My name is Myrijana. My age is inconsequential. My appearance is to your own mind to conjure. To all intents and purposes, I am dead.

No. I am alive. I breathe, I consume food and water, but I cannot truly smile nor frown, neither laugh nor cry, feel neither ecstasy nor pain; I am but a shell, a vessel so empty, daily painted with pretences that allude to the impression of a sort of semi-consciousness.

Of course, my tiresome rants - and extraordinarily long sentences - perhaps deceive, for they seem to reverse the intention of my "confession". However, all this, and even the confession itself is but another of the pretences of which I speak - the illusion that I care.

My life is no longer worth anything, although I may be arrogant in assuming that it ever was. And now I feel as though I must retell the story, and I can almost guarantee that I shan't be a particularly good narrator. My "wit" - consisting of pure cynicism touched with an essence of the sarcastic - coupled with my currently deadpan view of life (and, now, I realise, sheer abhoration of the concept itself) will probably drive the reader - you, my dear, I am afraid - to an early grave, if not as least the same corrupt state of mind as I; certainly, you shan't find anything particularly pleasant, as a whole, for your imagination to bear witness to.

Rape, murder, Cast and general misfortune doesn't usually make for enjoyable literature.

A/N: I'm aware that abhoration isn't a word, but Shakespeare made them up and nobody cared. And Myrijana isn't named after me; I'm named after her.