I stare at myself in the mirror, looking at the child I am, was, could be. Large, blue-violet eyes stare back at me, condescending, as usual. Perfectly arranged dark brown hair frames them, curling around my temples, still wet from my shower. An invisible smile graces large, full lips, a perfectly curved nose seems both snobby and earnest at the same time. I don't think I'm beautiful. But they do.
I was three. Three when they found me, lifting itty-bitty rocks by the side of the river, and it was as easy as using my hands. I just wanted them to float, to fly in perfect circles and figure eights around my head as my unruly hair dried from my dip. I remember giggling as they did what I wanted them to, as they swam in air and then collapse when I got tired. The fuzzy faced men that I found at home later that day, offering my mama money for me. My mama, accepting. I didn't even get to say goodbye.
Imagine you're three years old, and being cut off from all the people that you knew best in the world. I wasn't allowed to cry. Imagine not being able to hug your mother, even if you were afraid. Imagine being taught how to kill people by mentally forcing their windpipes closed, by using the force of your mind to block the neurons that passed in currents in theirs. I hated every moment of it, never having a mother, a father, a friend. Never having a friend.
Most obviously, I was antisocial when I started school. They paid for the best private schools, for the best education. For the hopes I would grow to become a powerful mind to protect a powerful empire of crime. By the time I was six, I understood this. I knew how to read, but that silly woman wouldn't listen when I told her that. So she had to go. A simple job of asphyxiation, no big deal. Apparently, my instructors had forgotten to elaborate the details of my mission. So I got a beating and a new school, with order to keep my mouth and mind shut. So I did. My friends, once again, were the simple things that could be manipulated but not killed. With them I developed a sort of quiet bond.
I met the oracle first. His golden eyes, his immaculate hair, his pristine, crystal-clear glasses. Being all of nine years old at the time, he didn't seem to believe that I would amount to anything. I showed him. After all, being publicly humiliated in front of your boss because a mere child bested you mentally is not an experience that anyone would wish to repeat. I was put under his tutelage in hopes of learning a bit, if only that of how to open my mind to precognitive flashes. I could have told them myself it was useless. Nothing could open my already flooded mind any further.
The second one I met was the insane one. He hated God, yes he did, but he loved his ragged copy of the bible. He enjoyed cutting into it, injuring God, then eating His pain. It seemed to me like the psycho had some strange bond with his God, one I could understand perfectly. I hated my creators too, and wished that they would die.
The last one I met only recently, when I turned fourteen. The chatterer, filling my head with silly nonsense of girlfriends and lovers and me needing one. I was too serious for a fourteen year old, he told me. I told him, directly in plain words he could understand to fuck off. He told me he'd rather fuck me and gave me my first kiss. I gave him a mental slap and he laughed. He didn't understand. Then he raped me. Brutally, enjoying every minute of it. Mentally I laughed. My entire life built up to this moment, where I could feel him thrusting into me, smiling, calling me koi. But he didn't get what he came for. My mind closed like a bolted door to his prodding, and afterwards it was I who was on top. He laughed out loud as I mounted him, and then screamed when I invaded not only his body, but his mind.
Then she came. Simple, using language that no one could understand, yet everyone did. I didn't love her, really, but was infatuated with her childlike behavior. The behavior I myself was never allowed to display. Affection for simple things, like her bunny, her umbrella, her comrades. Her love for her "papa." Her amazement at the showy displays I put on for her. I didn't want her. I wanted to be like her. I wanted to be able to feel.
They came. All four of them, at once. The cold, calculating leader, so much like our oracle. The naive, blind one, who clashed so well with the psycho. The womanizer, the dreamer, the talker, like our German redhead, speaking the same way, filling the blessed silence with meaningless banter. It seemed there was a silent contest between them, who was the bigger slut. I laughed at all of them.
And finally, for me, came the small innocent blue-eyes. Could I relate to him? I didn't think so. One quick prod of his mind, though, made me smile. He was disturbed, truly disturbed. Killed his brothers, been there at the murder of his only sister, and his only girlfriend. Well how interesting.....I wondered what it would be like to kiss his silky-looking lips, to run my fingers through his golden hair, to touch him and make him feel things that he never would, or could know. Silently I calculated, gave him images, showed him what I could do, and made him think it was his own fantasy. Slowly, I drew him to me, like a moth to a flame. He was as sweet as I thought he would be, and I loved every minute of our little fantasy. But with time, exposure to me destroyed him. His mind couldn't take the pressure. I didn't make him suffer, though. I killed him swiftly, dispatching of the corpse with the ease and effectiveness that came with practice.
I have turned all the affection towards me to hate. I have become my name.
I read somewhere that Nagi meant snake in some language or another...so don't take my full word for it.