Prior to my conception, my parents were filled with great ambition for the future. I believe it was Fate's ironic sense of humor that condemned them – a hope as potent as theirs was inevitably destined to consummate with tragedy. The world, I've found, tends to work that way; the good are punished and the wicked are rewarded. I used to weep over the injustice of this truth, but I understand now why it is so. Faith cannot exist without hardship. Wealth cannot exist without poverty. Love, without hate, happiness without sadness; how could we appreciate what we do not know the reverse of? I have never seen the earth in its former glory, and for that I am glad – its ruin would devastate me far more if I had something to compare it to.
My mother died from the effort of bringing me into this world, and not even her sacrifice could keep me safe. I had been hanged, inside the womb, by my own umbilical cord – the delivery was complicated and it took my father and his assistants precious minutes to unravel my noose and resurrect my limp body. Just as life slipped inside me, it drained from my mother. Balance. My father gained a daughter and lost his wife. He was handed a new future, coated in placenta and grief, while his past was taken away. I can imagine him altering between making sure I was cleaned and warm while desperately tending to my dying mother – he says I squalled violently then, furious at the existence that happened upon me so suddenly. My screams were music; they meant life.
Maybe I was crying for the both of us. Father worked hard in his futile attempts to bring her back – only I seemed to understand our loss. Or, maybe my tears were selfish. Maybe I wept because I realized I was damaged; my left brain suffered during the strangulation and consequently, the right side of my body would be weaker for the rest of my life. I did not produce enough melanin. Soon, we would discover I had epilepsy; that I would rarely speak, first due to physical impairment and then on my own will. That as much as I loved my father, I could never express it the way he craved for – I was nothing like my vivacious, affectionate mother. I was Omega, the end of their happiness, the end of their chapter together.
Omega Grey, the quiet child who limped through the creaking halls of Vault 101, devoid of all color save for pale blue eyes – they called me 'Ghost' behind my back, all but Amata, a friend who was eager to learn about albinism, to learn about me. She had the patience for my succinct explanations, often written on paper, and she accepted me unconditionally, something that always baffled me. I truly represented all the terrible things that could happen to one person – not just myself, but my father as well. Naturally, in the animal kingdom, I would have died within days. Someone as crippled as I am has no chance of surviving in the wasteland – that is why, I learned much later, James Arthur Grey abandoned his scientific pursuits and retreated to the shelter of an underground vault. He protected me, educated me and loved me fiercely. He gave his life to spare mine, just like my mother. So when it came time to repay him the favor, to give up part of myself and risk everything – I didn't think twice.
This is my story.
Trying a different technique, using first person. Just like my other Fallout story, I'm altering some of the facts for the sake of narration and character development.
Reviews, messages or any form of feedback is always welcome. If anybody has an idea or a suggestion, run it by me. And in case anybody is interested, I'll provide a link of my actual Fallout character on my profile so you can see what she looks like - I'm a visual person myself, so I like to see who I'm imagining in my head.
First chapter will be up soon!