Prologue

"Why should I write my story? Indeed, why people put their life histories on paper?" My simple question resonates in small college room, which looks too empty and run-down, like blind and empty spot, in this shiny age of vivid colors, in the very beginning of 21th century.

One dirty double glazing window in wooden frame peeks into garden full of garbage, where autumn wind plays with scattered sheets of paper, one decayed bookshelf cries under piles of books and university scripts, two cupboards with broken knobs, neatly made sofabed and a scratched desk with old computer probably from early 90s. It´s still working, still flashing with eerie blue half-light, only light my eyes can rely on. To be honest, I don´t need light to see perfectly. I just need it and love it with hateful love. Just like addicts need their deal of sweet pain, I need the light. Any light the world can give me.

Yes, some people may call this room vintage or rare and some may admire owner´s sense of style. Well, I seriously doubt this have something to do with style.

I hate poorly kept and shabby places like this, they make me feel really uncomfortable. And they always make me remember who I am. A misfit. Light is my guidance, protector and parent, though cruel and harsh, but small claustrophobic places exhaling dust and decay choke me to death. It´s both funny and scary how easily I use those words "death", "exhale", "choke"…

Many words which had a meaning long ago are now just metaphors. In fact, I don´t need to breath and I cannot choke, but feelings and memories live deep within me and I cannot get rid of them. Forgetting the sensation, the feeling of breathing, the sensation when your nose slightly wrinkles and your breast rises up to fall again seconds later, is harder than simply abandon it.

"To be remembered, I guess." answered Saffron firmly. I turned from a window to face her. She stands there right behind me, watching me with deep concern. Soft strands of her raven-black hair are still wet from late night shower, lying on her shoulders like fallen feathers. Saffron Blake is indeed beautiful. Her skin is smooth, pure and rarely white with few visible veins resembling violet cracks on china-porcelain vase, her eyes are deep mixture of innocent blue and mystical green. Lovely delicate human being…That innocent, yet vicious beauty brought me to her. I have to admit. Those like me are magnetized by fading mortal beauty like moths mesmerized by the light of evening lanterns. But it wasn´t just her magnetic aura, what called upon me, what forced me to came to her. I know deep inside who she is. One with a Gift. A misfit, just like me. The One I cannot lose.

"To being remembered." I repeat slowly. "Not to fade away…To gain immortality, may it be just an illusion of it. I feel sorry for those who are afraid to fade away...In nonexistence lies ultimate freedom."

"There may be another reason." says Saffron and the tone of her voice sounds almost happy. "Joy."

"Joy?" I don´t understand.

"What is worse than forgetting how it feels to be happy? What is more painful than to be forced to throw away all those happy moments of our lives?" She leans against me lifting one of her eyebrows in silent expectation. "You are my friend, Vanore. I like you, I believe you. " She whispers softly into my ear and I have to smile for how young, and naïve her voice sounds. Saffron, daughter of Eve. Not knowing the depths of world. Affectionate words are just toys, puzzles in your small hands. Beware, for they break easily "Let me read your story…I want to read it."

"But why?"

"You are so unusual. So weird and strange. Sometimes spooky. In one minute you scare me to death, just to soothe me seconds later. I want to know your story. And I love reading. So where´s the problem?"

"The problem is simple, my dear." I put my arms around her neck, and when she freezes under my touch I can´t help it, I have to giggle. "That I cannot let you know."

With these words our paths parted forever. Next morning Saffron died in a car accident leaving behind nothing more than memories of sensation…

There´ll be morning soon. I can feel it in my burning veins, sense it with my deepest instincts. Night lying over the world like dark blanket disappears and after few hours of false peace, newly born Sun shall rise. I have to hurry. I need to finish last pages of Saffron´s book. I owe her this last favor, don´t I? In my life I´ve scribbled a lot of stories, obscure, weird, unnatural, scary, horrible, sick, but I´ve never wrote a book for dead girl, for this silent oblivious audience. Will she like it? Will she like it? Or hate it? Will she smile, or turn her pretty head in disguist? I wonder…

Sun is rising, morning with all its dreadful beauty is near…But how can I stop writing down my story, turning years and months of my life into blots of ink and blood…blood? Why are there bloody stains spreading on white pages, like scarlet droplets on ivory cloth? I don´t have anything to mourn, nothing to regret, everything is just the way it is so…why do those eyes of my cry?

After few strokes of pen story of my life ends. Just in time. Sky is clear, almost transparent, morning birds are singing crystal clear tunes and my eyes are crying like crazy. I have to go…down, down…deep under ground, into depths. I am so sleepy. In deep slumber even those like me, even Misfits can touch oblivion…For a short while. Until the sunset…