Laran's Cycle

Name: Laran
DoB: December 21
Height: 6’ 1”
Weight: 179 lb.
Sin: Wrath
Thema: Confrontation
Codex: Munich Pad
Focus: Headset
Quota: Once a day, a destructive act must occur.
 
It is said that the ones that smile the brightest are the ones possessing the greatest sadness.

The physical structure of those surrounding melting and reforming into a new, some faces kinder than those before but also ones of hideous features associated to terrors of the night. Associated with the faces, the locations shifted from quant suburban homes to compacted rubbish trailers. The one thing that remained stagnant was the cycle. Casting a glance upon the only thing I have to offer results in filed out papers; a new start and a new chance. This charade only last until the front door of my new quarters resonance with a bang. Closed away from the world, trapped in what can be assumed to be a closet, the only time light or fresh air caresses my face is during the journey to an educational facility. The one luxury I’m provided an escape from the neglect.

Downed in the previous days stained jeans and hand-me-down jacket, I proceeded through the halls, ecstatic to past potential companions sharing the same birth year. Teeth barred, a big smile persisted on my face, even when it caught a rouge jab. What was assumed to be my paradise, soon rectified a status equal to that of home. My sanctuary has now been deemed my prison. Once the sound signaling my last defense had fallen had rung, my body was instantaneously met with closed hands. During every lashing, my smile was always barred. All I desired was for them to understand joy and happiness. For whatever physical pain I was being dealt, their emotional agony must have been far worse. Continue to smile regardless of their words, their actions, their accusations because in the end, I knew my smile would provide them some form of happiness.

This cycle of abuse and neglect continued, with location and guardians altering as much as the weather. Through it all though I never once showed signs of fatigue or mental breaks. For fourteen years this cycle never halted, and in those years it reached full circle eight times. Eight different houses of neglect, eight schools of physical torture, countless smiles.

Sitting in the same room that signaled my journey’s beginning and end, I await with a smile drawn. That is until an elderly heavy-set man entered my room, delivering a feeling I have never felt before. Located in his old hazel eyes wasn’t the same façade that every other potential guardian had, it was concern. It wasn’t until our eyes locked and an unknown amount of time ticked by did he extend his hand for me to grasp. This one action starts the beginning of a new cycle, one which I feel will be my last.