I was asked to comment on my upbringing. The baby dragon, roaring into a new existence. I’m not going to be that dramatic. Any input I have, any flowery morals you think you can derive from my ramblings, are meaningless anyway. But, why not. Here it goes.
A throne room of gold— though well-established and entirely unbothered by my presence (or lack thereof)— was the first setting of my reality. As quickly as my mother could rid herself of my burdensome attachment, she and my father retired to their golden chambers, unconcerned with the tedium of swaddling and suckling that’s routine for offspring of your kind. You might think my omniscience (and don’t be confused, I know you covered omniscience in your classroom) was the culmination of a millennia of existence and observation, but no. I became, I was, I will be. I understood all of this when I saw my first emerald, my first thing. My creators eagerly looked on as I examined my possession, proud of their son for succumbing to the urges they asserted were genetic. They fully embraced the draconian persona that humans would credit themselves for millennia later (infuriating creatures you are really, incapable of understanding you are finders, never inventors. I pray one day you find that reality, but even I —all omnipotent— don’t see that future! Heh, I make myself wheeze). They saw that all they would amount to were gilded spawns of the satan, so why resist? The first apes hadn’t even descended from the jungle canopy, yet my parents were already busy hoarding and coveting. My mother extended herself outward to stash away as much of the earth as she could hold, not leaving any rock for the greedy creatures known as “not herself”. My father coveted my mother, hovering over her indefinitely, smoking and red whenever his property asserted autonomy. And so each day they went— pillaging and conquering. It was glorious. They would die.
I was some years old, I will never bother with specifics. The apes came down from the trees (as apes do), held up their clumsy tools, and carved massive caves in which to house their gold. Some of them saw us. To them, we were gods, warring with our offspring and making the world with our corpses. To them, we were the epitome of vile serpents, trying desperately to swallow their sun, their light. Us hoarding and coveting their gold (as dragons do) certainly did not help this perception, but what were we to do about it? We liked things. They had things we liked. We took their things.
I was preoccupied with my possession one evening when I chose to pursue a devious experiment. The outcome was already certain, but I tried anyway. Can you imagine? All-seeing fool gives naivety a go ... (try finding meaning in that, it will be a fun exercise for you people). Anyway, I was preoccupied with my possession—my emerald— when I decided to let my mother get a glimpse. It was very shiny, and she specialized in hoarding shiny things. She snatched it from my grasp, stared at it, and stared some more. She stared and stared and stared and stared and stared, it could drive one mad with how much staring she was doing. My father returned to our den, satisfied with the amounts of gold (and clean britches) he left the humans lacking, when he saw my mother entranced by this green piece of enrapturement. He didn’t
approve. He coveted her, and she did not pay him any mind. They fought, two massive beasts of gold and claw clashing. I knew this was going to happen. I knew that they were going to kill each other. I knew there was nothing I could do about it. I weeped anyway. So it goes. The first and final time I’ve wept for this universe. I allow myself some indulgences once in a while.
I had now come into ownership of my family’s hoard. So many things, nyeh heh heh! The apes lived dumb and irritated as ever, sightings of my parents seared into their empty heads. Haunted they were, by the greedy world-consuming serpents coming after their gold! Bah, what arrogance. Let the humans think that way— they’ll be gone soon enough (and it’s a good thing there’s no afterlife too, you pitiful lot would be horrified to discover Earth still rotates without your weight holding it down). I write this some time before one of these humans, Beowulf, comes to kill me. A creature I once humored (he was very stupid, he touched my things) was killed by this particular human. If one thing is for certain, someone will write of his death, and of mine, and of Beowulf’s. Our story will become legend and parable for people millenia from now. They will tell my story, and retell, and film, and refilm— I have seen all of it. Some will be good, some will be bad, some will insinuate that my murderer is also my father. In a sense, they’re not wrong. My father coveted my mother. Beowulf comes to covet me as well. Eventually, some sleep-deprived children will write down my words, and they too, will covet, and hoard, and greed. They will touch my things. They will all touch my things. They should never, never, never, touch my things.