Iris Giorgianni is no ordinary girl. She's living a double life: a neglected daughter at home, but a fighter on the streets. As the leader of The Sangue - one of the most wanted and well-known gangs in London - Iris has a reputation to uphold. Only...
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"The highest stage in moral culture is when we recognise that we ought to control our thoughts."
- Charles Darwin
SOMETHING ABOUT the way in which we hide our true feelings provides an almost irrevocable barrier between us in our lives. An endless sense of discomfort. It's like a deck of cards: 52 faced down, 4 of each number, 13 of each suit. Nobody ever tells you what is in their hand until the very end.
Until you have to.
Really, if you think about it, we are all alone in this world. Sure, we share a living space, a landscape that was built and changed on our grounds, but like the finality and inevitability of our spinning earth, nothing we do changes the fact that our thoughts separate us, and ultimately they leave a deep aching pain for a sense of unity that can never be formed.
Standing in her bedroom, staring at her reflection through the shiny mirror, Iris began to wonder what life would be like without thoughts. In a sense, it would take away any system of individuality. If we all only used speech as a form of communication, and thought nothing of it, then surely, we would all be the same? Surely, we wouldn't really understand what each of us were saying? Surely, without thought, we cannot listen. Because thought allows you to acknowledge others, and we can't acknowledge others if we don't hear what they have to say.
Iris rolled her eyes at the philosophical thinking her brain was beginning to conjure up. She wasn't in the mood to care. All she wanted was to lie on her bed and sleep.
But her friends had other plans.
Alleyway on Adleburgh rd. Now. Bring back up. Received: 22:52pm
Sighing, she sent a quick reply and stuffed her phone in her pocket, gathering her things to make sure she could get there on time. Her black hair flopped over her face, going into her eyes as she lent down to tie her shoe laces. With a growl, she dropped her bag on the floor and turned back to the mirror, facing her own irascible expression.
Iris Angelica Maria Giorgianni was someone who never cared about her looks. Sure, people told her she had perfect olive skin and gorgeous green eyes, but none of that mattered to her. Her features were like a frame permanently adorned in her brain; a family photo to remind her that her parents were always going to be a part of her, whether she liked it or not.
Loosely scraping her hair back into a bun, she averted her gaze elsewhere, not wanting to think about the fact that they were downstairs, having a meeting with one of their clients.
