non omnis moriar

In this line of work, people often think they're immortal. As if somehow, those bullets will never hit them. As if somehow, death was a myth invented to scare people, like the boogieman, or the monster in the closet. It isn't real until you face it.

They come in thinking they're invincible. Who knows? Maybe they are.

But I know, I'm not.

There's something about knowing where you came from, remembering who you were, and who you are becoming, that humbles you.

Seven years ago, I came to London, without a father, without a sister, without a home. All I had was my brother's faith, one inch of pride, and a purpose.

People come into this line of work, thinking they will save the world.

Age. Skills. Accuracy rate. As if that defines me.

Courage. Honor. Indestructibility. As if that defines us.

They come thinking, all those hero fantasies and more.

But I know I am anything but invincible. I know, some part deep down, I'm just here to save myself.

I heard there was a secret chord. That David used and it pleased the lord.

Her mother's voice reminded her of freshly fallen snow. Perfect pronunciations, smooth inflections, and of course, disguised under that gentle invitation of warmth only held more bitter cold.

"What is your name?" She would ask, over and over again, her favorite question, "Tell me, sweetheart, what is your name?"

The answer never changed.

Head bowed down to the acceptable position, fingers poised at the exact angle; even at age seven, Isabetta was the master of control.

"Isabetta," she would answer. The answer never changed, "Isabetta Marie Roxebury."

"That's right," her mother's voice would become husky with emotion. Jagged edges sharp and stabbing like knives.

"Isabetta Marie Roxebury," she would repeat over and over again, as if nothing in world pleased her more than the simple syllables of her daughter's name, "Isabetta Marie Roxebury. Queen Isabetta, my darling. You shall be Queen."

It was music to her ears.