The Birth of Celina Knight

I didn't ask to be born, but the government thought otherwise.

My mother - my birth giver - left weeks after my birth. So, it was just Dad and me. He liked to drink but wasn't mean; he tolerated my existence.

Every year or two, we moved. Dad would always start a new job, and I was placed in a new school.

At each school, the other kids saw something in me they hated.

"Why are you so monotone?"

"Loser."

"You're so weird and ugly, even your mom didn't want you."

Being bullied relentlessly, pushed and slapped in locker rooms, and having my things stolen, were my normal. Teachers and administrators were no help.

Last year, Dad found another job - and a companion. So, he sent me to the Motor City to live with Grandpa.

Grandpa loved my presence. Every Saturday afternoon, we played chess. While teaching me computer literacy, he praised my talent for discovering hidden information.

School was hell but home with Grandpa was my refuge.

Then, one Friday during my senior year, everything changed.

After fourth period, I entered the cafeteria. Dozens of classmates were waiting, plates of spaghetti and alfredo pasta in hand. They dumped it on me. I can still hear their loud, raucous laughs. My skin felt sticky, and rotting milk and tomato smells filled my nostrils as the giggles continued throughout the day.

After school, I sprinted home to safety. I opened the door to see the only person in life who truly cared about me on the living room floor, gone.

That day, Cyndy Smith died and Celina Knight was born.

Now, I use my immense talents to find information online to torture others' psyches, to make their real lives a never-ending nightmare.

And I am always several moves ahead.