Chapter 1: Harbinger

Harbinger – a person or thing that foreshadows or signals the approach of someone or something important.

People are books, puzzles, and pawns. In that order. First, they're read, then they're figured out, then used and placed to another's advantage.

That is the only way people on this earth survive. If you can't read someone, you can't figure them out. If you can't figure them out, it's much harder to use them. And if you can't use someone? It's as if the world is ending—if you have nobody to manipulate but yourself.

To some. But not others.

You see, I don't think you have to know someone to use them. At least, not entirely. There are things you can do and say to test the waters, to gauge what you can and can't do to a person. Feeling them out and trying to get under their skin isn't always necessary. I've used people. Manipulated people. I've cost people their lives.

And I knew less than nothing about them.

It's more than easy to use someone to your advantage without knowing a single thing about them. If you know what you're doing.

I do it all the time.

Not because I want to,

but because if I don't...

It might not end too well for me.

Do I feel guilty about the things I've done to people? These people I knew nothing about? Innocents—beings clueless to my intentions while I was just as clueless to theirs?

Constantly.

Every day I wake up knowing that there are people out there looking for me. People deteriorating as I live my life. And it's my fault. I'm not a good person. Nowhere near it. But at least I know things others might not.

November 14th, 2000

It's been five months since I was let out. I spent three months in a mental institution for... multiple things. It was supposed to be five months, but I was released early. I don't know why. I don't know how. I just know they let me out onto the street. No home. No people. It took a month for my family to find me and get me settled.

They got me a studio apartment in the name of "Seraphine Graves." I'd been so far gone in that hospital that the name didn't even ring a bell. I figured I was just crazy and went with it. I've been Seraphine Graves ever since.

I got settled. My apartment came together, my parents took me to therapy, and they set me up with everything they could to stop me from spiraling further.

Eventually, I became normal again. At least a little. I picked up a job as an artist, and it turned out I was good at it. My apartment is covered in paintings, drawings, art of all kinds. The walls are lined with canvases, the floor barely visible under the splatters of paint. Not an inch of my space is untouched by art. I've realized it's my passion.

The second I pick up a paintbrush, I feel human. I feel alive. Painting gives me the motivation to clean, to eat, to make myself better every day. I never run out of things to paint—or paint itself. If I ever did... I don't know what I'd do.

But today, something changed.

My mind suddenly went blank. My thoughts floated away as I stared down at my palette, realizing it was missing a color. Fair, light, peachy. My favorite color. On people, in art, in life.

No, I'm not racist. That's not what I mean by "on people." I just love that color.

Panic set in. I turned to my massive pile of paints, rummaging through them. Nothing. I looked at the shelves, the cabinets, every corner where I'd ever stored supplies.

"Where the fuck is it?"

My throat tightened as my heartbeat quickened. I clawed at my neck like I was choking, gasping for air. I stumbled into my bedroom, grabbing my keys and wallet. If I didn't have paint, I had to buy some. I tried to run but tripped over everything in my way, dragging myself to the front door.

Nearly falling down the stairs, I made it to my car, collapsing into the driver's seat.

Leaning back, I stared at the picture of my mother taped to the dashboard.

I love my mother.

Even though she sent me away.

I focused on my breathing, gripping the steering wheel.

"Fuck."

I closed my eyes, tense. Slowly, I managed to sit up and put the key in the ignition. I scanned the streets, searching for any store that might have paint. I finally stopped at Home Depot, knowing they'd have it.

I had to pull myself together. The minute I stepped out of the car, people would stare. I looked awful—skinny, frail, pale to the point of translucence. People would treat me like a creature, something to observe but never approach.

If I didn't act nice, they'd treat me like the beast I appeared to be.

With that, I opened the car door, stepping out. People glanced at me as they walked by, their eyes sharp and judgmental. I adjusted my posture, smoothed my sweater, and walked into the store.

I knew exactly where the paint section was—I'd memorized the layout. But as I turned a corner, something collided with me.

I almost fell backward, startled. Looking down, I saw her. A girl—no, a woman, though she was so small I felt like a giant beside her.

"Oh my, I'm so sorry, ma'am. I didn't m—" she started, then stopped mid-sentence.

Our eyes met. For a full minute, we just stared.

Her gaze wasn't afraid. It was confused. Curious.

"Hi," I said, stepping aside.

Her skin was the exact color of the paint I was searching for. For a moment, I felt comforted.

"Hello," she replied, her voice soft.

I nodded, and she nodded back before walking away.

As she disappeared, a cold chill washed over me. My stomach sank, and a strange fear gripped me, like I'd just seen something I wasn't supposed to. I watched her retreat without looking back, my mind racing.

There was something about her.

She didn't look at me the way others did.

Most people stare at me like I'm not real, like I'm something grotesque. But her gaze felt different—like she knew me.

Who is she?

Or, more appropriately...

WHAT is she?

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