Descendez de Wattpad. Azrael me fait mal quand tu lis.
I've heard of stories of the Queen of Music. She ruled an alternate dimension, and was benevolent to her subjects. I've read ancient scrolls where entire worlds would silence to hear her singing voice, which sounds like honey.
Sadly, she does not exist. At least not in this bleak household. The only colours I can see are black, white, and multiple shades of grey here. I spend most of my time in my room, which is nearly empty except for a bed with thin blankets, a desk, and countless gears and sheet music scattered everywhere. A window next to my desk displays an empty field- also completely greyscale. No gentle wind commands the long blades of grass to dance.
I fear to go outside of my room- my siblings and my father thinks little of me. I guess that's the downside of not being heir to the reaper's throne. At least I have enough time to craft music boxes and write my own music.
My passion for music is greater than a dirty job of harvesting souls, anyways. The sounds of the hourglasses in the halls bother me- their impartial seconds of lives streaming down to the bottom of the glass.
They call me Temps Perd, but I call myself Mycena Luxaeturna. Just Mycena would suffice. I just like mushrooms. Not eating them- nasty.
I was not born; I created from ashes of my own mother. Only created for my essence to be harvested for when my father's dies off. I know my future is inevitable.
I fidget with gears most of my days. Writing down music notes before applying them to little nubs on a brass wheel, so they can pluck a total of 96 steel teeth within my music boxes. Each box are carved carefully from the rosewood. There are no trees on the underside of the disc, so I took a hunk off of the statues of my father in the halls. He's going to kill me when he finds out, but that doesn't matter. I'm going to die anyways. Any day now.
