The Heart Broken Beginning
Third Person POV
When she had fallen, she had fallen apart.
Her bones had been broken, splintering against the floor of the place she had once called home. Her clothes left in rips and ruins, like pieces of her memories, spread around her like a piece of artwork; as though she was only a canvas they had merely used. Her skin was stained blood red, the sticky substance all she could feel as she sat up from the grave that was dug for her by those who had betrayed her completely, body and soul.
When she had fallen, she had broken apart, shattering into thousands of pieces like glass.
Fragile. Weak. Delicate.
It was in this dark and cruel world she lived.
Cold. Demeaning. Brutal.
That was the world she knew so well. That was the world she saw with her own eyes.
If you had ever meet her, you would not be able to tell the demons and shadows that haunted her sleep. You wouldn’t ever be able to tell that she was plagued by nightmares so real that even the dead ran away in fear.
You would never be able to tell that she was on the brink of death and held its hand with ease. Her ice-cold aura was perfected. The labyrinth that encased her mind was perfection, every inch of the labyrinth was constructed with the upmost poise. Some may say she was pessimistic in her ways, brutal and insensitive with her actions, but she knew she was the opposite deep inside.
She knew that her labyrinth was working when people made those comments; it was her perfect façade, a face for those who’d never know her. It was a house she called home, something she felt so safe yet distance from at the same time.
An almost perfect act some would say.
Almost was never good enough though. There were cracks and flaws, points of vulnerability.
He saw through her lies. He understood her in a way no one else ever had. He saw her trauma and pulled her from the rubble. He saw her demons and chased them all away. He saw her cry and stumble, and he drew her into his arms and held on tight as her world came crashing down around them in a cloud of ice blue ash.
The aftermath was greater than the war itself. A war which she was born into, not one she had chosen to fight in. She had to fight; she was made to fight against the odds.
She had no option.
But he did, and he stood by her. He held her up when the world was burning with a blue fire so bright that she thought it would be the end of her.
Finally, when she rose from the ashes of her past, hand in hand with death himself; she wreaked havoc on those who had once nearly destroyed her.
She rose with burning flames of ice that deemed her a target, letting those who once painted her as if she were just a canvas in their gallery become the paint for her own canvas; her own artwork.
She rose with finality, strength and an aim.
She rose for vengeance, and she was going to get it.
(The Book gets better as my writing matures and I grow older. This first chapters of this book were written when I was like 15-16 so please bare with me. I am now a much better writer (I like to think at least so chapters 20 + are much nicer.)