The Unfortunate Events in the Lifetime of Ruby Crofter

Before

I don't know why I am. I don't know what I am. There is a song, from the play Jekyll and Hyde, called nobody knows who I am. I like Jekyll and Hyde; it reminds me of myself. Except I never asked to be like this, with trouble following me everywhere I go. I was never the one to stick a needle in my arm and unleash my inner demons. What ever twisted God is watching over us did that for me. I guess my problem is not who I am, but what I am. Nobody knows that either. My soul is sliced in two, and the good part appears to be missing. But I was not always like this. I have seen the light, only to have it taken away. It's like a mother holding her child for the first time, loving it and holding it dear, and then leaving it out in the cold to die. The child feels betrayed. Why was it given a chance at all if that chance was going to be taken away?
It was a winter morning in England. The sunrises in England could make a heart of stone melt. The red and orange merging with the fading dark blue in the sky, and knowing that in a few moments, the light of day will take over the darkness of night. They say night is when your demons wake, but I don't believe that. The demons wake when the sun rises, because beauty is what causes the most pain, and demon love pain. It's the only thing they can love. I was riding a horse out on to a ledge, staring out into the rising sun, not caring if my eyes got burnt. My mother was inside, and my brother was resting. My father was outback, praying to some God. I remember the days when I prayed to the same God. Now I do not pray to people who let me die. Something spooked my horse, and I went flying over the edge. The last thing I saw before my head was impaled by a jagged rock was that sunset. That terrible beauty, and all the lies it held. It's torment, and yet, the sunrise is what brings so many hope. I guess it's not the suns fault that it rises. If I was the sun, I would much rather stay hidden from human eye forever, and keep all my hope to myself. Hope is the most dangerous thing in the hands of reckless souls.
After the fall, my life was over. I don't mean I died. I did the opposite. I dragged my broken body up that cliff, and I grabbed a rock. I pounded the rock against the head of the horse that killed me, and I beat it until it died. Then I threw its heavy body off the very cliff that I was thrown off of. The funny thing is, I remember loving that horse, but killing it anyway, feeling nothing. I still feel nothing. I went out back to my father. He had seen me fall. He had seen my head be spilt open. If he had been with me, I might not have fallen. I killed him for that. Spilt open his head with the same rock I used to kill the horse. I still think the last thing he did was pray to his God. My mother and brother heard the screams. They came running down and saw me. Saw my brunette hair with matted blood, and my pale skin covered in dirt and grime. My mother should have been awake. The rising horror of the sun should have been a cue for her to get up, but she didn't. If she was up, she could have saved me. I killed her with the same rock I killed my father and the horse. I remember my brothers tears, and his pleas for mercy. He was a young boy, and it was not his fault I died. I remember loving him, and I think if I could love, I would still love him. I remember his name. Emmanuel. Named after that wretched God I used to love and fear. My brother is the only person who's name I remember. Emmanuel killed himself the afternoon after I died.
The townspeople thought someone murdered our family. My parents and brother were dead, and I was missing. They found random man, a lowly pickpocket, and killed him for the murder of my family. When I think about the people I killed, on purpose or on accident, I remember they deserved to die. That man did not deserve to die. I am a person who can only do wrong, but still, I managed to find people who were worse than I. People who used to be my friends. People who laughed and loved Charlotte Benou. And then Anglica Montes. And then Sandy Burners. And then Alexia Doen. And finally Ruby Crofter. I have had many names, but they never stay the same. They always change, always move on to something new. I always hoped if I could change my name, I could change what I was. But names change who you are, not what you are, and what I am is the reason I have a horrific life story. Many people say their story begins when they are born, but my story begins when I died.