The 6

1

"Your brother's here to see you." her voice was masculine and curt. But it was one I knew well. "Yes Ms Balun."
I stay on my bed for a few seconds, listening to her heavy footfall on the corridor outside before getting up. She hadn't meant my brother. My brother was dead. It was probably Skip. We looked so similar that people believed he was my brother. Plus, it was the only way I was allowed to see him. I tug my standard issue dressing gown on over my standard issue pyjamas and slip my cold feet into a pair of flimsy slippers. It was all white. Perfect, crystal white. I walk out slowly into the visiting room and pause. Skip isn't there. In fact. The room is perfectly empty. A table sits in the middle with two chairs on either side. A jug of water and paper cups rest on it. The walls are white. I don't sit in the metal, fold up chair. I sit on the floor with my legs crossed. I don't look at the door in which Skip would walk through. I look at the door I've just entered. I didn't want to see anyone today. Not even Skip.

The door opens and footsteps follow, the heavy sound of boots making a racket. Skip sits on the seat and taps his fingers against the table. It was a rhythmic pattern. Tap- tap tap- tap- tap tap tap. The pattern was repeated, over and over again. Still, neither of us speak. Two minutes this tapping went on for. Two minutes I sit perfectly still, in perfect silence. Two minutes in which I grow more and more frustrated. Suddenly, the taps stop. And silence fell. It's loud. It's very loud. It crashes over me, in waves. I think I prefer the tapping. Finally I can beat it no more. "Was that some kind of cruel joke?" I ask Skip. "Telling her you were my brother." He doesn't reply. That's unlike him. Skip couldn't stay quiet for this long usually. He's too impatient. "Say something then. The suspense is killing me." I roll my eyes, knowing he wouldn't be able to see. "You hair got long." It isn't Skip.

I gasp and spin around, my mouth parting in surprise. My brother was sat behind the table. He was in civilian clothes. I stand slowly. My mouth forms his name but all that comes out is a pained whisper. "You're dead." Slowly, he shakes his head. "No. You're dead. I buried you."
"You buried an empty coffin." He whispers. I don't answer. Then slowly and deliberately he raises his left hand to show a star shaped scar. Identical to the one on the back of my neck. At that's when I knew that he wasn't lying in a cemetery.

I run at him and he stands. We collide in an embrace that was as familiar as his own name. "Winston." I whisper into his neck. "Yes." He whispers back.
"The second we stop hugging, you're getting the biggest slap ever."
"Ok." He sounded resigned. I don't disappoint. One side of his face was red but I feel so bad that I plant a kiss on his cheekbone. "How are you alive?" I whisper, my hand finding his. He smiles. "Knife can't kill me. I'm a cat with 9 lives remember." I rolls my eyes but smile none the less. He hates his name. With a burning passion. "Winston." He would snarl. "I'm not a stupid tabby cat." Ever sine he was young he would grumble about his name. I thinks it's endearing.

I lightly touch his soft black hair with my hand, as if checking it was real. It was identical to mine in colour and texture. "How are you?" I ask quietly, rubbing his cold hands with my warm ones. "Well. And you?" He was speaking with an odd sense of formality. "Well." I mimic, running a long finer along the scar on his palm. "Honestly?" He says dubiously, watching my fingers work. "I thinks it's a bit late for honesty Winston. Don't you?" He winces at the harshness in my voice. "Don't be like that. Not yet. Just, give me a minute to be with you. Then I'll explain." The pain in his voice was evident, so I nod and he pulls me into another tight embrace.

How long we stood like that I don't know. Seconds, minutes, hours. But all to soon the door Winston had walked through opens. An army Major strides into the room. Instantly we spring away from each other, Winston stepping forward and saluting the man. "Sir." He says. The man strides over to me and inspects me from head to toe. I keep my head high and my face neutral. Don't show fear. An odd expression crosses his face, but he quickly masks it. "This is her." He asks Winston. "Yes Sir."
"She's quite young wouldn't you say."
"She's 16 sir."
"Very," he searches for the right word. "Headstrong. I believe that's what you said in your report." doubt about my brother begins to trickle into my head. "Yes. Very."
"But that won't be a problem now. Will it?" His tone was threatening. I look blandly at him, then turn my attention back to Winston.

"Winston. I love you. But this man," I gesture to the major. "He's being rather hostile towards me. I have no hesitation in walking thorough that door and never coming back." It's the truth. "Please. Don't be difficult." His voice was low and irritated. I pull away from his outstretched hand and take a step back. "What's going on?" I ask him, rubbing my hands on my bottoms. Suddenly, the abnormality of the situation stands out to me. "How are you allowed here? How aren't you dead? What's he doing here?" But somehow I knew. Something were just to good to be true.

The syringe was at my neck before I'd realised and Winston was pressing down the plunger, a grim expression on his handsome face. That was the last thing I see before unconsciousness attacks me from all sides