she no longer knows herself by the name they use for her. She has no name now; she is a number, she is 11, nothing more, nothing less.
The fact that she is now a number rather than a name means nothing to her; she would rather be what she is than what she is not; she would rather be herself than some angelic figure whom everyone pretends to adore. She knows she is not as they would force themselves to see her; she is not saint, she is at best a synthetic angel, a product of the crushing world around her: after all, what can be real in a world where lies are all that thrive?