I wonder what kind of mother could birth a child like you. I used to think she must have been worthless, a nobody, just some drug addicted teenager who didn’t give a shit about the life she brought into the world. That would explain a lot, wouldn’t it? And maybe that’s all she was, just a sad stereotype, but… I wonder. I wonder if she was chosen to carry you in her poisoned womb, a meth-thinned wraith with a swollen belly impregnated not by some john but by Fate itself, by a cycle that demands constant resurrection and death. I wonder if, watching you grow, she felt a thrill of inexplicable fear. Did she understand what she had birthed? Did she look into your dark eyes and see everything you would be capable of – the violence, the madness, the tragic divinity? Maybe that’s why she couldn’t stay. Maybe that’s why she fled, leaving you to face the world’s cruelty alone. Maybe she saw the future and, unlike Mary, could not bear to watch her son grow to become something foreign and unknowable. Something eternal yet doomed; beautiful yet terrible. Maybe she just wasn’t ready to be the mother of a prophecy.

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