I was born in a filthy prison cell and lived with my parents there for the first few years of my life. And although I cannot recount any of my years as an infant or a child, I know the guards in charge transferred me into a separate cell. They worried my parents would harm me. That my crying would set them off, and the following morning the guards would have to find the corpse of a bloodied infant.

They also did not understand what I was. My appearance left them perplexed, causing them to become wary of me. They had no clue what to do with me. Every day, I wore rags for clothes, usually sewn by the female prisoners familiar with the art of clothes making. The guards offered very little food, which always tasted bland to me since my body held the function of tasting souls. However, it was better to eat something than starving myself, especially since I knew that I had a long life expectancy.

For years, I sat in that cell, with no toys to occupy me. I had nothing to distract me from the feelings of loneliness and rejection. Instead, the only thing I could do was stare into the empty prison cell across from mine. Usually, I would pretend that there was someone like me who was going through the same thing. Every time I spoke to my imaginary friend, I felt as if I could hear her voice in my mind, making things more bearable. Her nuanced voice was always comforting to my ears.

"How are you?" I would ask, sticking my head between two metal bars as I held them for support.

"I am good," she would always respond, cheerfully.

As any other day, I would picture her sitting at the side, leaning on the wall to face the opposite side, revealing only one side of her face. Her wavy mahogany hair would be inches from touching the floor when she sat. Some strands would cover her eyes, yet thanks to my keen sight, I could tell her irises were the colour of the purest of jade stones.

"How are you always so cheerful in a dump like this?"

"Because I have you to keep me company."

"Well, as much as I enjoy talking to you, I still hate being here."

"Why is that?"

"Everyone here thinks I am a monster."

"Don't think like that. They don't see you that way."

"Yes, they do! One look and they cower. Even the guards who claim to be so powerful, throw food to me as if I am some beast, ready to break free and pounce on them."

"Don't pay attention to them. They are idiots."

"Tell me about it. Who puts a baby in a prison cell? I did nothing wrong and yet I am being punished for what my parents did."

"What can we do, Kancia? This world is often unfair, especially to the innocent."

Thinking of those conversations, I realized there wasn't anything interesting that came from it. To be honest, I only partook in such an activity as personal therapy. However, I wasn't sure if it prevented me from losing my sanity, or I was already crazy to begin with.

Aside from the conversations, I would keep myself intrigued by the behaviour of the people thrown into that prison. Those individuals never lasted long, staying locked in there for no more than three days. Occasionally, I would hear bits of the guards conversation when talking about the crime the person in the cell committed. They varied significantly, yet the one thing they had in common was the punishment they would receive.

Due to the surfeit of criminals in the prison, the chief of the village imposed the death penalty for any new offenders who murdered, assaulted, stole anything valuable and any other severe offences. I noticed that most of them would squirm their way out of the hands of the guards, hoping to escape this dungeon. 

They earned nothing from their attempts, and once the guards threw them inside, they became trapped by the metal bars and the concrete walls. They would curl up in a ball or hide in the corner, keeping as quiet as they wished for some way to escape to appear magically before their eyes. Others banged their limbs on the bars, shouting and screaming so loudly, I had to close my ears.

The people held captive would often go hungry to weaken them so they would not resist as much when they were being executed. In most cases, a guard would come in while the prisoner was sleeping, knock him out with a wooden club, then drag the body down the flight of stairs beside my cell. There wasn't a time that I was not awake to see the guard swing the club, since the footsteps of the guard approaching would wake me.

Minutes after reaching the bottom floor, a series of chains clinking, gears grinding, and of course, my least favourite sound. The sound of a sword cut through the person's neck. I knew this because whenever the guard ascended to the main level, he would pass by, carrying a decapitated cadaver, and a tied brown sack with blood seeping from the bottom.

The only thing I did not know was what they did to the bodies. Did they put the heads on wooden stakes as a warning of the gruesome fate the people would meet if they disobeyed the law? It disgusted me to imagine what they did with those executed, yet my curious mind would not stop it.

Eventually, I no longer had to witness these events. Once one of the guards discovered what I was after being informed by some outsider, they moved me in fear of one day becoming my victims.

"Did you hear what that girl is?" a guard whispered in the darkness, oblivious to the fact that I could hear him, regardless of how discreet he tried to be.

"No, what is she?" the other inquired with interest.

"She is apparently a bereacher."

"What's the hay is a bereacher."

"According to some outsider, it's a person cursed to consume others' souls. To invoke the curse, the bereacher's parents must commit a crime prior to the individual's birth."

"How did the outsider come to know we were holding this so-called bereacher?"

"Beats me. All I know is that someone told him."

"So what did the warden say?"

"We can send her to an orphanage. Apparently, as long as we do not provoke the individual into manifesting its powers, the person will never need to kill anyone."

"But why an orphanage?"

"Think about it. Who in their right mind would want an atrocity like that running around in their house and call it their daughter?"

"True, but wouldn't it be safer for her to be here? The bars should be able to keep her in."

"I wish. It's said that these lengthy bone extensions that emerge from their back can break metal bars like this, as if it were a twig."

"So when will she be relocated?"

"If I am not mistaken, they will remove her in the morning."

"Who is taking her-."

"What is with all these questions," the guard interrupted. "Just be thankful we no longer have to deal with her. Each time she talks to that empty cell, it sends shivers down my spine. I can't wait until we get rid of her."

Like the man said, they took me from the prison in the morning. In fact, I was waiting for them by the entrance of the cell, and when they opened the door, I willingly left, following the one who led me outside. They met two other males, who walked on either side of me, guiding me through the bustling village using the hand each one placed on my shoulders. 

I would look at their faces, but they refrained from making any eye contact. Their sole focus was escorting me to the orphanage and nothing more. They refused to offer any words of solace, let alone bother to say goodbye when we reached the front of a house that was falling on the edge of crumbling into dust.

Not even the ugly, fat woman of the institution spent any time greeting me. Rather, she moved to a side, making way for the guards to push me in. Stumbling inside, I looked around the poorly kept house. The woman sternly instructed me to complete a list of chores by evening. Without much of a clue on performing any of them, the female raised her hand on me when she caught me blankly staring at the broom she handed me. The stinging of her hand left handprints across my face. At that moment, I thought she did not know what I was, or else she would have been treating me like royalty.