"What is my name?" Hilshire looked at the girl staring back at him. She had asked him that question, only wanting to know what to call herself. It was an innocent question, one that the poor girl should have never had to ask. But that wasn't the issue now. The issue was a name. Her name.
"Your name is..." What name does he give her though? Any name would do. Yet this wasn't naming a dog. This was naming a girl. The girl sat there staring at me, wondering what he was going to say. She gave him pause, and this Hilshire couldn't understand. After all, there was nothing intimidating about her. She was a small girl, about eleven, clothed in nothing but a hospital gown. Long blonde hair coupled with a heart-shaped face. Royal blue eyes gazed at him with a curious expression, wanting to know what he thought of at this very moment.
Maybe that was what worried him so. She was too naive, too innocent. She didn't deserve this. Death was better than this. She was to be a killer. A murderer. One who could take another's life without a moment's hesitation or a twinge of regret. It wasn't right. He was going to be sick.
He had rescued and condemned her. Had saved her life, and yet had ended it. When he had gone into that warehouse, it was about stopping the snuff film. It was about saving that girl's life. He and Rachelle, the medical examiner autopsying the girls' bodies, were there to stop them. Foolishness really, they had both been fools. The girl, this girl, was rescued, but at a terrible price. Rachelle had died from a gunshot wound, not because it was actually fatal, but because she wouldn't treat it in favor of saving the girl's life.
Could he call her Rachelle? No. There is no way Hilshire could call that young girl Rachelle. It would be too haunting, like a ghost hanging over that girl. So what should it be? Claire? Marissa? Isabelle? The name needs to signify new beginnings, a new life for both her and Hilshire, even if it is one bathed in blood. Back to the beginning. Back to Trier, where he grew up. Maybe Trier then. Not a girl's name. Trier. Trie. Triela, maybe? Triela's perfect.
"Your name is Triela. From now on you will work with me at the Social Welfare Agency. If you have any questions, ask only me. The others around here may not be so nice, especially Jean. Whatever you do, don't cross him. Any questions?" Triela set her hands in her lap as she digested this information slowly. Finally getting it, she climbed out of bed, setting her bare feet on the cold linoleum. She turned to face Hilshire, obviously scared but determinedly stubborn. Hilshire couldn't help but wonder how much longer that stubborn attitude will last. He hopes it's there to stay, despite the trouble it will bring him.
"What is your name?" It's less of a question and more of a demand. She wanted to know who he is. For a second, Hilshire debates answering before tossing that thought aside. If they were going to be partners, she should at least know that much.
"My name is Hilshire. From now on, you and I will be fratello. I look forward to working with you, now go get dressed. Clothes are on the chair by the bed." As Hilshire was walking out of his room, he made a promise to himself. He promised that, no matter what, he would get Triela through this with as much of her sanity as possible. He had to, for them both.