1

218 10 3
                                    

There have only been three instances wherein Hazel White did not have an answer to the simple question of 'Who are you?'

More often than not, her responses would be something other than 'Hazel White', sometimes they would be 'Amanda Becker,' other times, 'Mary Hadsworth' and on rare occasion 'Robin Merez', but her answer was not often 'Hazel White, youngest detective'. Because, frankly, it sounded ridiculous. But that was her and she was trained in the way of ridiculousness.

Some found her mystery a challenge, they saw it as a thing to chase after and to learn more of, they wanted to find the answers like she found criminals. Others saw it as an annoyance, a thing that made her seem less of a hard worker, less of a human and instead, more of a novelty. Like a toy in a cereal box. But she was who she was, eighteen and working to solve cold cases on the daily for the sake of sating her boredom.

But, to answer the question of 'who are you?' She could never be sure because she was never certain of who to trust with the mystery. If she were to count the people in the world who knew who she really was, she would barely fill a hand. Four, maybe three, possibly only two if you were to go into the intricacies of what the criteria were for really 'knowing' a person. Was it knowing her name, her face and recounting it or was it knowing the intricacies of a shifting personality?

Rarely, she let anyone know any of these.

When she was asked 'what's your name?' She avoided the question, throwing questions back or if necessary, spouting whatever came to her first. 'What do you do?' She would say 'surviving'. Though, even that was hardly the full truth. She survived, but with no ambition to do so. And when the biggest question of 'Who are you?' came from people's lips, she left entirely. Letting a simple 'nobody' escape moments before she did if the opportunity was there.

But, exceptions were made.

Not without a slither of doubt, of course. But there were times when exceptions were necessary, they were a means to an end.

TweetieWhere stories live. Discover now