1 The Birthday

The world existed for the first time when she was a child of four, her first recollection being smoke, embers, ashes...then faces. Faces which looked like her. Two others that, although she hadn't really seen herself in the mirror just yet, she knew to be a family of hers. She felt it.

And thus she'd reached out to them.

She was in awe of the simple gesture, of having to feel the skin of the her brothers, as she looked at her own fingertips and noticed how dirty they were, marred with soot and stains that she likewise inevitably soiled them both with, worried now as she apologized.

Was it raining? Or were those droplets her tears? She couldn't tell. But the night was dyed in a shade of red, the colour of fire and agony she'd remember forever. There was that low crackle among the detritus in the background, then the sound of it all crashing. The house was actually on fire. Wait. Whose house? What house?

And then she'd only heard his voice saying, "We're alone."

She opened her mismatched eyes: one the shade of rose, the other, an aquamarine. It was the same old city. She'd been acquainted with it since a young girl and she had returned to it time and time again, over the course of at least a few years. Why? Because it was peaceful here. She rather liked the quiet rush here, far from the chaos of traffic and hustle common in other areas. But she felt admittedly lonely.

On days like this when the rain was threatening to fall, prompting the city's dear patrons to seek shelter under their hats and coats and umbrellas, she keeps reliving certain memories. Memories which, for some reason, cut short of details she knew to be important but were robbed from her by something. Ironically, that something likewise eludes her.

Just like her only known secret of a family, both her brothers feeling more and more estranged from her with every day passing.

*

They were six when those men in suits came to take their brother away. See Killian was very special. He could not see with his pale blue and pale red eyes but he could make moving art. Something these people said were a valuable asset, whatever that meant. She didn't understand. But Killan Red seemed to and believed that, beyond his painting, what they were actually after was their twin's other more special ability.

He could see the future.

And to know the future was something people would definitely pay for right?

It didn't sound great to her at all. Because that moment, the three of them had already been separated. Killan Red was trapped in that art collector's house, in some dank vault no one could enter. While Killian she needed to leave at this orphanage because they couldn't take care of him. She was somewhere between the two and acted as a bridge so they had some semblance of communication at least, that way they never lost each other.

She too was special.

She was the only one of them three who can travel the long distances. Annoyingly she cannot bring them both with her. Her unique skill was selfish, and was only kind to her…

Which made her wonder on that day Killian left how far she had to go now? How can she hope to ever fill the gap when Fate seemed to be pushing them further and further away? She cried so much the night before that the blind of them also looked like he was about to sob as well but held it back. She knew he didn't want to sadden her anymore than he was already doing.

"It's going to be fine," Killian assured her, smiling despite his own reservations about the situation. In essence, he had no choice himself. "We'll be fine."

How can he be so sure? He cannot even see their future no matter how he tried. But she just had to trust; that was all they could do. Perhaps this would be for his own good too.

"Someday, we won't need to be away from each other," that was her promise, peeking through the open car window with no intent to say farewell. She will see him later and so entrusted to him one of her most treasured of possessions: a necklace with a small bottle pendant. Inside it contained a small fluttering soul, a butterfly he can use to call her to him.

"Wherever you may be...I will find you…" she kissed his cheeks lovingly, before disappearing as he too vanished with that car into a life uncertain.

*

A deep sigh like she had only started breathing. She woke up as if she'd been daydreaming, somewhat used now to the vividness of her memories when they'd invaded her mornings. And invaded her nights like it was doing now.

Where was she again? Oh right. That old city with a view from where she stood outside the balcony of the flat she kept here. Young Miss Independent that's made a living in the metro as the local midnight VJ for this radio station, admittedly having to fake some papers since she never really had any to begin with. She was a wraith, an existence whose origins are unknown even to herself.

"I have around six hours left until my shift. What to do now…?"

She couldn't sleep. She didn't want to on account of unpleasant dreams so, like what she always did at times, she engaged in a bit of people watching.

Little did anyone know, but she could tell when someone was about to breathe their last. How that was even possible, she didn't even understand completely, but she could see them stained a certain colour, like a motion picture of old, they would appear a shade paler than anyone else around them.

At the moment, she was looking at a finely dressed man across the street. There he was having dinner alfresco with a few acquaintances. Rather boisterous person, a people-pleaser. Rather a glutton too, forking down as much meat as he could. That should be his last.

At least he'll die with a full belly.

*

Her humour was utterly macabre that it was eccentric at times. And she'd been told once that, for a girl with such a pretty face, she could do with being less morbid. Yet who cared? Her life was too closely associated with death that it was normal. Seeing death happen before her heterochromatic eyes, commonplace. Like how she was now about to witness someone's murder, trailing that man she earlier noticed.

Human life is so utterly short, and people value it in so many different ways. She shares none such unless it involved her own or those of her siblings. Because in the end, she feels as if theirs had always been shorter. She doubts if she was ever born in the first place.

Strange isn't it?

*

Walking barefoot under a light drizzle in nothing but this flimsy lingerie felt nice. Close to erotic how she was getting soaked by the building rain only little by little. She was a tad careless in her dress choices, but that really didn't matter if one could make it from here to her bathtub in less than a second. She could walk around naked if she wanted, which she'd already done by the way.

Not for right now. She was busy trailing that man from earlier. His colour was getting paler by the second even as he was so lively walking towards his car parked down an alley.

"Soon…" she was counting down his minutes, doing a sensual little dance to a reggaeton stuck in her head. She wants to play it as her first song later during work maybe? It was so catchy.

As she heard his screams echo in the dark with rain suddenly pouring down upon this part of the city full force. It drenched her body, just as easily as it had drowned his pleas for mercy.

Too late.

She had again witnessed a murder. But she wasn't bothering with the cops. It was a moment that was likewise part of life. To live, to die. The endless cycle. She did want a closer look.

In a blink, she fell into utter darkness only to feel her feet step out and into puddle. Filthy gutters and a filthy man now lying prostrate there as the rain attempted to wash away his blood down the sewers. He had the expression of the dead, eyes still open and mouth agape. His posture was like a crawling worm. Will he rot here or will they find him soon?

Good question and she was making bets in her head. But more than that, she was looking for his soul wherever it had floated to, side-stepping that body with a giggle and her manners, "Excuse me" as she found his essence adrift, confused, just beyond her from the crime scene.

When a person dies, it was either he died prepared or he didn't. The souls of those that belonged in the latter category, they were the ones that lingered. They made the ghosts.

"What was his wrongdoing this time?" she asked a shadow that was not quite a shadow she'd passed by.

Said shadow responded in a cold yet seductive baritone of a voice, "Pedophilia.

"He's a local politician that's raped several boys. Mostly homeless stowaways he invites to his home, plays dress up with before subjecting them to torture while he films. Then he disposes of them in the river."

"I know the background is unimportant to you, unless it's a Client Call," she smiled.

"It is a Client Call...and a personal pleasure," he smiled in return, watching her pull a sizable enough jar from a dark area to the side of her while combing the fingers of her other hand through wet raven tresses. The rain was not letting up, but they could still manage the conversation.

"Right," she giggled. "I'm no fan of that sort of deviant either."

She popped the lid off the jar. To the sound of the rain -pit-pat-pit-pat- she materialized a very thin, crucifix-shaped dagger in her other hand, its thin, nearly gossamer chain blown about her by an unseen wind. This, her so-called Soul Blade, she used to slash that ghost with, preparing to consecrate it forever into the bottle.

*

Never flirt with death, they say. Never let it cavort with you. But this here was the perfect example of just how amusing it was to play courtesan with disaster and actually win its unquestionable favours.

She looked him up then down, him technically doing the same, but noting how she'd been only clad in but a very simple nightgown. It did hug her curves and the rain only made her all the more beautiful. Too beautiful in fact that he was jealous anyone would see.

He took off his cloak then, and threw it around her form, hiding her under the fluid fabric as he took her into his arms. They were still at the crime scene and were not about to leave just yet. He wanted the opportunity to kiss her lips here then to stare into her oddly-shaded eyes.

"Happy birthday, my butterfly," were his words.

"You're six hours early," she nuzzled, feeling the ripple of his muscles under the leather of his clothes. Mythical assassins and their darkness. She was drawn to his appeal really, looking more like the flower to his black.

"I figured we'd celebrate early. Is there anything you want?"

Good question. She was a spoilt gal and the being here was more or less indulging of her fancies. But he knows what she truly desires was something he cannot provide.

"Surprise me," was her simple request. "You always tend to every year, right?"