That was what they'd called her. It was their attempt to call her things she couldn't understand, except they'd trained her to learn too well. The moment she'd heard the word, the moment she hadn't recognized it, she ran for the library dictionaries. She hadn't liked what she'd read there either.
Characterized by or subject to whim; impulsive and unpredictable.
They were trying to tell her father she was a risk. A uncontrobable factor. Wasn't that so pot-kettle? They'd called him that for years, too. And yet he was one of the most dependable and most loyal of the entire lot
Letting her fingers follow the angry red edges of tattoo lines on her hip, she stared up at the sky and had thought about that word for hours. She liked the way it sounded on her tongue. Without it's mean connotation, it sounded almost regal to her ears, almost like a spray of water breaking upon a breeze.
But she wasn't thirteen years old anymore, sitting on her house rooftop, fingering her newest thrill and their newest disappointment waiting for Patric to come sweep her into his arms and make everything else disappear. In fact she was very far from thirteen now, she hadn't seen the house in almost the exact same amount of time, and her name tattoo was actually in need of another touch up due to the wondrousness of her body centralization.
Oh, yeah. And there was of course the body lying on the floor slowly suffocating in it's own blood, while she sat in the window box patiently waiting.
The stars still were the same though. Wasn't that the funny thing? In innocence and evil the stars were still the same.
The blood stains were already fading from her hands, the soft blue glow around them casting delicate shadows around her as the blue slowly surged up her body under her release of it. She would have looked like a blue light of some kind if anyone looked toward the window she sat in. But no one would.
No cared for this man. Accept those he paid to love him.
And they were already dead downstairs, too.
Watching the last shooting star fall from a meteor show she hadn't known was going to take place till riffling the dead mans desk, she wondered what she had to wish for.
She was wealthy. She was near invulnerable (but only near). She was independent. She didn't long for love or sex. She owned everything she wanted even if she only wanted it till it was hers. She was outstandingly beautiful and she knew it, though whether she liked it was constantly in debate. She could kill at the drop of a hat as habit and training demanded, without thinking, without feeling, without needing or regretting.
So what to wish for?
She wished she was capricious again.
Thirteen and capricious, before all the big events that would mold and twist her took place. Thirteen and capricious, still looking for something to bring her mother back to her. Thirteen and capricious, when Patric was still someone she saw daily. Thirteen and capricious at a time when she might have still been saved if someone had worked a little harder....
...and called her a few less big words to hide it behind.