Stella's P.O.V

I sit in the back of the class; my hair is dark, and my eyes are light. My personality is as mysterious as the very air we breathe. I am weak; therefore, I must be mean, for I fear others will see the weakness I feel. Others shine like the sun and desire for people to flock towards their warmth. I do not desire to be the sun nor warm. Rather, I want to be like winter, cold and harsh. Few can survive my presence, and those that don't could not stand my icy temperament. 

Who am I?

I have loved no one, and yet many have loved me. Love is a waste of time; it only gets in the way. To crave love is to be stupid, for you gain nothing from love but war.

Who am I?

To love money is a sin, and yet I use the mere worldly object as my own personal mask. For no one questions nor cares about the pain of a rich girl. They say money buys happiness, it also buys silence.

Who am I?

Truthfully, I've been asking myself that question for nearly fifteen years. Who am I? From an outsider's point of view, I am a spoiled rich girl from Greenland who has never been told no a day in her life. What a lie that is. I have been rich for less than four years. I was once a poor girl on the streets of Nuuk, and then a miracle happened, Anaana died.

Many miss the dead, but I am not one of the many. I feel as if God did me a favor by removing Anaana from the earth, for if he hadn't, then surely her blood would be on my hands.

The sound of a bell ringing abruptly jerks me from my thoughts and opens my eyes to the scene before me. I'm thrown into a packed hallway with students flowing both south and north. They seemed to be in their own worlds and did not flinch away from shoving into both everyone else and even myself. I wanted to open my mouth and toss unkind words in their direction, but as quickly as they appeared, they were gone, lost in the sea of teenagers.

Spinning around, I attempted to discover where I was, but all I saw through the cracks in the crowd were purple lockers and marble floors. I nearly wanted to scream out of frustration, for I was claustrophobic and being tossed about as if I was no more than a doll at a tea party.

"Are you lost?"

Spinning around hasty, I come face to face with a man well over six-feet-tall. He wore thin rimmed glasses, a pale blue dress shirt, a black tie, and grey slacks. His black shoes reflected the light, and I was nearly blinded by them.

I frowned, "Where am I?"

Smiling, he glanced around as if he understood my confusion, "School of course."

He spoke the words with great ease as if he had already anticipated the question. It confused me truly, I've never seen this man before. He was older and handsome. Truly, if I wasn't in self-denial about my daddy issues, then I would be climbing this man as he were a tree. However, I have self-control and self-respect for this man is a teacher and therefore is poor.

Now, how can a poor man provide me with the lifestyle I deserve?

I could not control my eyes as they furrowed while this strange man offered his arm towards myself, "It's a lovely day. How about we take a stroll around the grounds, yeah?"

He had an accent that, even as a foreigner myself, I've never heard before. Perhaps it's one that is only heard within the lands of this country?

I was hesitant about taking the arm of a much older man to whom I have known for a very little time, but with having no recollection of why I am in a high school, a public one at that. I saw no other option than to loop my petite arm through his large one. He was muscular, and even though I am a mere teenager, I could see that he is quite attractive.

He gently patted my hand as we began to stroll down the packed hallway, and like in a movie, the crowd parted for us. In no way or form was this man romantic towards me, and the only feelings I held were confusion and the lost desire for my own Ataata to treat me with this much decency.

Growing up Anaana hid me away from Ataata, I never knew much about him besides the knowledge that he owned a chain of hotels throughout Greenland, one of which is where he took my mother and laid her upon a bed like a prostitute. She was hardly even of age, but truly, what is age to a middle-aged man who breathes money?

Sighing, I paid little attention to my nails as they dug into the man's arm. He didn't flinch rather as I fought back a hiss of pain for his arm felt as if were made from melted iron.

Tsking my tongue, I threw my head to the side and allowed my eyes to be drawn elsewhere for pain from a simple bent nail is dramatic of me to express. So many emotions were trapped within my being, and so little of them were joyous ones. I often wondered how joyful people survive. Everyday, I must pretend my life is perfect and reflects only the positive things of wealth.

Because truly nobody wants to hear about the dirty, raw, and bloody side of the rich. Behind every dollar is a secret, lie, or even body. To have money is to have power, and when you have power, you must do everything in your will to hold onto that power, for there will always be someone after it.

As if the air in my lungs was hot, I blew out a deep breath, for my emotions were boiling from within. Sensing my displeased nature, the strange man offered me a kind smile as we began to break free of the crowd.

"What red paint is tainting your white mind?"

I shook my head before even words left my lips, "You're an old man, you wouldn't understand even if I told you."

Truthfully, he couldn't have been older than twenty-five. However, it's been so long since he was a child, I doubt he would even remember the struggles of being this age. If I told him, I felt inferior to those around me; he would laugh and tell me those around me aren't worth modeling after. If I said I hated the way I looked, he would shake his head and tell me in time naturally my body and looks would change, but he would fail to tell me the time. And if I said I struggled with the demons of my past, he would frown and scoff off at me, saying a girl at my age has no demons to be at war with.

He would be like every other parent or adult out there. They went through nearly the same things we did, yet their minds have forgotten the trauma they went through or perhaps the adults of their time treated them so callously that they only know how to reflect such behavior.

If we cry, we're dramatic, love isn't real until we're adults, and God forbid if we miss one boring history class. As if we were lab rats, we are constantly under someone's microscopes, and truly, the only stalkers we have are our parents.

And how dare we say if our lives are hard for truly theirs are worse. For they have lived decades more than we have. Slept under more moons and broken more hearts than we could ever imagine. So, our pain is simply not worth their time, and they say we would do best to remember that our feelings do not matter at this age.

Bursting through the doors, we were met with the burning light of the sun; it was so hot that it felt as if it would burn our very sins from our souls. My arm tightened around the mans for I did not know if we were about to walk on the very sun or enter hell. Either way, I wanted to be prepared to fight my way through it, for without fighting, I would've succumbed to my death many moons ago.

As my eyes narrowed and like talons, my nails extended, we broke free from the sun's light, and sitting before us was a military aircraft. It was big as it was long, confused; I looked around us, and to my very surprise, we were no longer in a high school. No, we were now on an active military base. Men were running around, some shouting and others running as if there was a war upon us. Aircrafts like the one before us were landing and taking off. The distant sound of bombs exploding and ammunition being fired rang throughout this new land, and I wanted to be scared, but my body refused to allow such emotions to flood my being.

Releasing himself from my hold, the man stepped in front of me, and with a blink of an eye, his once put-together outfit now consisted of a green flyers suit with many bandages of honor.

I wanted to be surprised, but truly I could not, for to be surprised, would mean that my body had not endured war before. The scars upon my body tingled, and I desperately wanted to reach and caress them, but I suppressed the urge and straightened my posture.

"Who are you?" I dared to speak the words once more for what do I have to lose?

A smirk that could only belong to a jackal appeared across the man's pouty lips, "Ryder Red."

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Greenlandic: Anaana.

English: Mother.

Greenlandic: Ataata.

English: Father.