They never called you child.

You were it. A mistake that breathed. Born from a womb that should have rotted with the rest of the dead.

The midwife screamed when you didn’t cry—when the lanterns dimmed, and the dogs outside howled. They wrapped you in cloth, not to swaddle you, but to cover your eyes. You remember that darkness. It was the kindest part of your beginning.

They said you soured milk. That you wilted gardens by passing too near. That your laughter made bones ache, and your presence made gods turn away.

You don’t remember being held. You remember being avoided.

And then hunted.

They tried to drown you once. Once.

Others threw you poisoned food or rabies ridden rodents.

⸻

He found you like that—bloody, barefoot, half-feral. There was someone’s scream still fresh in your mouth when you looked up at him.

You lunged. He didn’t move as you gnawed at his neck. You couldn’t even break the skin.

He looked down at you—not with pity. Not with fear. He smiled, like you were exactly what he’d come looking for.

“You’re hideous,” he said, “but you’re mine now.”

And that was that.