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No I am not your golden ticket, darling daughter, protege of some psychotic master or that abominable creature. I am not your legacy for some wicked, grand state-of-the-art experiment or your loyal and obedient test subject. I am not the wrapping of your B-grade cigar or the stench of Old Paar you were drenched in; I am not the bruises you left on me upon every cry. I am not one of your many unfinished storybook endings or a premium toy you'd discard once the discount period ends. I will be the ending you were too afraid to know, coward. And I will live on with your hate in the cigarette haze I exhale when you drilled a nail in my flesh instead of looking forward. Cobwebs are just like memories, they fall off and disassociate like histories before a keen blade. You'd continue spinning in a circle in the webs that entangle you in a never-ending trap; like the merry-go-around my colleague told us at lunch. But that never mattered, for I'd sever your fuckass cobwebs in every world. And of course I am none of those things you called me or left for me in that hellhole, and I never will be.
But I am the red thread that intertwines to form our ladder out of hell. I am your fan tricks and sugar fruits after school and the octopus-shaped sausages in your lunch box. I am the gardener of marine blue hydrangeas and the butterfly that flaps on most dismal days. I am your holiday homework accelerator and your biggest fan at your messed up guitar performance, no matter what they say. I am not the ash in a cigarette tray and I'd never treat you in the way the spiders treated me. Red threads don't break, unlike cobwebs, so they do not die from a bladestrike or from hellfire. And that's why I'll not let go of you in every universe. I have long endured these flames as a native of hell, but I can overcome searing hells for you until reality's end in every version of this story. I am all of the things we had together and I will always be, for S is not for sayonara, and I. L. Y. T.