I'm Aura. Most people don't like me. I can't think why... Oh yeah, except for one thing. I can kill people by looking at them.
I'm going to explain a few things first of all. Mainly, why people are so scared of me.
Even if you didn't know who I was, which is impossible in this God-forsaken town, you would be pretty wary of me anyway. Because of how I look, of course. Even though they bring me plenty of food, I'm still incredibly skinny. I have pretty much no body fat, and look esentially like a skeleton. I'm also quite tall, with long legs and arms, and I sometimes remind myself of the spiders that crawl around my house when I catch myself in a mirror. I tower above most people, and I suppose they must find it quite intimidating.
Then there's my skin. Most people think my skin is pure white, without any blemishes or marks. Well they're wrong. If you look at it under a light, it has a slight blue tint. You don't notice this in the darkness, or even in normal light, but it is something that has fascinated me all my life. As a young child, because I was always alone, I had to be easily amused, and the strange nature of my skin did just the trick for me. Not that I spent hours looking at it like a television screen, but I exprimented on it; seeing what would happened if I cut it, or exposed it to the sun. Of course, nothing ever marked it permanently, and the sun had little to no effect on it, but I still tried.
In a complete contrast to my (almost) white skin, is my eyes. They're rather large, and jet black. And that's all there is to it, really. Black is the only colour, and there are no different shades; just flat black. You can't make out my pupils, no matter how hard you try, and believe me, I've tried. A lot of times, I looked at myself in the mirror, then shone a bright light in my eyes and tried to look for any difference. I became irritable when I couldn't. The last time I tried, I think I was about seven years old, I got so annoyed that I smashed the mirror with my bare hands. There's still blood stains on the carpet, but they're very faded. There's quite a bit of blood on the walls and floors of my house. But anyway, it was quite a deep cut along the palm of my hand which healed in less than a week, and didn't leave a scar.
Like my eyes, my hair is also jet black. Like my skin, it never changes in the sun, and has been the same colour all my life. It's never developed natural hilights, or been bleached by the sun, nor have I ever dyed it myself. No matter what I do to it, it also stays straight.
My face, overall, is quite average. I have a narrow jaw and a pointy chin, a straight nose, hollow cheeks, and full lips. My lips are a very pale pink. I don't bother with any make up; I don't need to cover any bad skin, my eyelashes are thick enough to look like they are coated in mascara and I don't particularly want to find out the effects of blusher on my mono-chromatic flesh.
But enough about my looks. It's my 'talents' that really strike fear into people's hearts. And how I use them.
When I was six months old I killed my parents.
I don't remember it, of course, I was very young. I have no idea of what happened. Though when I was around two or three years old, I killed my adoptive parents, too. I remember one day, they had made me so angry, and I was wishing that they were dead. My mother came into my bedroom to calm me down, and all I did was glare at her. I remember her scream. To this day, it haunts me. It's the first time, in my memory, anyway, that I saw a person die.
The way her legs crumpled beneath her. The way she used her last breath on a scream. The way the light left her eyes...
After that, my father came in. I don't think he realized she was dead, because he came straight up to me and shouted right in my face. He probably thought she had fainted, or I had thrown something at her, or maybe not even seen her. But anyway, he screamed in my face, and I screamed back, and then his screaming changed. It wasn't rage anymore; it was pain. I think maybe a part of me was glad to see him in pain, because I just sat there, and watched him writing on the floor, like he was posessed.
Of course, the soundtrack of tourture didn't go un-noticed. Several of our neighbors came over to investigate. When they came into my room, I finished it. I stopped my father's pain, and ended his life.
I don't want to go into too much detail about what happened after that, but after killing anyone who tried to kill me, they decided the best thing to do was to let me live. Alone, of couse, it would be far too dangerous to have me around people who might anger me. Every now and again, people deliver food, other living essentials, and anything else I request. They never come in though. I don't say I blame them.
Against everyone's wishes, I do attend school. Though it can't really be considered school. This town is quite large, but so cut off from anywhere, the few children that live here to to the town hall every day, and learn there.
But that's all you need to know for now.