My dearest Reader: I write this to you now for I fear that I won't be able to in the future. If you are holding this letter in your hands, chances are, I'm already gone. I can only pray that you will read through my story and take the situation into consideration.

Life was harsh and every day I was repudiated by others, including those that were once my closest friends. I trailed and slithered behind them day after day, silently begging for them to return to my side; but such turn of events would not be possible, for what I am and what I've done. Slowly, I became shade of my former self. Once, I was a headstrong leader who was looked up to by countless peers, but as news of my parent's passing met my ears, I changed. Unfortunately, fate has decreed me to lower myself under the feet of those who once praised me like a deity. The crushing weight of stress reduced me into a figure to be pushed and used by others in whichever way they saw fit. Soon, I was forced to mask my true feelings with a serene smile that hid the agonizingly demonic expression that others have engraved onto my facial canvas.

If the average child had such problems, they would most likely run to an adult, screaming with tears drooling from their eyes, begging for a solution to fix their social insecurities. However, even those who society have deemed as mature, detest me. Although the world may have looked down upon me with frowning eyes, reminding me that I was the lowest of the low. In my heart, I knew that there was one person more atrocious than myself. Samantha. She was the one I had anchored my life on. She had sacrificed her social status to protect me, and she told me to trust her, for she would make my life better. So trust I did.

One night, I found her dead. She was rested on a chair with arms dangling playfully at her sides and head held high with pride. I could only wonder why my sister had lodged a knife in her neck. I watched as scarlet laced like licorice down her tainted white dress, dripping into a pool of thick crimson; a shade of red mixed with white that did not quite match the stains on the curtains beside her. By her feet was a letter that floated freely in pale moon-lit reflection of my face. Never, shall I forget the moment when my eyes first met the page's contents. "I'm sorry," it read, "I can't take it anymore. Even if you've made me endure such pain, I will always love you. Live on for me." I peered down at my reflection once again and was surprised at what I saw; there were no tears, only a smile. I laughed for the first time in years, perhaps even hysterically. I no longer cared if my sister was dead, she had deserved it, for she had abandoned me, blaming me for her pain and suffering. Yes. Because of me.

Slowly, a craving for blood crept to my lips as I watched liquid life flow from my sister's neck. I grabbed the weapon that had claimed my sister's very soul, and hungrily tore her body apart. My inner gluttony for blood remained insatiable even after there was nothing distinguishable between her body and scraps used in sausages. It seemed as if every single wound I inflicted on her corpse was like a sigh of relief, a short escape from pain. For days on end, I lived happily with a sweet expression on my face, until I was questioned about my sisters sudden disappearance. They accused me of murder, and maybe rightfully so. They asked for evidence to clear my name, but still I dared not show them the letter, for it mattered too much to me to lose it. It was my last artifact.

As expected, I was sent to the Juvenile Detention Center. Even there I was rejected by others, but still. I didn't mind. For five long years they taught me how to live and showed me life skills to live on. Every day, I waited calmly for life to pick up again or for myself to die, and at times, I tried killing myself. At the end of each day, I would listen to the other children's wistful, unheard, pitiful cries and moans over how much they missed their families. I waited until they were all fast asleep. I would then slip the precious letter out of it's hiding spot and read it over countless times before going to sleep. Slowly. Very slowly. I soon began to realized how much it pained me not to have Samantha by my side. I cried then. For once in my life, I knew what was gnawing on my soul. Grief. I now understood grief. That painful feeling that murders you from the inside by smothering your mind.

Life in the JDC, what the other children called it, was bland, repetitive, and pointless. The reasons of why most of the children were here, were caused by their own stupidity, lack of discipline, and arrogance. They never understood me, so they let me be. For that, I was grateful. Even now, I find it funny how they presumed that I was generally unemotional; as obvious as it was, they couldn't even tell that I wore a sly smile to veil my bitter feelings. As time went on, the other children fit into their own little cliques. Since I remained alone, they decided to pick on me. Because I never reacted to their petty quips, which they believed to be a sign of weakness, they decided to attack me, believing that I would never dare return the favor. It was a poorly thought out decision on their part, for I retaliated the only way I knew how.

As my sister always taught me, if I were to be approached by suspicious older men, I should gouge their eyes out with two fingers. So I did just that, sliding my fingers accurately through the top of their sockets and pulled his eyes out by kicking him back. The other children watched as predator turned into prey. Oh how good it felt, the beauty of inflicting pain, to show them a mere fragment of the suffering I have endured; I just couldn't stop there. I couldn't resist the temptation to indulge in that pleasure. It was simply too overwhelming. I continued maiming him, ripping apart his flesh with my bare hands until the boy's arm came off, but it only resulted in a deeper desire for more. By the time the supervisors had put a stop to me, I had already ripped off six arms, two legs, and a couple of other body parts. To this day, I regret nothing. The mental ecstasy of tormenting others was something I had instantly fell in love with. I was branded a mass murderer and sent to the insane asylum at the age of fourteen.

If hell ever does exist, the asylum was it. Life in the asylum was simple, but heartbreaking. The wardens forced us to fight each other over food, water, and other basic needs, treating the place like a pit of troglodytes. They made us kill to survive. As if teaching us to kill was their true intention, not confinement. As time went by, it dawned on me that the wardens were simply clearing out the trash to create a cage full of only the strongest human weapons who would not hesitate to kill. Still I managed to murder people and survive, but resisting the urge to massacre was difficult.

Time ticked on, and soon, learnt that finding friends was a good when living in this asylum, as it made killing much more efficient, since prey was harder to catch. I befriended a sixteen year old Polish boy named Jan. We snapped into one another, becoming friends at once, for we had something in common. We were both put into this asylum because of the unjust reasoning in our lives. We understood each other. We knew what true pain was, and we both loved and appreciated this beautiful world. Later, we found other friends, each with their own tragic stories to share. There were thirteen of us, and all of us remained on the edge of sanity. None of us would be judged worthy of going to heaven, nor would we dare to go after what we've done.

For months we fought side by side, and at last, we broke out of the asylum, exterminating anything that stood in our path. After our escape, we hid in a cave for two years with only each other to rely on and created an organization to spread and seek our beliefs. As the river of time flowed, we came to the conclusion that absolute balance should be the one and only law of this world. We believed that nothing was pure, nothing was divine, and that an embodiment of absolute evil did not exist. And if anything was, we would either wipe its existence off the face of this world or contaminate and corrupt it. Never did this world know about our existence, nor did they know that we shaped this world a lot more than any would ever expect. Now we remain here, hidden from all humanity, pulling strings however we like. The world is now our game.

Because of the turn of events in my life lately, I've seen things, both disgusting and beautiful. I'm at the very tip of madness. Every day, I feel it howl and crawl its way closer to me. Every day I feel its breath on the side of my face with bitter-sweet hatred, waiting for me to succumb to the temptation of giving in. Every day I feel it rubbing its blackened charcoal across my heart, tainting my very existence. Now, I am forced to wear the mask of my childhood at all times in fear that I won't be able to wear it again if I take it off. Doing so is my last resort, my last thin wall of me that keeps me myself. It is my last chance to be the human I once aspired to be.

Seven of us are taking our last breaths of life and sanity; both factors race against each other to see which will reach its end first. I shudder to think of what would befall this world if we all happen to lose ourselves. Before our twisted selves arise to retrieve our last gifts to the world, I hope that at least one of our letters to this world is received by someone who is willing to believe our story.

Kill us. If you do not, I fear that we will destroy all that matters in our world. Don't lose it.

I am Athene Menaris, member of the Sagaku.