𝑺𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑺𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒔

Gone

Vanya was seven when he witnessed a murder.

It happened in a succession of events.

One.

Vanya had woke up with a gasp, his shallow breaths invading every crevice of the room, shattering the silence that slumbered so calmly before, his small, shaking fingers clutching the cloth between his fingers, twisting it, destroying the silky material, trying to reach for his sanity.

Trying to bring back himself.

For a while, the boy had remained fixed in his hunched position like a statue, the sound of his breath reverberating around the room once, twice, then gone. His glassy eyes focused dimly on his luminous, yellow door as he raised his head, following the trail of light that spilled from the landing into the edges of his room.

Mirthless.

His room was mirthless.

Breathe, he told himself.

Breathe before you start to question yourself again.

Why have you been laughing for so many years?

Breathe.

Why did you even try?

Breathe.

Why are you alive alive?

His breath caught for a moment, interrupting his process of controlling his breathing. He swallowed thickly, wiping a tear that rolled from his eye.

Why are you here?

Why aren't you normal?

He wanted his mother.

Two.

Slipping from his covers, his sock-clad feet slid over to the door that stood ajar. He stalled for a moment, toying with the idea that he could simply slip back into the covers and pretend everything was fine. Pretend he had was part of the family. Pretend he had something to live for.

By pretending, he could continue to fade as a forgotten page in society's encyclopaedia on perfection, he could float where others could sink, when people pulled him down and told him he was nothing, Vanya could tell them that they were wrong.

Creak.

He froze, a wave of coldness washing over him, the heat seeming to escape him as he reached for the door. His own hand yanked back as it made contact with the wood. No sooner had he done so, an uneven voice seemed to manifest in front of him.

Three.

"What are you doing here?"

Vanya began to tremble, his fingers curling under his badly fitted and oversized shirt. No sooner had he opened his mouth to reply before another, more defiant voice snapped back.

"Why shouldn't I be here? I'm these children's guardian like you."

"No. You aren't, and you shouldn't. And you know that!"

Despite knowing that if a floorboard creaked, then he would be found out, Vanya crept closer to the door, peering out to the sliver of light and taking giving his eyes time to adjust.

Standing in the shade of his door, and leaning against the wall, was a tall man with a wild mane of neon green hair curling over his leisurely folded arms, and a plump round woman facing the man with narrowing violet eyes. It was his private tutor, Ulchi, who taught him how to fight.