When I stretch out my body to the other side of the bed, I feel a figure. I flick open my eyes to see Isabella curled into a fetal position next to me as I was sprawled out on the mattress, depriving her of space. Of course. I must have been mumbling in my sleep again. My guardian, Isabella, was almost like my mother when she was sleeping: light snoring, her shoulder-length lemon blonde hair sprawled out on the stone-like pillow, always turned to one side in a fetal position.

It seemed life-like, but I hated her. I hated her since the day she knelt in front of me next to her bear-sized luggage and my older brother Antonio, patting me on the head. Don't get me wrong, she wasn't a two-face. She was as cheerful, kind-hearted, gentle and caring to my brother as she was to me and that was what I hated about her. I did think if we met in another world, when she didn't come because Antonio begged her to and given my rotten attitude, would she treat me the same? My mother's personality was no different from her, it was mine that changed.

My mother, Isabella, me. We could have been a trio of girly girls in this gloom of a town, strolling the streets in puffy dresses and sunhats and holding well-decorated shopping baskets in our hands. My father almost died in an avalanche in the Himalayas and just when he almost reached the harbor of our home, Lisbon, he was attacked by a pirate ship and decapitated. My mother, who worked hard to love him for herself, drank a full glass of poison berry juice, a venom that slowed down your pulse until you had no pulse at all. She gave me some, a stupid eight-year-old, and I was saved by Antonio.

We hated pirates. The blood in the vessels of Antonio's eyes boiled at that word, and now he was a privateer in Spain. That country had banned the idea of privateers after a rebel, but kept Antonio for he was the only loyal privateer. The day I witnessed him gouge out the eyes of a serial killer, or stab a pirate multiple times had given me the aspiration to become just like him. And I could, I could hold a person down and do some art on them with a single knife, or wipe out an entire group of soldiers with a good aim. I could, but I was forbidden by Antonio. It was too dangerous.

I wriggle out of bed quietly, making sure Isabella couldn't hear me. It was too good a chance to train. Ever since I slit a vein on my wrist by accident, the blood splattering out like a fountain and I almost died of blood loss, she forbid me to train my knife-throwing. The kitchen knives were hidden in a safe and the knives I used, much sharper and of different shapes were sold, thrown away or melted. Or that was what she said. I took the key from her bedroom and opened the safe, pleased that my knives were still intact. I put them in my jacket, an old privateer jacket that belonged to Antonio and set out.

The morning was cloudy and cold as usual because of the raining season. The raining season also meant the stay-at-home season for the animals, to me, the prey. I should have known. Isabella hated non-market meat. I set up the targets quickly so that I could end my training before Isabella woke up, since I forgot to leave an unsuspicious scene in the kitchen – a breakfast without any effort put in and a piece of papers lying about where I was. I trained in the backyard, so she would find me before she even read the note.

Six knives all hit the six targets perfectly, three sliding off my fingers in each hand. I had a feeling somebody was watching me, hopefully Antonio, who would understand my message that I was good enough to be a privateer at fourteen years old. The thought of Antonio had my arm tense and locked as my shoulders trembled. Taking in a deep breath, I was prepared to throw the knife, sharp and curved, at the target. Then my arm unlocked itself and pulled me towards the east as I shot the bushes.

Ouch. I heard. Antonio staggered out of the bushes like a drunkard, the tip of the knife tickling the flesh at his abdomen. I dropped my weapons and ran over to him.

"Rio, you're-" He began but I cut him off.

"Sh. I know I'm not supposed to be here." I whispered, my voice becoming softer with each word.

I pulled the weapon out of his stomach, the blood drying on his white shirt. As I attempted to sneak back home to get a first-aid kit, he stopped me. "Rio, ignore my wound first. Did you see that?"

"What?"

"Did you see me, venturing through those noisy bushes and trees?"

"No. But I had a hunch someone, or something was watching me. I thought it was lunch."

Antonio smiled. "How could you shoot, so accurately, right above my belly button when you didn't even see me?"

"I told you I had a hunch," I gulped, "and…"

"And?"

"This is quite a skill, isn't it?"

"For what?"

"I don't know. Maybe a police officer, a soldier, a spy. A privateer."

Antonio's smile disappeared and his voice began to tremble as shivers went down my spine. "You really take after me, don't you?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. And better, too. Why can't you just let me be one? Is it because I'm a girl?"

"No. It's too dangerous for you."

"If it's not my gender, then it's not dangerous for you, then how is it dangerous for me?"

"Listen, Rio. You're only fourteen. You're too young."

"Leave me alone!" I took off, not knowing where to go. My name was called out in his voice, as well as my father's. One was telling me to stop, the other was encouraging me. If I had a guardian, I would listen to him or her. My guardian wasn't Isabella, nor was it Antonio; it was my father all along. I only needed his approval to become a privateer.

My feet carried me to the harbor, where a public ship was leaving for a country a fan of privateers, England.