A Smear of Grey on my Black and White Canvas

A Smear of Grey on my Black and White Canvas

Sometimes I sit and think to myself, "How did I get here? What brought me to this point in my life?" And that's where it all begins.

It always starts with my reflection. Always. Whenever I look in a mirror I see the way I used to be. My old way of living life. And it was not a good way.

I started as a four-year-old weapon of death. After those four grueling years of abuse from my parents and then the abandonment, that final kick-in-the-teeth, I had plenty to hate my fellow humans for. What was so wrong with me, world? Just because I had some fancy tattoos, I was labeled as a freak and tossed out flat on my butt.

Those were my thoughts as I sulked in an alleyway for the next few days. My parents hadn't even been kind enough to set me up in an orphanage. No, I was all alone, fending for myself on the streets. And then, it happened. The first time I ever killed another human being. He was a gang member who strayed away from the rest of his pack. He was a trim dirty blonde with a white bandana  on his head and a hunting knife strapped to his belt. He didn't look like the gang type to me. I guess he was pretty good with kids for a gang member, because he pulled out his hunting knife and started doing some tricks with it. If I could go back to that time, I would tell him not to do it and run from the little girl in the alley. I pointed my finger at his head and one light needle to the temple later, he was just another dead gang member on the streets. I really don't like talking about this with all the wonderful people who are in my life now, but there once was a horrible monster roaming the streets of New York called Corrupt Mia. That monster was me.

In those days, I was commonly known on the streets as The Death Child, because whenever you saw me on the streets someone was bound to die. For the first year I only targeted gang members, but after I killed my first civilian, it was all over. No one was safe.

It was after I killed that first innocent woman (she looked like my mother and I was having flashbacks at the time) that my physical appearance began to change. My eyes became those of a person who had died a long time ago. My hair, which I had cut short after my abandonment because it had been my mother who made me keep it long, turned jet black , and my tattoos began to spread rapidly all over my body. I remember all this because I can recall everything from those awful, tragic times. Including the faces and full names of all my victims. I remember the gang member's gang names, too.

I suppose the reason I killed all those people back then was because of the power it made me feel like I had.