The Girl with No Name (No Name Girl)

She had no name.

She had lived the kind of life where no one had ever bothered to give one to her. A name for a girl like her had seemed so unimportant, silly even.

And so she had no name, but then, she had never been in a situation where she would need one. There had never been a time when someone had wanted to call for her, or mention her in any way. She barely understood the social etiquettes, let alone partook in it.

Like the wind, something you felt or experienced, but didn’t notice at the time, too used to it’s presence. Common, she was something that blended into the many occasions of the day.

She was not an ugly girl, but she was not overly pretty. Plain; her hair was a mucky brown colour and was always pulled back into a long, dishevelled thick braid. Certain strands of her hair couldn’t ever be properly contained, and hung about her face, little wisps before her ears and at her temples. Her jaw too square and masculine, her lips thin, doing nothing to make her strong jaw seem more gentle. Her body was shapeless, made for work as opposed to the feminine figure of most. Her breasts were small, there were no hips to be found and the small rounds of her buttock were hardly noticeable.

She was plain, someone that could easily be looked over on the street.

The only noticeable trait she had, was the intensity in her almond shaped eyes.

They were a brown, but lightened in moments on concentration, which for her was always. It made her eyes striking to look at, but cast downwards as they too often were, they too were easy to miss.

Walking across her small desolate apartment, she stood before her dresser she stared at the old antique wooden box set atop it. It was the only thing that decorated the bare top of the wooden chest of drawers.

Opening the top drawer, she pulled out a small square of paper and a pen. Quickly writing on it, she folded it up and closed the drawer.

With the folded paper clenched in her hand, she ran her fingers along the old, worn wood of the box.

She had seen boxes like this before, it seemed as though it may be a cigar box. But in her heart, she knew it was more than that. It was worn when she found it, she was sure it was something that had been treasured so by the previous owner. She imagined it was a picture box.

At times, when she ran her fingers along the box just so, she would also imagine her life so differently. She would imagine being young, her mother calling her name in a tone that sang from her heart as she made her way up the stairs of their home into her very feminine room. She would sit on the edge of the bed and hand her the box, telling her how special it was.

What a treasure, given to the little girl who had a home, a family and a name.

But that wasn’t her, she reminded herself as she push the little golden clasp open, she barely had a home, she had no family and no one had ever bothered to give her a name.

Pushing the box open, she placed the paper inside and closed it.

Just breathe, she reminded herself. Steady breaths kept her vision unaltered, sharp.

She exhaled.

It was a very different life she led. She was brilliant and had been trained at a very young and impressionable age to be just that. She had a skill very few had, one many wouldn’t dare to acquire.

She looked through the scope.

The longest recorded shot was 1.54 miles, she had on more than one occasion successfully killed at over 2 miles, but she wasn’t one that liked to be recorded, and liked people thinking such things improbable. Having no name helped her in this, but so did being like the wind.

She was a killer, one who worked to even the balance between good and evil. She used to think, when she was younger and still naive enough to believe such things, that doing bad things to bad people in the pursuit of good was in fact good. Life was not black and white, but many shades of greys and hues of different colours.

Yet it was, there were only two judgements; good and evil, and she was the latter.

She was an assassin, and a collector.

A pop went through the air as her finger pressed the trigger and she felt the scales of the universe level for a single moment.

Taking apart her customized sniper rifle, she carefully placed the pieces into a knapsack and shouldered it before pulling the hood of her sweater over her head.

It was an uneventful trip back to her barren apartment, where she placed her bag in the closet, pulled off her sweater and walked to her dresser. Pulling out a piece of paper, she wrote on it and folded it before staring at her treasured box.

Familiar wishes and fantasies flashed through her mind before she slowly opened the box and stared at the countless small pieces of folded papers.

Looking at the square in her hand, she opened it slightly and read the name. Albert Rossi. Tossing it into the box, she closed it and walked away.

She didn’t have a name.

She had lived the kind of life where no one ever bothered to give her one.

And so, she kept a box full of names not given to her, but taken. She had taken them by those undeserving of the things they had and she didn’t, undeserving of life.

Every so often, she would look through that box and try to find a name that fit, but none ever did. Maybe she wasn’t meant to be named.

Breathing evenly, she looked through the scope and caressed the trigger ever so gently.

None of them suited her yet, but the scales of the universe told her to keep looking.

She pulled the trigger, adding yet another name to her picture box.

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