[ WP ] You are a tragic hero/heroine . Explain to us what makes you a tragic hero/heroin .

I am taken back now in this moment to the first time I saw my Mistress. I was bruised and battered, bleeding from multiple stab wounds. It was twenty years ago. Twenty long years. I was only fourteen. Back then I was only six foot two. I did n't know demons and angels existed. I did n't know why my teeth were sharp and why I could n't die. 
 
 I was brought before her a wild animal, battered into near madness by the largest and ugliest city on Earth. I was bound and gagged, on my knees and waiting to die. I was sure she would kill me, sure she would end my life... 
 
 But she did n't. When she looked on me it was n't with pity, it was with sadness. She saw in me pain and horror. She saw in my ragged clothing and violated body the tortures not even visited on the worst of criminals. Society is kind to those who defile and destroy. Those different who are lost are little more than garbage. 
 
 I was hers then, in that moment. I was always hers, I think, and just waiting for her to find me. 
 
 To use me, for I am a tool. A weapon against evil. 
 
 I was given a home. I was washed and my wounds observed as they healed in hours instead of days or weeks. My Mistress chained me to the wall and sat with me for days on end, feeding me, giving me water, helping me recover my sanity. She told me of the angels, of the demons, of the vampires. 
 
 I told her I knew of monsters, though I knew not what exotic flavors they came in. I told her I was sorry for what I had done, for killing someone who worked for her. She told me any person who would try to violate a fourteen year old girl deserves what punishment comes to them. I was forgiven. I was tested. 
 
 Eidetic memory, that is what they call it. See and recall, read and remember, hear and never forget. 
 
 That wall became my home, the wall I was chained to. For weeks she spoke with me, built up my health. When she was n't present, I had piles of books to read and I read them all. Tapes played constantly, teaching me more. It is not a thing that makes me better than others, she taught me. It is another reason why I must be a servant of others. To use my mind for my own selfish reasons... that is to be worse than evil simply by inaction. 
 
 When I was freed, she told me I was a demon - or at least part demon. I was a regenerator she told me, a monster made for killing. My instincts and urges were not my fault, but I must learn to control them. 
 
 I asked her to help. I told her I did not want to be evil anymore. I begged her to make me hers, to take me as property. She agreed, knowing what I needed. A hand firmer than any other. A hand not afraid to use cruelty to shape one who was cruel and monstrous. 
 
 It was one year then. One year to train, to prepare my body. She told me she was a vampire. She showed me teeth kind of like hers. Her brother showed me the same. Her maid was a demon halfbreed, though not like me. She was a succubus. Her maid's girlfriend was a faery, a four foot six inch tall Engineer. 
 
 It took a lot for me to believe they were all a century or older. But they had pictures and paintings and experience to back up their claims, and when I began to trust them I began to grow and change. 
 
 After that year, she asked me where my parents were. She asked why I was alone. 
 
 Because they tried to kill me, after doing so much to hurt me that I often nearly did die. Because I killed them, because I had to, because I was afraid - because I just did n't want to die. 
 
 The sadness came again, then. Her face showed such despair I thought my heart would break. I do not know what came over me, but I hugged her. She did not push me back, surprising me. Maybe, I thought, I really can do good in this world. 
 
 So I was given a new power. These century old monsters were fighting evil, and wanted me to do the same. They infected me then, infected me with a modified vampire virus that should have killed me. It would have killed anyone who was n't a regenerator. It would have killed most regenerators. 
 
 But I could not be so selfish as to die. Not after being given so much. 
 
 The pain was intolerable. Once more, I lost my mind. I floated in madness, and was returned to my wall. My bones broke and reformed over and over. They tossed corpses into my cell to feed me blood and meat and bone so I would not die. I could n't come back. I was lost in the black, lost as my body grew and they had to thicken the chains and then eventually use magic to bind my body and soul just to keep me from breaking out. 
 
 When the pain stopped, the madness did not cease. 
 
 They knew not what to do. Had all their research and work gone to waste? 
 
 My Mistress chose then to enter my cell alone, unarmed. I bit her repeatedly, but I could n't kill her. Even in my insanity, she was my life. My golden light. My five foot tall heroine, my savior. I loved her and always have and always will. 
 
 She brought me back from the madness for a second time. When I was able to look at myself, I had changed. I was larger, so large I had to duck under doors. Ten feet tall at fifteen years old, and strong. Vampires, I knew by then, are inherently sexual creatures. While the virus kept me beautiful, it also made me beyond powerful. Muscles were covered by just enough bodyfat to keep a feminine form. 
 
 I had no idea what was to come. 
 
 Four years of training, that is what came. I fought daily. I slept in a pine coffin loaded with soil from the city to regain my strength. If I was to get blood, I was to earn it. I never left my basement training room. I showered there, ate there, fought there, read there. 
 
 When they were satisfied there was little more I could learn from books, my mistress came to me again. My hair was long, so long that even braided I had to fold it over twice to keep it out of my way. She asked me if I wanted to truly become a weapon for good, if I wanted to undergo something that might kill me. 
 
 I begged her to do it. I begged for the pain, for the surgeries they gave me. 
 
 She bid me come with her, and I did. My hair was shaven off. Their surgery room was prepared. I was prepared to die for her, but sure I would not because I could not. 
 
 Death is for those who have earned the right to die. I am a vile thing, and I have not yet made up for what I am and those things I did in my desperate insanity. 
 
 When she bared her body to me the day before the surgery, I saw the scars I left on her with my teeth. When I cried and begged forgiveness, she told me to stop. She kissed me, and when our cold lips met I knew my life was perfect. I had pain to punish me for my evil deeds. I had blood and food to nourish me. I had books and endless written resources. Most importantly, I belonged to her. 
 
 I had never had had sex before. 
 
 She knew how to teach someone new. 
 
 When we emerged, I was ready for surgery. I felt no fear, and I have felt no fear since then. 
 
 I had to be conscious. I had to control my regeneration so the wounds did not heal shut mid-surgery. They tore out my tongue, and replaced it with something new from a demon. My virus made my body accept the organ. My skull was plated. Glands were implanted in my mouth to make my saliva contain a euphoric drug for chemical warfare and interrogation purposes. Their research was coming to its end. If I survived having organs from these different demons implanted in me, then I would be their tool. Their trump card. 
 
 I died. 
 
 Six times, I died. Every time, I had to use magic to force my heart to keep beating. Every time, the reapers hovered over me, visible only to me, waiting. Growling with their rage. I felt no fear of them. I did not want to go, and I would not. 
 
 It took four months for me to finally heal and become functional. 
 
 I survived. I worked. I spat blood for weeks and cried from the agony every day, but I worked. 
 
 For years then, I served as their weapon. No secrets were kept from me. Not from their horribly scarred monster. No, I was their perfectly loyal property. I was given a mask to wear, and for the first time I had a name other than'girl.' 
 
 I was named Mask by my Mistress, and I gratefully accepted it. She wanted to create an image of terror, and idea that would worm into the minds of our enemies. I was locked down, controlled, only allowed to release my many powerful abilities in some situations. The secrecy of magic had to be kept for the peace between the supernatural and natural to be maintained. 
 
 I was given orders, and I did what needed to be done. 
 
 I always follow my orders. 
 
 Then came the mission where I met a man, a man who was not like me but one who became something new. A friend. My mistress was my friend, my lover, but with him it was different. We were equals and never before had I wanted that. We fought together, stopped yet another apocalypse together. He died, and I turned him without permission in my desperation to save his life. He should have died, but he did not. 
 
 My Mistress was delighted. Her Mask had a friend, one who wanted to serve good just as bad. 
 
 When we thought all was well... 
 
 The Seraphim Angels descended from the ruins of Heaven to avenge their dead and forgotten god. I fought valiantly, and we eventually defeated them - but when I sought my Mistress, her brother held her headless corpse and sobbed. 
 
 How could this happen? She was perfect! She could n't fall! She was my Mistress! She was eternal! She was... she was my everything. 
 
 I thought I would die from the pain alone. I felt fear for the first time in many years. How would I live? How could I function without her to give me orders. Her organization worked to rebuild, and I began to plan. 
 
 ( Part two in a reply. )
