DISTRICT ONE, SIGH {FIN.}

She was ten when she first killed a man. Ambrose had walked them each into a room, a figure sitting bound to a chair had been placed before them. There he had held a knife, handle first, a show of trust. She'd taken that blade in her hand, she knew how to use it, she'd mastered it two years ago. Five of them had died that year, all of them because they had failed to achieve his standard. She knew, without looking at Ambrose what he expected of her. The knife was cool against her palm, and her fingers tightened around the hilt, shifting into a comfortable grip. The man before her wept, his hair was long and mattered, the air around him smelt of piss and shit and their was an overlapping layer of fear and dread. Even with the revolting smells of human matter she breathed in deeply, still very much human, still very much aware that this was a living breathing being. Still able to have her heart clench with guilt as she stepped closer.

"He's a bad man. He's done evil things. You're not killing someone innocent." Yet. Baby steps, he had called that. Killing a man Ambrose had deemed bad. She took everything he said as an order. She didn't believe him, she didn't not believe him, she merely took it as logic, knowing it made sense in her head, regardless of the fact that being bad to Amrbose could mean he was really and truly innocent. Perhaps this man had been like her, perhaps this is what had happened to Kiron (or had his name been Sam that month?) when he had disappeared last month, only to find his body, throat slit, lying on his bed a few days ago. He'd decided to show pride when he'd struck the bulls eyes target for the hundredth time in a row. He was the best knife thrower out of them all, truly an assets on any team he could have been apart of. But he'd made the fatal mistake to care, she'd known his doom the moment he'd smiled, a real smile, before turning to the instructors to indicate his results. Even achievement wasn't allowed. Too bad he was dead, she could have asked him for a few tips.

The man was gagged, so as he gazed at the small framed girl before him his eyes a blue storm raging with terror and something else. Was it shock? Because she was ten years old, still growing, lanky and thin. Was it horror? Why was a ten year old girl with that man? Perhaps it was both, because as he met her eyes his could only widen. Her dark eyes hid all her emotions. Her heart might falter, but her steps would not, not with Ambrose burning holes into her small back, not with his cold, dead eyes, waiting, watching. That man was death itself, and with her emotions still clinging pitifully to her soul, she feared death. So she'd do as he said, she'd kill who he wanted, no matter how much her soul was scrapped and cut and crushed. This girl would do his bidding, because she had seen what death could do and she feared that more then losing herself. Her steps were light, even as her heart, as true as her aim, as she cut that mans throat.

A month later she learned that the man had been a father of two, who owned a small bakery on the opposite side of town.

⚔

Sixteen years after being claimed by Ambrose he finally had decided that the torture of their training was not enough to make them into his soldiers. They still clung pitifully to that hub of emotions that let them believe that they were still human. That wasn't good enough, she didn't know why she fought so hard to keep the last part of her soul white when the rest of it was so badly tainted. She only had to look at her drawings, to know that she was soaked in too much blood to ever find peace. So was it not better to finally succumb? To end those nights of suffering? Just flick the switch, Ambrose purred, those words mingling with her own breath as he leaned forwards. Every morning he'd say it, just before they began training. And every night, after training he'd lean down again and repeat himself as her blood covered the floor. He'd cup her face in his hands, the closest thing he ever came to affection. He'd lean so close that everything she saw was taken up by that intense gaze that promised suffering, that promised something better if she just accepted what she was. It'll end the pain, those words were a guarantee. 

As his patience had drawn to an end he'd struck her, and the others who had cling to their humanity. He'd walked away leaving them with the assurance that they'd be his puppets. She hadn't doubted him for a second.

They had to do it with blood. When he had announced their next task there had been a chorus of 'Sir's' and that was it. She'd looked down the line, expecting to see Fiore standing there, expecting, for some unknown reason, for him to step forward and say no. She could remember the last time he'd done that. Three weeks ago he'd done just that, and then after that night she'd awoken to find the bed beside her empty. You didn't question, you accepted what was expected of you. You learned early on, what happened if you questioned or hesitated or said 'no'. The image was burned into her mind, Choal, Lila, Heron, Heath, Callum, Timon, Shin, Juda -an endless list. They'd all questioned, hesitated, tried to think for themselves. They had all died. She had watched each of them die, each an unconditional reminder that he owned them. Each a way to push and push, to create his perfect soldiers. It was clever, he was a cunning man and slowly as the years had passed each emotion that came with seeing them bleed, scream and cry faded.

That night, as they'd sat on their beds no one had mentioned their task for tomorrow. Sigh did not glance at them, she simply headed to her bed, pulled her shoes off and stretched out on the sheets. To her left and to her right were empty beds. Fiore would always grin at her, before they went to bed, it was the oddest thing, seeing his facial features twist like that. (Ambrose tried to beat it out of him everyday. Sigh watched everyday, and she did nothing every single time.) Whenever she had tried to do the same it had felt unnatural, but on his face it had looked as though it was always supposed to be there. Then as she turned away from him he'd always remark, a note of hurt in his voice, as fake as the pout on his lips, "you always turn away from me, Sigh." Those were the only times she'd ever come close to a real smile. A huffed, "I don't need distractions." Then he'd paint the room with a sound so foreign her stomach would tighten, every time she heard it (one day.. One day she'd draw the sound of his voice). As it faded out of the room, she would always hear the rustle of his blankets, before he whispered, "you're right, one of us needs to make it out of here."

He wasn't there anymore, by her side. He'd disappeared three weeks ago. No one called her Sigh anymore, just like no one slept on the beds beside her anymore, in this world you didn't have a name, you didn't have anyone. Names meant emotions, family meant attachments. They were a title, that only people who were allowed to live with a mind of their own deserved. Ambrose gave them a title, once a month, and he changed it, over and over again. She'd lost count of how many names she'd had, of who she actually was. She had no identity. Another one of his tricks to limit their attachment. To limit them being considered a human, because in his eyes they were not, in their eyes they did not see one another as humans. That was what Ambrose wanted. But from the first month, when Fiore had walked in, when he'd poked her and prodded her and eventually scowled, before declaring that forever and ever she'd always be Sigh. That was the only name she'd ever clung to, it was his name for her. She was his Sigh.

He'd ruffled her hair, swung an arm around her shoulder and called her his sister. He'd been the first person to remain adamant in his desire to remain as he was. But like the rest of them, he hadn't arrived with a name. He'd sat down sometimes, beside Sigh and list names off, long fingers rising one by one as he spoke on and on. But as the months past he could never settle on one. He'd often ask her, especially when she was drawing, he'd sit beside her and point to the different aspects of the picture and the colours and ask her what she called them. "Draw a picture for me one day," he'd ask. She'd nod, only to get him to stop. She could never draw him, do a drawing for someone else. She could give him something she'd drawn already, but to begin a creation with the intention of giving it to another was too personal. That was when you put your heart into a painting, and she had nothing to give. He hardly ever got a response. Every time she finished a drawing he'd ask what the title of the picture was, and every single time she'd say, "to give something a title means you feel something for it. That requires emotions. And-"

"You don't have those, I know, Sigh. It's always the same." Those were the only times he'd ever get annoyed at her.

He'd look away and pointedly ignore her for the rest of the day. He was a burning furnace of life, perhaps the one string tied to her ankle that kept her tethered to this world. It was probably why he gave up on his annoyance quickly, to return to her side, always apprehensive that even if he left her for a few minutes she'd be completely gone. Like sand, falling too quickly through his grasp, it was a fight he could not win. It was on one of those days where he asked the impossible of her. "Sigh, name me. If anyone can give me a name, it'd be my sister." There, again was that smile that seemed to come with so much ease. Hers was as fake as everything about her. That was the first time he was ever disappointed when she didn't respond. That was the first night he didn't laugh when she turned away, they didn't talk. That was the first night in years her heart clenched, a painful tug that caused her to bite her lip. So this is what loneliness feels like.  

Brother, I'm sorry.

It was after that she had decided to open the sketch book she'd found by her bed, a year ago. She had flicked through the empty pages, pale fingers running over the rough surface as those dark brown eyes took it all in. She couldn't give him a name, but she could do this for him. It would be their story. Each person they had killed, working from the outside in, until they would meet together in the centre. Where they could stay together because they had both made it through this. Yes, brother would like that, with her last remaining shred of humanity she would hear him laugh, just one more time. One more time to imprint it in her mind, then perhaps one day she would finally be able to draw it. For him she'd cling to that one idea, she couldn't do much else for him, she wasn't much else, but she could do that.

⚔

You could see it in each of their eyes, when she looked at them she couldn't see the stars in their eyes, Fiore had once told her, that cloudy eyes were lost eyes, and that even a dreamer so more then the dying. The first time Fiore had told her that it had been the beginning, when they'd first all arrived at the camp. Back in those days when she'd gazed up at the sky she'd always wondered what she would see. She would always look down and see her awe, and love reflected in his eyes. Now, when she looks up there is nothing, there is the blank knowing that the sky is filled with stars, there is no adoration for their brilliance. After all they were small balls of light that both hindered and helped them to blend into the darkness.

Fiore was her saving grace. He was gone, though. She hadn't even tried to look for him. She'd only ever stared at his empty bed momentarily before turning away. 'I don't need distractions.' How is absence had become just that. She turned away only to pull that silly book out and she filled in those pages, first filling her own side in. Each page a different enemy she had defeated, a different skill she had learned. Until she reached the centre, where she was as she was now, a hand extended to the centre of the page. She knew who would go there, she knew that at the end brother would be standing beside her, holding her hand, both of them having finally won. Won? Ah. That kind of thinking again. She snapped the book closed, before tossing it to the end of her bed. You did not win in life, you did not lose. You only survived. Survival meant forgetting about brother, surviving meant getting through tomorrows task effectively and efficiently without hesitation. The logical road to survival meant she would have to cease to exist. Sigh would be no more.

The remaining ten stood against the stone wall, backs straight, arms by their sides. Ambrose prowled along the line, until he reached the very end where he directed the first person towards a door off to the side. This entire setup up was eerily familiar, it reminded Sigh of her first kill. The line up, the small door. The minutes passed and the soldier left, face as impassive as ever. Eyes a reflection of the dead. She was sure that her eyes were a mirror of his, a starless night, where there was nothing but the gaping void. A lifeless field where the light could not reach.

Sometimes no one would exit and Amrbose would open the door, indicating the next person to enter. Sigh knew that they had been killed. They had failed whatever tested awaited them on the other side of that door. As her turn arrived, and she stepped towards that large wooden door she knew, she knew that logic would win out in the end, this was survival. He would make an obedient puppet out of her today, she wasn't her brother, she was weaker then him, that room would be the end of whatever small remaining sense of being she had. She did not feel fear, she did not feel grief, or hope or happiness or sadness. There was nothing there, nothing, but that tiny slither of loneliness that had wedged itself so deeply into her soul she often forget it existed. But as the door closed behind her she felt it resonating within her. Perhaps that would be the one thing Ambrose wouldn't be able to crush.

It was a mirror image to the scene from six years ago. To her left stood Ambrose, as intimidating and fearsome as he was then, in his hand was that same knife. Just as he had all those years ago he handed that knife to her hilt first, his fingers caressing the naked blade. How deadly those hands were, her hands, criss-crossed with white scars would never be a match for those. He'd kill her before she could even blink, and no amount of training would ever be able to shorten this gaping crevice between their skill. She claimed that knife, the blade cool against her palm, as comfortable in her grip as a pencil. It was an extension of her body. Sigh tore her eyes away from the blade, knowing that this time Ambrose would say nothing, she knew what he expected of her. There was that same smell in the air, of human matter. Blood covered the floor, from the others who had already been killed. The person in the chair was covered in rags, their skin was bruised and bloody, they looked as though they had been tortured, their wounds messily fixed only to be tortured again. But as her eyes moved up from the mans legs to his torso she could tell, instinctively that this torture had been done for fun, not for purpose. This was someone who had wronged Ambrose in some way, someone ev-

Oh.

Of course. The pieces clicked into place as she took the first step forwards, only to halt. Her brain scrambled to fathom this scenario, but logic knew, logic understood why it had to be him. It made sense.

"Sigh-" His voice was a hoarse croak, as though he hadn't drank water in days. She could see each of his ribs under those rags. She could see each scar that was a reflection of her own. But when she met his eyes she knew they were infinitely different. "Do it." Those eyes so filled with life, so filled with anguish and sadness, understanding and kindness. Those hands that had grabbed her shoulders, those arms that had pulled her into hugs she had never wanted. That voice that had asked so many annoying questions. They were a galaxy apart in everything. He was the good in the world and she knew, from all those books she had read, that he was who they would call the hero, and through those words alone she was the villain. His eyes were pleading with her, the words he wanted to speak written within them as clear as day, he'll kill you if you hesitate. She knew that. She knew he would.

Hadn't she already hesitated? But she looked back at Ambrose, as though, needing an order, needing him to explain. His brooding silence not enough, for once. There was a malicious gleam in those eyes. There were no second chances with that man. "Kill him." A command. A death sentence. If she didn't do it right now she'd die as well as him. Rationale and sense moved her feet as she stepped towards her brother, if only in name. She took another step forward, hand tightening on the hilt of the knife, dark hair falling around her face as she stared into his eyes. Ah. He'd always said that eyes were like the stars, he hadn't been lying. But his were more like a flower, they bloomed with his emotions, bursts of colour that drowned out everything else. Another step, she was only a meter away.

("Do you know why I named you Sigh?" "I don't care." "It's because to Sigh is to express an emotion, and to sigh is to breathe and to breathe is to live. Live for me, Sigh. Promise?")

"Sigh, name me. If anyone can give me a name, it'd be my sister." 

She was right in front of him now, her eyes glued to his. "Fiore." She whispered. That was his name. A flower. The roots that would keep her sane. "My Fiore."  She placed the tip of the blade against his throat, his warm breathing caressed her skin. The smallest of smiles arose to his lips at the name. Acceptance.

He shifted forwards, leaning forwards to place more weight against the blade pressed to his throat, enough to draw blood. A single crimson drop slipped down his neck, to disappear into the rags. I drew you a picture. She wanted to tell him. She wanted to show him. She wanted to see him smile to hear his laugh once again. She couldn't remember it anymore. "One of us has to make it out of her." She could hear the smile in his voice, just as she had every night for fourteen years. After everything he could still smile and she still didn't know how to. She wasn't Fiore, she was a lifeless puppet. She pulled the blade away from his throat, shifting her grip fast enough for Fiore's eyes to widen in shock before she twisted, thrusting the blade deep into his chest, right into his heart. His blood coated her hands, warm, thick and burning. She watched as his eyes shifted from shock to knowing. She stared into those eyes until each star in them died, until they glazed over.

I'm not sorry, Brother.

Yanking the blade out she spun on her heel, Ambrose purred as he grabbed the blade from her, a cold hand on her shoulder, a congratulations. She'd passed. Ah. She thought, as she passed through the door, why do I still feel so lonely? 

⚔

The book lay on her bed, opened to the middle. The crude drawing of herself still sat there, hand extending towards the white expanse of nothingness.