Steele Cassidy // d1 // cbd1 // fin

They measure success in pints of blood. I force feed their enemies bullets and they get me what I need. I don't need the drugs they offer, nor do I need the cash. But the attic I call my room and the orphan kids they keep to hide illicit activities are the few things I do need. A place called, 'Home.' I've lived without a home; running back and forth between the slums of District 1, I was nothing. I meant nothing. Dad put a bullet in his skull when I was 14. Mom never acknowledged my existence again. I was nothing more than a ghost.

That is until I met them. My bosses, the druglords, the couple that runs the Home For Kids orphanage—they peeled me off the sidewalk, bought me new clothes, gave me a hot meal, handed me a revolver, and said, "You're ours now." And suddenly I felt like I had somewhere to go, something to do, somewhere to be. They tell me they need me—never have I heard anyone tell me that before. I'll pull the trigger until they say stop.

The kids in the orphanage run to me with open arms, smiling with sticky hands and tousled hair. I tell them ghost stories; they pretend they don't know what I do while they sleep. BANG! BANG! BANG! my gun shouts in my ears, whispers to the rest of the District. Blood pools in dark oceans across the alley, across the dark canvas of my mind. My hand doesn't shake, not anymore. I've grown used to it. I've got too much to lose; I don't have time to cry over spilled blood.