Their eyes landed on me and I flinched like they had slapped me; I am no good at attention. My sword slowly falls and my free hand covers my stomach self consciously even though everything told me not to. Everything within me said to stand up for myself and look proud.

I used to be able to look proud. I remember riding to school on Gunner, a beautiful buckskin quarter horse just short of fifteen hands. We had a stunning hand woven halter that fit neatly on his face; I could ride him all day long. Every day no matter the weatherâ€"perfect as we always wereâ€"would ride to school. He would prance as we got close to the building, and my long brown locks would slap my back with the movement and my pearly whites would flash with joy; some of it staged, most of it real. I remember all the older boys would lift up their hats and drop their ball just to see what all the ruckus about. I remember watching most of their jaws slowly drop, realizing not only was this fine bred stallion prancing up like some royal but an attractive female perched on top. I never got old of that feelingâ€"untouchable.

It would all be nice until my sister would stride up behind me on her palomino, two hands taller than Gunner. Her blonde hair would be tied up in some fancy way because mom always enjoyed doing it. Her blue eyesâ€"piercingâ€"would sparkle. She didn't even have to smile for the boys to drift their gaze to her. I was the older sister of Esmy, the less beautiful one. She would get the numbers, and I would get numbers with strict orders of passing them on to her. I remember lurking in her shadow regardless of the age difference, crossing my chest protectively and bowing my head to insist my hair cover my disappointment. I felt the same now as I did then; unimportant.

His comment... the older one... it confirms my thought.

Most girls may have leftâ€"something deep within my chest wanted toâ€"but my mind, my mind was another sort. Stand up goddamn it. You never stand up to anyone, not before, not during, not even after the change. You constantly wallow in some pretend sorrow you have just because your sister had blue eyes. Well guess what, half the world fucking does so you better get your head out of the shadows and own up to having striking brown eyes. Flutter your eyelashes, flutter them! Thank the Lord you know how to do that. Now, hold your hand upâ€"that's it. No, not frigid and weak; strong like the woman you have grown to be. Good, now speak. Speak girl, speak.

"You can't even pretend to not notice me, especially after your acknowledge my existence by glancing over. Plus, your friend isn't too great at playing along either," I gesture to his eyes by meeting them myself, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. It was a miracle that they couldn't hear me; listen to me struggle to even squeak a hello. I carefully peel strands of brown hair from my sight to give me a full look, "Bella." Which isn't a lie... Cyanide is a secret.

I wish they had just kept my name. I didn't understand the whole point of that ritual, changing my name to something toxic and mouth filling. The name was so long and bold that it was hard to even answer to. They tried calling me that for three days before shortening it to Sye, and even then it never truly fit. After escaping, I just went by my original name. The name my mother christened me and Jesus knew me by (not that he was really keeping up with me anymore). And in some ways, that name had kept me under the radar of those treacherous beings for quite sometime. Cyanide was far too original and odd, but Bella was slightly more common. Maybe not in this century, but still.

"Don't you remember the person who saved the entire movie was a female? And yet you underestimate me by playing invisible games?" She is a little baffled the older one can hop from singing Mulan to pretty much contradicting the whole basis of the movie. Women kick ass, and men merely kick... things. "Mr. Disney would be disappointed in your hypocrisy."

Part of me hopes he hasn't caught on to my old accented tone that rings off my tongue. Unfortunately being born in an older era has plagued me with a distant accent that was lost over time. I pronounce every syllable in an odd piano noted voice that would suite an orchestra better than a conversation.

Stop downgrading yourself over vocal issues.

Right, right. I am sorry.