blood must shed for time to reset

chapter 8

   ( The choking, the spluttering, the way we both fall. Our crimson could paint this town in colour. Shame we won't witness such a sight. Our fated demise, printed in the blood and your stars. )

—SEVEN YEARS OLD AND
one day, a little girl sat on the edge of her bed, feet kicking back and forth. The walls around her were smeared in bleak white, and as she stared into their montone hues, did she create art with her mind. Letting the invisible paint dance up and down the room, decorating the place into a kalediscope of vivid colour. This is what she would do every evening, just before lights out. It was her own source of rebellion against Praesidium, for they could steal her time, and her youth, but they couldn't steal her mind.

That wasn't up for purloining. That would never be up for purloining.

In the wake of her imagination did she create something beautiful, something that broke through the restrictions of her home, and provided hope. Youthful hope that would soon wither and die, just to be reborn — all in good time.

Then darkness caved over Circe's eyesight, swallowing her into the obsidian texture of night. She would later use this murk to her advantage, slipping into the shadows and catching the evening talks of higher officials, albeit at this age, all she could do was lay there, counting sheep and stars until insomnia broke.

A little girl tossed onto her side, duvet wrapped tight around her fragile body, and cried. It hadn't happened in so long, so when it arrived, even she was shocked. Circe couldn't identify this sadness, and she supposed it was just the average type that comes and goes as it pleases. She liked that, for it meant nothing was wrong with her, and she was no more human than the people around her.

The black around her was a pool, and she was drowning. Breath stifling, eyes watering, statically begging. But begging for what? That she did not know, for the youth inside her didn't understand why she was so trapped. It was confusing for a little girl. It was all very confusing.

When morning finally woke, Circe still remained in a dreamless sleep. Well, that was until a figure sunk into the side of her bed. Philomena, doused in stainless white, stayed sitting until the Einar had no choice but to rise. "There you are." she said, her tone razor sharp. "Thought i'd have to wake you myself."

The girl swallowed, shifting herself up. "Why are you in my room?"

"I have every right to be here." the lady retorted, a little bitter to be talking to a child. "...It's time."

"Time for what?"

"Don't act stupid, you might be a kid, but you sure aren't dumb. It's time you show us what you're worth."

"I have to fight. Now?"

"Just like we trained you." Philomena spat. "Mateo was tested last night."

"Is he okay? Did he—"

Philomena rolled her eyes, "Yes, he survived. Though he wasn't perfect, far from average."

The organisation seemed to forget they'd groomed minors into this position. Minors who were expected to take on adults.

"Can I see him?"

The woman softened for a second, "Fine. You have an hour, then I'm coming for you. It's time Circe, time you started to truly train. This is what you were made for, and if you fail to meet these expectations, we can always make new children."

The drilling reminder, constant and sharp. Little girls were supposed to dream, and dance and imagine futures that were highly impossible. They weren't supposed to be guns, or monsters, or anything but children. At seven, Circe was nothing more than a prop — a firing weapon.