I surveyed the wreck that I had known as my home. They had threatened him, but he didn't listen. Now he was just another dead in a world a ruin. It wasn't luck that I had escaped. It was planned from the start. That's why they started the fire as far away from my room as possible. That's why they opened my window, in an attempt to save me.
My brother burned with the flames. I remembered his words that had changed my life so long ago. "Sometimes the only way to forward, is to take a big left turn." I wished that I took the right turn instead.
I closed my fist around the thin wire that was always around my brother's neck. They took the wrong one. They wanted him, not me. They wanted Christophe DeLorne, not Henri DeLorne. "Fuck." I muttered, staring at the ashes.
"Christophe DeLorne?" A voice behind me asked. I found myself turning to face them.
"Oui?" I asked, hating myself for responding.
"Your parents requested that in the event of their deaths, you are to live with a 'Monsieur Simon.'" The man wore a black tuxedo, and tie. He looked at the tattered remains of my clothing with disgust. His jet black hair was brushed back evenly, while my brown hair was as dirty as my remaining pieces of clothing. He was British. I was lucky enough to know both English and French.
"My parents don't know any 'Monsieur Simon.' Zey would 'ave told me if zey deed." Arguing would get me nowhere, and I knew it. I was only six years old. I was lucky. They only wanted Christophe for some reason, and my twin died in the fire. They thought that he was me, and I was him. They would kill me if they knew the truth.
"It was in their will."
"Zey don't 'ave a weell."
"Apparently they do." That was the day that I learned to hate the British. For the first time I mimicked one of my brother's traits. He was the stronger one, mentally and physically. People didn't care what he did, because they were afraid of him.
"Fuckeeng faggot." I snapped at the man. That was the first time that I ever cursed. The man curled his lip in disgust, and grabbed me by the arm. He started to drag me forwards. I struggled, to no avail. He glared at me.
"Little boys do not speak like that to men. Do you understand?"
"Ass'ole!" I muttered, climbed onto both of my feet, and tried to pry his hand off of me. He slapped me across my face. I gasped, and let go of him. My parents never hit me. The only pain that I knew was when other kids in school hit me for fun. Christophe always protected me in times like those. Now he couldn't help me. He was dead.
"I'm supposed to take you to your new guardian. He's waiting around the corner. You are Christophe DeLorne correct?"
"Oui." I bit my lip, and let go of the wire, and let it sink back onto my chest. Christophe's last remaining possession.
"Good, now come." The man terrified me, and reminded me about what Christophe always said about men in suits.
"Zey weell always deceeve you. Ze ass'oles cannot be trusteed. Zey weell betray you ze second zat zey get ze chance." I trusted everything that my brother said. He had always been the smarter one.
"I weell run away!" I warned the suited man. Come to think of it, Christophe had a thing against British people too. I really was imitating him, and taking his identity.
"Try it. I dare you." The man's smile never reached his eyes.
"Fuck you!" I screamed, trying to escape his grip once more.
"You will learn now to address your elders in such a manner." I hated those fucking British bastards.
He dragged me across the corner, while I struggled. I spotted a black limousine across the street, and I barely held in the tears.
They killed my parents.
They destroyed my home.
They kidnapped me.
They killed me.
Christophe DeLorne was all that was left.
And very soon he would be shattered.