I was eight years old when my mother decided I was worthless.
Which is a far too young age even to comprehend what is going on around you, let alone to understand why the person who was supposed to love you the most in the whole world is treating you like an old, dirty rag.
And yet again, my mother was Lucrezia Akna.
If the devil were reincarnated in a woman, she would probably be scared of my mother.
Sure, my mother is a brilliant woman with a developed intelligence and a radiant presence, but that would not be why the devil would fear her.
No.
My mother is cruel. Crueler than the devil.
So she didn't care when she threw her poor baby in a forgotten institute with not even an inkling of cleanliness or morals.
She didn't research it before. Why would she bother? She would never come to get that baby.
But he— I survived.
I survived on nothing but rage and thirst. For what, I couldn't exactly point to.
Revenge? Love? Justice?
Did it matter? No.
