Janessa Prescott

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Destiny and fate, synonymous as they are, in the end, are never up to us to design. We don't get to choose what is our purpose in life, nor do we choose when we discover such. In the end, as before, it's completely random. Some things are beyond our control, even if they are humanmade conundrums. 

I used to think in that way. In some form, I now see the difference between destiny and fate. Destiny is someone you're supposed to meet or something you're meant to find; fate is the ultimate judgment of the ecclesial being over our completion of the purpose they bestowed upon us: it's the moment that defines you in the end. Fate is karma, and sometimes, it's a bitch. 

Birth and death are still beyond human reach. The only choice we really do have is how we live and how people remember us: the words inscribed upon our tombstone is all we truly are. When scientists stumble upon our graveyard in the next millennium when humans aren't called humans anymore, how will they judge our era? How will they judge us? 

The question lies on the blood-stained, limbless corpse of Aria Moon. Oozing from the tigerish smears on her chest is two-toned, postmortem blood. What's left of her neck is something of a toothpick, the grinded start of her spine, hidden by the shred of thin, meatlike tissue. Her skin is hueless. The slime-like plasma drools down her chin. Her eyes are open, but there's no light in them. 

Was finding Amity her destiny? Was it her purpose in life?

I hope so. 

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