Blue is such an interesting color. It can be soft and gentle as the morning mist, barely a color, but there all the same. It could also be deep and powerful, like the ocean waves leaping up to meet the thunder sky, to crash with the strike of lighting.

Or it can be cold, dangerous, full of ice and hate that freeze a person in their tracks. Freeze their heart so all they felt was a deep, shivering cold that spread through their veins, their very bones.

That is the blue I saw that day. I've never felt cold a day in my life, but when her eyes fell on mine, I felt cold.

I also felt at home, so I guess I should say that it wasn't an unwelcome feeling.

She was so tiny, barely the width of my whole arm, with matted blonde hair and a pale, grayish pallor to her skin that was simply unhealthy. But there was so much life in her eyes, those icy blue eyes, that it made you forget that you could snap her in two, that she was weak.

That De'Vroe would destroy everything good within her, so that she would be as dead as she looked on the outside.

I can still hear the shouts of obscenities, the crunch of the boots on the snow, and her simply standing there, surrounded by men who would take everything from her, unflinching, her chin lifted high as she stared up at him.

De'Vroe.

Le Monstre noir.

The dark monster.

I remember him reaching down to grab her cheeks, squeezing so her lips pushed forward and out, exposing her cheeks as she sputtered in his face, splatters of her spit raining on his face.

I remember him hissing and slapping her across the face so hard that she fell to the ground in a tiny heap of skin and bones, the snow barely giving way beneath her weight.

He laughed down at her, ordering a man to take her to orientation, readying himself to kick her to the soldier before he froze in mid-kick.

It was like he was suddenly a statue, even his face remained in its sick and twisted manner, with his eyes frantically scanning around the clearing of the camp, looking for anyone who could be doing this to him, until his eyes landed on her.

She was sitting up no, her nose bleeding, her eyes colder than before, practically white as she stared at him, her face impassive. Impassive as, slowly, De'Vroe's arm slowly started to curl up on itself, the bone snapping and splintering under a pressure that was otherworldly, out of anyone's control.

I remember hearing, yes I do mean hearing, the silent screams from his frozen lips, as his arm rolled back until she, it had to have been her, let go, letting his arm flop forward and his body to collapse to the ground, his scream no longer silent, piercing into the night.

I remember thinking that she would become a psychopath, and when De'Vroe pushed aside his hatred for her, he'd see the perfect weapon.

And she is, indeed, the perfect weapon.

But not the one he wanted her to be.

She was a child, lost in the darkness that stole everything she knew. She was numb to all pain, including her own. She was scared for herself and those around her.

She was darkness and light, power and weakness all wrapped in one body.

And this is her story.

Signed,
Alianna Wilson.