When I was young, I was in a fire.

Born from the ashes of flames that licked my insides as well as my outside self, was fear and terror, sorrow and hopelessness. When I got out of the densing smoke, coughing, all I wanted to do was to be free. To set my wings alight with a force hidden from me until now. I wanted to fly away from all of the burden, from my near-death experience, from the loss of my parents, from the claustrophobic feeling that the orphanage had always given me.

But I didn't.

I had foreseen things coming, things that would determine the future of mankind, and how history will play its events out. In my dreams, I saw a paradise, a world of shining water and bright blue skies, an utopia in which no one coughed to doubled over from sudden stomachaches. I saw a world in which no one had an illness, for it is gone, forever, like a vapor of mist blown away by the winter gales.

But I also saw fire.

Fire and smoke, columns of ashes shooting up into the air and dissolving in mushroom clouds. The sky, heavily polluted with this new mass of smoke being dumped onto its fragile shoulders, was overcast with dark grey skies and black clouds. On the surface, the smell of burning flesh was everywhere, the sickly aroma of bodies turning to dust as their very essence is carried away by the same currents.

I knew then that I would be part of a huge project that would be fateful to the entire human race, and, with one utmost decision, might either rebuild mankind's civilization, or collapse it completely. I knew, that if I left now, there would be no going back.

So I stayed.

I didn't die. As much as my body screamed for me to just let go of that one sliver of ribbon that connected me to Earth, I didn't release my fingertips. I never let my lifeline slip from my clutches, even as the paramedics did first aid, even when the AED was used twice. I never let go of hope, and that alone kept despair away.

But it couldn't last forever.

There, slipping away, I began to lose my vision on what's real or not. Which world is reality? My dreams, or the universe in which I am dying in right now? I'm not sure. I'm never sure. I'm about to fall into that endless pit in which hopelessness beckons, but then... I see something much better.

A flash of orange, though not a fierce, flaring orange like the fires that still fight among the water being pourerd onto them, but something more beautiful instead, and offers life. I catch the glimpse of a Monarch butterfly as it flutters past, and slowly, I begin to regain my body. First, I wriggle my toes, wobble my fingers, bob my head. My arms twitch, my legs dance nervously, and suddenly, I feel alive again.

Now, I am still young, but I can still reflect on those memories. My history before that unforgettable fire has long since been torn to rags and shreds by the angry flames that had consumed it, fueled by the terror of what will happen. I've always been a clairvoyant, been foreshadowing the future, but it isn't until now do I realize what truly will happen as my life flashes before my eyes.

But it's not my life I'm seeing.

I'm seeing other people at the peak of their age, crumbling to the unresistable force of for being alive too long, but other young souls are lost to the disasters that has come to strike the world. I can see fires eating away what's left of one's hope, floods rinsing away the remainder of people's spirits themselves, and see gunfire taking away the lives of thousands. And suddenly, my vision spirals to me again, lying in a field of golden Asclepias flowers as a gun is held in front of me.

My eyes, so big and pink, strongly disturbed at the sight in front of me, open. Suddenly, I am no longer seeing from third person, but first person instead, watching the narrow hole of the gun aimed at my heart.

Behind it is the towering figure of Albert Sartre, my beloved Daddy, who has come to this one last moment of insanity. My eyes widen more, but nothing, not even the beauty of the flowers around him, can distract my father from pressing the trigger that will end my life.

It came from somewhere, beyond the farthest reaches of the world that we know, like a creature of shadow...

Suddenly, my eyes glaze over, and Daddy becomes unfocused and blur, like the silhouette of a stray deer wandering around the fog. My eyes are seeing the future of the world: people dying, choking up blood from their veins, but somewhere in the midst of it all... I see beauty, a hint of something pretty in such a chaotic world. Maybe this Earth hasn't lost everything...

It came to mock us, for we are so naive that we can't comprehend it, and truly, we are fragile and small...

Yes, I remember those experiments that Daddy had done. Suddenly, it's all clear to me, as if it hadn't dawned on me before. The virus he was creating, that was the bridge between heaven and hell. I remember his very words... that the virus held a miraculous cure, but also a deadly poison. The two of us, we had been so naive, so weak, and fell into its hands so easily, it was laughable.

The song must've come to Daddy's ears now, because I can see his fingers trembling, heedless of his warnings to make them stay still. His eyes lose their intense concentration and seem to hold back slightly, listening to the soft words being breathed in his ears, whispering their enchanting secrets.

I cannot hold onto the truth, as it slips right through my fingers like a picture that is made of smoke...

Reality and dream. The two things that Daddy cannot differ from, he told me. He's gone crazy, mad, and insane, lose in his own world. His tantrums and moments of insanity... has come to haunt us all...

I don't know how I will last, for my body is so weak that I may crumble away...

He and I both. Our bodies are crumbling under the mere pressure of being alive, of knowing the truth despite not grasping reality, of holding the secret that will determine mankind's future. However, we can't let it slip unconsciously from our mouths... and we are suffering... from that... and the virus... Daddy has...

The song is now layered with pieces of music I can't distinguish nor recognize. However, I can hear piano and chimes, strings and woodwinds, the teeny beats of drums that sound quiet in my ears. I can hear the minute clangs of cymbols against sticks as the song spirals into a completely new tune.

Uninstall, uninstall, I was told that I am just a single speck of dust, and cannot be more, for I do not understand or grasp the true meaning...

Daddy and I, we are just tiny compared to the rest of the universe. Hearing the lyrics, now I truly wonder... the truth that we know... is it really the whole truth, or just a fraction? A percentile? A small bit of it, perhaps as small as we are to the rest of the world? Have we... failed that much?

Uninstall, uninstall, I no longer have a choice but to pretend, I am brave, for a soldier has to be brave, uninstall...

Bravery. Courage. Two alien words to me, for I have hardly faced them before, and had only fought them with cowardly woes of my own. Now, another piece of the puzzle is clear to me now, because I know, that in order for the virus to be erased from the world forever, is for me to die. I have to face death and embrace it as my new reality, and be a true soldier in this desperate, meaningless war.

Our unseen thoughts have been growing ever sharper, unbeknownst to us, deep within the subconscious...

I am clairvoyant, and I can see faint wisps of the future. But somewhere, in the back of my mind, the endless ocean of subconscious, lies the one fact I hadn't bothered to touch out of simple fear. If this virus turns out to be a poison, then I have - I must - die.

But an inkling of what has been occuring is revealed to me as, I hear the restless monsters when I sleep...

Monsters; devils and demons, beasts and horrors, straight out my mythology book. Three-headed dogs and snake-haired women, pale-eyed goddesses and monstrous figures, they have all come to haunt my dreams, threatening of consequences to follow if Daddy doesn't do this exactly right... and he didn't. Locked away in a cell of doom, those beasts will finally get their revenge now.

Now my heart is empty and numb, save for an unrelenting impulse to destroy all things that I can see...

My heart has been ripped of its joy: my brother, my father. My real father and mother. My relatives and friends. I remember that girl at the orphanage who had come to save me... that day when my home went up in ashes... I feel like the raging fire now, tempted to release a new wave of anger that will put this nightmare to an end.

But I can't.

It is born from all of the pain, for I have lost the will to choose the day I'll crumble away...

Pain. It has come to strike my heart every day from the minute Daddy told me the truth about my brother, and even more now, as I lie here, dying, feeling the evergrowing pain that blossoms in my leg. I'll truly crumble now, because I'll never escape death, since it's always had me encompassed in its clutches, and everyone else in that same circle, too. In the end, we're all the same, because we'll all face death. Blood and tears, shimmering in my eyes, they cloud my vision with their salty pains and sorrows...

Uninstall, uninstall, if there's no one who can take this burden in my place, then there's no choice, but to take my simple life, and...

No one, that's for sure, will ever remove this pressure from my shoulders. That is my duty, and no one else's, because I am the host of the virus that will one day come to doom Earth. I only have one choice left...

Uninstall, uninstall, and it makes me want to end it all with my own hands, is it wrong? Surely it's alright to want to, uninstall...

Is it wrong? The will to die, the will to let go, to release my fingers from the fragile strand of life that I have been clutching for eternity and beyond? Is it just plain wrong to want to die for my nation, my race, my world? For me, for my brother, for my father?

Yes, it is.

Suddenly, the music fades to a stop, but the wordless melodies still play, louder than ever, beating hard in my eardrums to the beat of my heart, pumping away its last few hops of breath. I can't hear Daddy's words now, because even though his lips are moving, and his throat is screeching, the soft tune that has once acted as a background has now become something much more: fierce and raging, always craving for more fear to fuel it. The song has become a battle cry now, blending what used to be beautiful notes into cries of defiance, radiating determination in every way. Percussion instruments turn into a triumphant rock theme, though it hints of dark evil in its beats. The music is deafening now, taking over me, flooding me with its impossible beliefs, giving me a hint at the specific future to come...

I see the Monarch butterflies, landing in the bloom of Asclepias flowers, feeding on its pollen. I see them migrating across America, see the golden, tainted wings, and it's not clear to me until I realize that a field of flowers had turned blue. Only years of studying science with Daddy can teach me why.

The music has faded now, though my blood still pulses through my body, and I can hear every pump of it. Daddy has heard the song's words. He thinks that I want to die. He doesn't know the truth. The song... is a lie. I hold up my frail hand, wanting to stop, but he has already fired once.

One gunshot, but the pain spreads like a ripple across a pond. However, my mouth of frozen, paralyzed in the mere shock of it all, that I cannot scream out in fright. In fact, after a few seconds, I can hear again, and the hum of the music is still there, only it's reverted back to its original form. A lovely piano melody... it cushions my imaginable fall and dulls the pain of my ruptured heart.

Logically, I shouldn't be alive. I should be dead, dead like my parents are, dead like my friends, like Daddy will be soon. Death, the fate everyone will have to endure. I should be facing it now, but I'm not. Somewhere far away, the music keeps me alive, holding back what's left of my ebbing strength. I croak out, wanting to warn Daddy about the future to come, but I only whisper one word in the face of his bloody gun: "Beginning..."

And the world slips away from my vision as it all goes black, but just before I lose my sight completely, I catch the beauty of one single Monarch butterfly hovering above the flowers, one of the last fleets to arrive before the poison takes them all.

Then the Monarch flies out of sight, and I leave the shell of body that was once Rosalia Rossellini, but now, is no more.

I hold up a wooden box, my slender fingers barely able to grasp the slick ornaments that adorn the side. "Mommy, Daddy, what's in this?" I ask curiously, eyes taking in every bit of the box's details.

Mommy doesn't even look my way. "I'll see it later. I'm too busy now."

I stare at the back of Mommy's chair, as if hoping that the stare will make her talk to me. Several tense seconds pass in silence, and tears begin to well up. Why is Mommy ignoring me? A full minute goes by, but it feels like hours, matched with the slow, ancient ticking of the grandfather clock. Setting the box onto the ground, I wipe away my tears and turn towards the one sitting beside her instead. "Daddy?"

Another minute goes by, and my hopes fall short. Daddy doesn't even hear me.

~TEN YEARS LATER~

My mother and father bury themselves in work. To them, work always comes first, and I'm always second priority. They still promise me things, though. Vacant, transparent promises that will never come true. They promised that they would watch my competition, go to my concert, and see my graduation, but on show night neither showed up. I can still feel my disappointment lingering in the air, remembering, crestfallenly, when I searched the audience every night, only to let myself down when I did not find a single familiar face.

Over the whole seventeen years of my life, I have not had a single conversation with my parents that were over two minutes long. I have never watched a single movie with my parents together. I have never played a single game of Scrabble with my parents. Instead, I spend my days sitting on my windowsill and looking out at the families out on the streets, walking with their kids hand in hand. I hear the stories of vacations and holidays spent with family, yet I have never gotten to experience a single feeling of what a family gives me. The only members of my family I have are my parents, who have never bothered to spare two minutes to tell me what was inside a box.

I grew up alone, always sitting on my windowsill, seeing the great joys of life I have missed since such a tender age. Loneliness was always there to accompany me through life, and over time, I've come to accept it as a shadow lurking behind me forever. Alone, I began to explore the concepts of life a busy child would never be given the chance to endure, and developed the one thing I was most passionate about: drawing.

I draw, I paint, I send splatters of colour up into the sky, illuminating the once dull room into something covered with beauty and dreams. I've taken a great fascination to lighting up my room, but the sadness still thrives within me; my parents have not seen my pictures even once in the six years I've been drawing. I live alone in my room, my works surrounding me, being the only friends I'll ever have.

At night, I would sleep, but insomnia always finds a way into my life. Often, I'd stay up until the wee hours of the morning, and draw. I have dozens of sketchbooks, holding thousands of little drawings and doodles I've made. I draw everything that inspires me, and when the pain comes back to linger in my heart, I draw the box to relieve my stress. The box comes back at every corner; it's the symbol I use to represent abandonment, mystery, and sorrow. I'll never get to know what's in the box. True, that memory is from ten years ago, but it's still lively in my mind. The box blends in with my other doodles, just another reminder of the reality I live in, but it's just another attempt to blend reality into something beautiful, a paradise, an Utopia.

I still dream of the utopia I so badly want to live in. When I can grow up like a normal girl, when my existence will be accepted... I even wonder why I was born, and I ponder that question every day, when the Utopia turns from something wonderful to something much more sinister. Why was I born? Even more so, am I... loved?

Tonight, I toss and turn in sleep, fearing everything, fearing that I was an accident, that I wasn't born, and wanting to know what's in the box. I don't know why the box has piqued my curiosity, but I know that it's the first sign I remember of being abandoned. Perhaps that's the reason, but then... why am I abandoned? Every question, every memory, every object only leads to another one. Everything goes around in a circle. Nothing makes sense. I pull the corners of my blanket over my head and try to bury all the turmoil with sleep...

But in sleep, my old nightmare haunts me again.

"Mommy, Daddy, what's this?"

"I'll see it later. I'm too busy now."

"Daddy?"

...

When I wake up, the world is on fire.

~DAWN~

They're dead.

I don't cry. Tears don't even well up. All I can feel is the numbness that has always been with me since the dawn of time. Except this numbness is icier. Colder. Like a devil clutching my heart with its bitter fingers. So numb to the point that I can't even feel anything anymore, physically or emotionally. Maybe it's rejection, maybe it's denial, but in the end I still have to accept the truth.

Mother and Father are dead.

Mother and Father are gone.

Mother and Father are never coming back.

I stand in front of the charred ruins that was once a beautiful house. I don't have many fond memories inside it, but it's still home... Was. It was my home. It's not my home anymore. I look at the burned away walls and realize that I can't see my drawings. The art I've collected over the ages... all gone in one night. My vision blurs, and my knees weaken. I collapse onto the burnt grass, not caring about my injuries, only thinking about everything I've lost...

Mother... Father... I've never cared for them, and I've always doubted their passion and love for me. But my drawings... I loved them, and they loved me back. Communication through art. I put my feelings and all my heart into them, but now they're gone... they're gone... they're gone... only I am left... tears finally spill now when I realize that now, I am truly alone in this world.

Alone...

Someone sets something down in front of me. My eyes flicker upwards, and I see something familiar. Blackened, yes. I slowly lift my head up, and see the rescuers scavenging the remains, pulling out whatever that's worth saving from the rubble and debris. A pot. A doorknob. My eyes follow a path of things set down and slowly focus on the object in front of me: a box.

The box.

My hands reach out tentatively towards it, and I wince at the condition the fire left us both in. Hands gentle enough to hold pastel have turned into frail fingers handled gingerly. Now isn't the time for frailty; I take the box and put it closer to me. My heart has started beating, pounding in my ears, pulsing in my temples. I can't see straight. All I can feel are the same ornamented edges of the decorations, the chipped away wood the fire created. Somehow, I manage to open the box, and immediately the smell of paper rushes in.

My vision suddenly clears, and I lean in to see what has been hidden from me for ten long years...

I'm staring at stacks upon stacks of photographs, kept safe from the fire, in perfect condition. I blink once, twice, unable to comprehend what has just happened. Photos... nothing makes sense. My parents do not take pictures. What would they ever photograph...?

I slowly reach in and pull out one of the thousands. At first I think I must be seeing things, that my eyesight is going crazy, that I'm hallucinating. But I'm not. I shut my eyes tightly to keep the new tide of waves back. It's not true. It can't be true. They didn't do anything... they... why would... why would...?!

I'm staring at a photo of myself at graduation.

In that box are thousands of pictures of me. At performances, recitals, contests, everything. Photographs taken by other people, somehow acquired by my parents. I can't stop the tears from flowing out now, and I let them fall, staining the first and last thing I'll ever receive from my parents. Impossible... why... could it... be true...?

Right now, right here, I don't care about the paintings, burned to ashes by the fire. I don't care about the sketchbooks and art utensils I lost, because my dominant reality is here. I don't need to bury myself in a perfect world, and I never should've doubted my parents. I start shaking now, wailing at the loss of tonight, the lives of the only two people who cared for me carried up into the sky in columns of fire and ash. I clutch onto the last reminder I'll have of them, and seal this moment in my mind, knowing that I would regret the way I've spent my past seventeen years for the rest of my life. I feel a single tear roll down my cheek and feel a symphony of burning pathos rise with it. It splatters onto the photo, a permanent stain that will mark my ignorance forever.

What I found in the box was more than photographs.

What I found in the box was love.