Starborn Poems

His background and other information can be viewed here:

When they were five, he and Alexxis swore to each other they’d be best friends forever. They vowed that when they were both legal, they would leave their family behind and be there for one another, come hell or high water.

He was young when his father was murdered, and he was taken in by his uncle- Alexxis’ father. He swore to Iain that his father would be avenged. And he was.

At 13 years old, Iain learned rage and wrath from his uncle. He learned coldness and aloofness and all the darkness that could be hidden behind suits and false smiles. Back straight, chin up, do not speak your mind. Never speak your mind. Tailor your words until you can persuade others to dance at your request and think they’ve been wanting to all along.

At 15 years old, he learned suffering and turmoil. He learned fire and pain and agony. His body writhes in the arms of men he’s never seen before, and he screamed, but nothing makes a difference because all the same he’s manhandled and pain is all he feels for days. He speaks and he doesn’t stop yelling his pain out at whoever is willing to listen to the words that had built and festered in his veins. He snaps and unsheathes his claws and fangs because his wings are broken and they will not let him fly.

At 17 years old, he danced with death for the first time. Terror filled his entire body because he’d been waiting for his death like someone waiting for their lover but now that he was in her hands, he knew he didn’t want to die. He was too young and he had too much he wanted to do. He couldn’t die a nobody- he refused to! He would die when he chose to, and only then; that was the promise he made to himself.

He learned the value of life and the softness in touches when he opened his eyes and his best friend was there to greet him with a smile and a warm embrace. He learned love and kindness as he sat in the hospital room surrounded by other miserable people who had smiles on their faces. His anger slowly faded until all he was left with was the bitter taste of his memories and the desire to not continue the cycle that had plagued his family for generations. He would be the one to make a difference.

He would not die until he’d made a difference.

At 18 years old he ran away from his uncle’s crushing hold on him.

Danger, his uncle told him when he packed his things and openly defied him for the first time in his life.

Fun, he realized as he shook his head and grinned. His uncle grew into nothing more than a smudge as he turned his back on him and never looked back.

HISTORY:

“I do what I must,” her father had always told her, as if by repeating it, he would make Alexxis believe it more. Alexxis never responded, her eyes staring at her father for a few moments before she found her way out of the room. She never lost count of the amount of lives he’d taken or destroyed. The number would haunt her in her sleeps, along with the lifeless eyes of whoever he decided had wronged him.

When she was 5 her father was kind. Her mother told her so, smiling at her as she picked out a book from the shelf that had books of all colors. “Kind,” her mother repeated later on, her voice sounding a bit off but Alexxis was too tired to ask anything before she fell into the hands of Morpheus.

When she was 7, her father was misunderstood. That’s what her father told her, the anger slipping off his face when he caught sight of his daughter watching him from across the room. “Come”, he told her, and she did, heart sinking every step she took along the way. “Misunderstood,” he breathed into her hair as she sat on his lap, eyes wide from what she’d seen.

When she was 10, her father was a criminal. Her mother hissed that into her ears, trying to get her to understand why she wasn’t allowed to tell her friends some things and not allowed to say she’d seen her father in the last few years. Her mother’s hand on her face felt cold, like the way her father stared at her with a disappointed look in his eyes as she cried. She didn’t understand. Not yet.

Later on he will go into her bedroom and tell her for the first time that she should always use her brain over her heart. Every time. So that she’ll be safe and not get hurt by the cruel hands of the world. For the first time he’ll tell her that he’s doing this for her, and he’s the only one who could love her this much.

When she was 16, her father was a monster. He passed a cup of gin into her hands and she drank the venom of the spider as milk that night, seeing his deceit and manipulation tactics and committing them to memory. They would come in useful later, because porcelain will shatter but stone will not. Her eyes, hollow and cold, stared at the body of someone who’d figured out the painting was a fake. Her loss of innocence felt as tangible as the blood on her shoes.

Her mother would never know that at the age of 17 she’d taken her first life at the guidance of her father. Her mother, who smelled of books and ink and rain, would never know her child had taken the same route as his father because it was one of the few things that made her feel adrenaline. For the first time in what felt like years her father smiled at her.

She didn’t return it. She no longer felt the need to tend to his needs or feed his ego. She knew what he really was now.

When she was 18 she ran and never looked back. With Iain by her side, she never felt the need to go back. She doesn’t attend her father’s funeral just a year later; her father would be happy about the choice. She no longer did her jobs out of duty but out of financial interest and for the adrenaline of it; she did them for the enjoyment she gets out of them and to be able to limit the damage done. She picks and chooses targets that she believed were more trouble than they’re worth, but never, ever, harmed a kid. She did most jobs with detachment and went home comfortable about what she did. The past was buried in the past where it belonged and the bad blood washed off her hands- finally.

She only returned home on the days she could get away from work so she could sit at her mother’s bedside and read her a story from the books that her mother once read to her. Her mother, sitting pale on the hospital bed, never responded to a word she said. Alexxis never stopped coming to her to read her a story in the hopes that wherever her mother was in her mind, her demons would be silenced by the fairy tales.

At 21, Alexxis was approached by a man in a suit and she took one look at him and sneered. Suited men had caused her more trouble than anything else. She told him he had no need for him or his charity. The man left without another word.

At 22, another suited man with a mischievous smile on his face invited her to play and she was reminded too much of her father to say yes. Iain went missing within a week and she knew that she had no way of finding him without help. Mycroft Holmes was the only man who could help someone like her, so she ran back to the first suited man who’d offered to help her before. Pride be damned. He stood in front of her with a blank face this time, and didn’t respond as she finished telling her story. He left without another word. Her cousin was returned to him unharmed.

It was then that she began to work for Mycroft Holmes to show her gratitude. Under him and his cause, she flourished, having an outlet and source of income.

 Under him, she doesn’t doubt that what she is doing is right. She targets criminals, rapists, dictators and the other scum of the earth that do nothing but hurt others. In them, she finds her peace as she works as a vigilante type of job. Her father’s memory escapes her mind as time goes on. In her crew, she finds the family she never had.

I don’t know if anyone has ever done this before but, here ya go… The Different Types of Fanfiction! 

if a scene isn’t working, change the weather.

I once received a DM comprised of just that sentence. Nothing else. No constructive criticism or any reason as to why this person clearly agreed with my own view of myself.

For someone who has never told anyone in their real life that they write anything, reading something like this from an anonymous user only solidified in my mind the fact that this person was right.

I’m not a good writer.

After an embarrassing amount of minutes passed, in which I thought about deleting every story I ever posted, I decided to delete the message instead. Unfortunately, that didn’t mean I could delete the feelings it caused or change the fact that I’m not a good writer.

Two weeks went by and I didn’t write anything, let alone post. Then I received a comment on a story I had posted three years prior, one I’d written after a death in our family. The comment read, “Thank you for sharing this heartfelt story. I really needed this. I just lost my mom and this really got me today.”

I stopped thinking about being a good writer after that. I thought instead, “what if I had deleted my stories and that one person three years later hadn’t read it that day?”

Here’s what I realized: no one is a good writer.

Good means to be approved of, but stories aren’t created from approval. They’re built from life experiences, feelings, and emotions Therefore, the impact of anyone’s story isn’t good or bad. It’s a million other things.

Heartfelt.

Sad.

Funny.

Inspiring.

Romantic.

So to all the story writers out there, hold your head up, write what is in your heart, and never doubt that there isn’t at least one person out there that needs to read your story.

So, no.