Disclaimer: I do not own anything but my OC.

Warnings: Violence. Deaths.

CRYING WOLF
by: Riseha

Chapter 7

Once

i.

I had a little sister once.

She's handed to me when she's still a squirming and annoying infant in my arms, fighting to see her twin who she had a connection since their conception.

I am to take care of them, helping Mother, but when they can talk and walk and do everything on their own, she left them in my care. I am assigned to teach them to be assassins.

Thank you, she says, licking the dry blood of her cherry-colored lips, one evening when I freed her from the torture chamber. I blink languidly, unable to recall doing anything that would garner her gratefulness. She continue, thank you for taking care of me, but I think I can do this myself now, I can do everything—

Ria, I say, interrupting her and silencing her efficiently. Did you know, I tap my neck, a particular vein throbbing there, that if you hit a man's neck here, it'll kill him instantly?

No, she says, blinking. Then she smiles shyly. Teach me, I want to be like you.

Then you'll still come here to me, yes?

She nods. Yeah, I want to learn.

And I let her go.

ii.

I had a big sister once.

I don't remember much about her because when she died, I'm still very, very young.

I may be young, but I know the concept of death.

It means that she's never coming back; when I learn this, I join my big brother in crying.

Now, I can barely remember sister's face without the help of the photograph. It's faded and yellowed and worn, it's in my room, on my shelf. It gleams and sparkles because I clean the frame everyday, as I trace the faces within the photograph.

All my brothers are here, but my sister isn't.

She teaches me things, she taught me how to write and read and what I should live by, things I must have in my life or else there'll be no meaning in my existence.

Find someone to love; never let them go.

Find someone to protect; never let them down.

Find someone to die for; never let them feel insecure.

When I recall her words, I recall her face when she speaks, I wonder if she has experienced those feelings: being disappointed when the person she loves and protects never comes for her.

I'm going to bring her back someday, and I promise myself and my brothers who I know are missing her, that I'll never let her go, let her down or ever feel insecure again.

I'm still five, and I'm still that hopelessly optimistic boy who thinks that as long as I have power, I can bring my family back together.

I need to bring my brothers back, I need to get my brothers out, I need to find my sister.

iii.

I had an older sister once.

I remember clearly, every contour of her face, the slope of her nose and how her eyes twinkle brightly even in the dark, dark room.

I remember her to be a very, very quiet girl who only speaks when she needs to, or when she thinks what she has to say is important. She hates wasting her breath, and I know that, but she never hesitates to speak to me and comfort me when I have a nightmare, whispering meaningless nothings that budding assassins shouldn't need.

She's never scared of nightmares, because her powers are that: nightmares of hellish illusions. She takes comfort in nightmares I know.

But I'm different from her.

I always have dreams about that other me, and the place where he comes from.

Somewhere wrong, dark and empty. I can feel him too, his sadness and his love for sister and brother, the only people who cares about me, about us.

They always have our special treatment.

He has bad dreams too, I have them too, but that's okay, brother and sister always chase them away.

Brother will comfort us with words and promises to beat down every threat confronting us, but Sister will just prop herself on her elbows, tired and irritated, as she gazes at us, miffed that she's losing precious sleep.

But despite whatever grumblings she has, she never goes back to sleep. And sometimes, when she thinks I'm asleep, I will feel her smoothing down my hair.

And sometimes, when she sleeps soundly, I will do the same.

iv.

I had a baby sister once.

She's annoying at times, but most of the time, I appreciate her presence in my dark room.

I hate leaving the house and my room, I hate it.

Because whenever I leave my safehouse, I will be forced under their stares, disdainful and disappointed and gauging as if I was born to please them and live up to their expectations.

She knows what I think from snooping about in my diary.

I'm furious, because if she knows how much of a coward I am, how I shy away and avoid all my problems together instead of solving them, she'll leave too.

I'm waiting, anytime now, she'll say a cruel word, anything to make me feel as low as dirt, I'm still waiting for her to become one of them.

But she doesn't say anything, merely passes me the book and resumes her seat by my dresser. I notice how small she is, how her feet don't even come close to reaching the ground.

Seeing her so frail form, I can easily imagine her death; her colors of blue, white and gold, disappearing to be tainted by red.

It makes me want to lock her in my room with me, forever, then my favorite person won't die and I'll have someone there who won't judge me.

Aren't you scared of dying? I ask one day, when we're munching on snacks I've managed to smuggle in.

Little Ria, still four, stares up at me with wide and old eyes. Yes, I'm scared shitless whenever I think about it. That's why I train and continue on, so I won't die.

You can quit all together, like me.

She's silent, as if seriously contemplating my suggestion and for a moment, I think she will take me up on my suggestion. But she shakes her head. No, she says firmly, quietly, reluctantly, as if she wants nothing more than to agree with me. I have to do this, it's my duty.

There's guilt in her eyes, as if she owes us something.

Why?

It's silly.

You can tell me.

But she doesn't.

But at night, when she dozes off on my large bed, I think I can hear her whispered answer.

I don't hear it properly, and even now, as I type away on my computer, I'm waiting for the ghost behind me to whisper the answer again.

When the ghost does speak again, I promise not to mishear again.

v.

I had a pretty sister once.

She's always by my side, quiet and supporting, like a wraith or a spectator. She may seem to be contented, but I know her best and I can feel her jealousy, darkness, hatred and anger.

I can never be sure who it's directed to.

Always, when I feel it, I will slip my hand into hers and hope it's not me.

When she squeezes back, a reassuring gesture, I can confidently tell myself that she doesn't hate me.

I can barely recall moments, waking or sleeping, where her hand isn't in mind (or is it the other way around).

Hand in hand, we do everything together; we talk about a great many things, dreams, ambitions and our likes and dislikes.

But, everything we talk about, it's all about me; my dreams, my likes, dislikes, wishes and ambitions.

But she never tells me her dreams, she just holds my hand tight, silent as ever, and smile when she's supposed to be crying.

She doesn't say it out loud, but I know why she never tells me about her dreams: it's not like she'll live long enough to experience half the things she wants to do anyway.

I hate that she thinks all my dreams, visions, and hopes for the future are hers.

Doesn't she trust me?

Does she really think I will kill her because of some petty legend?

I don't know the answer; just as I don't know which one of us reached out for the other first in our sleep. When we're awake, I can count the number of times she reaches out for me and the time I grasp her hand tightly for confidence.

I don't know about our sleeping moments, just that, every morning I came to, I see our joined hands.

Now, when she's no longer by my side, no longer does her heartbeat lulls me to sleep or for her breath to warm my skin, I finally realize who reaches out for the other twin in sleep.

It's me.

I realize this when, one morning without her, I wake to find my arm grasping for someone who's no longer there.

vi.

There existed a girl once.

She has eyes like the setting sun, just like Mother, and her hair's the color of the night sky. I know my colors well, I know her colors too. I also know she bleeds red blood and cries white-blue tears.

But one color I don't know about her is her heart. I think it's grey—because she's not pure, she's not entirely darkness either; she's a girl tainted by our deeds and teachings, but she still has her own morals and ideas.

I wish, sometimes, I can hear her say them out loud.

Because then, I'll be able to mold her better. Not that it matters now, she's no longer here.

Her colors remain, I see them almost everywhere I go—red, blue, black, grey.

And then, finally, a burst of white.

The white of her cheeks and skin as blood stops pumping, the white of her too wide eyes, the white of her unshed tears.

There's so much white where blood's supposed to be staining the white sheets she's lying on.

Like this is some sort of suicide, this is murder, I know.

I wonder if she'll speak again, and tell us who took away all her colors, leaving her nothing but this white, formless and sad thing within our memories.

vii.

I held her once.

She's small, weak, frail and so breakable. I don't think it's hard at all to snap her neck and it'll definitely be easy to see her eyes roll back into her head as she slumps listlessly.

She thinks I'm safe, and that I will protect her.

I think, on some level, I will.

Sometimes, when she's feeling brave, she'll slip her small hands into mine.

Sometimes, when I'm feeling lenient, I'll let it slip and pretend that her hand isn't in mine.

Sometimes, when she's confident enough, she'll walk closer to me.

Sometimes, when I'm feeling gentle, I'll rub her knuckles with my fingers.

Sometimes, when she's tired, she'll wrap her arms around me and let me drag her to her room.

Sometimes, when I'm human and a big brother, I'll wrap my arms around her and carry her into my arms.

Sometimes, when her guard's down and dazed, she'll whisper those three little words in my ear.

Sometimes, when I'm crazy and weak, I'll whisper the same to her.

Only when I'm walking down the familiar hallways that she always takes, by my side, did I realize that the sometimes I think about is everytime.

I wonder when our sometime will come again.

viii.

I had sister's presence once.

She's not here anymore.

But sometimes, I think I can feel her there, still out there somewhere, breathing.

When I slip into her kimono, kimonos she always wears, I feel a little closer to her, and any moment now, I can fool myself thinking that every shift of the kimono I feel when I move is her gentle caress.

It's too bad the illusion never lasts long.

ix.

I had sister's warmth once.

She's cold and warm all the same, I feel a myriad of emotions and senses when I'm in her arms. She never hugs me willingly, but she doesn't push me away either. I'm always the one to initiate the hug, and I'm very glad she doesn't pushes me away.

I know very well that she's scared of me.

Sometimes, I'm scared of her too.

I'm scared that she'll hate me, abandon me, or treat me the same way everyone does in the house.

Any moment now, I'm waiting for the three dreaded words to come.

I feel guilty, I hate myself, everytime I catch myself thinking that it's good she's no longer here, because then I'd be able to fool myself, like how she always fools her opponents, that she loves me and she never hates me.

I know sister loves me.

She has to.

x.

I realize what my sister can do once.

And she can still do now: make us feel a large, large parts of myself and my brothers, are gone, following her into the void or wherever she is now.

It's too late, it's just simply terrifying to know that, despite the assassin training we've had, we still aren't immune to love.

Sometimes, when the ache becomes unbearable, I will always be reminded of her words:you never realize what you hold dear until you lose them and I regret not telling her what I should've told her a very, very long time ago where I have all the time in the world to tell her that—

Sister, I love you

—but that long, long time ago is gone now.

I'm just waiting for the time to come when I'll join her and then, I know, I'm confident that we'll have an eternity together catching up on things. Times like these, on lonely cold nights, I can feel her there, as if she's still alive and watching me.

But when my time comes, I know the person who'll greet me there will have a fine hair of navy blue, golden-red eyes and a thousand tales at the tip of her tongue to tell me about a world she's in love with.

REQUEST: I want to make this tragedy-feel and angsty, I hope I didn't disappoint, do tell me what you think by reviewing! And remember to check out my oneshots!

QUESTION: Which part (eg. i, iv, ii, v) is your favorite?

REVIEW

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