Beginning

He found himself at an old orphanage. Wounded, young, alone, and a vampire. Wren grimaced, walking slowly through the empty hallways, grateful that it was cool and dark. He clutched his arm to his side, feeling blood bubble up between his fingers, stain his once-ivory skin. His short silver-blonde hair was mussed, matted with spots of blood.

His breaths were shaky, uneven, blood coloring the sides of his mouth and his teeth. He knew he was injured on the inside, and he knew walking would make it worse.

But he couldn’t stop walking.

He felt he had to.

Like he needed to come across something.

But the spasms of pain were almost unbearable. He had tried to dig the bullet out of his side, but he only resulted in pushing it in further. The blessed metal was burning his insides.

He kept going.

The walls were scorched, the potpourri of burnt wood wafted through the building.

He heard crying.

It made him panic, speed up his already wobbly steps. It sounded like a baby. He ran faster, turning too sharply into a room and slamming against the door frame. He winced and look into the room through one eye, the other closed in pain.

A small baby laid on a forgotten bed, her cries weak, and her small hands clenched. Wren stumbled over to her, quickly wiping the blood off his hands and picking the small baby into his stiff arms. His bones protested against the extra weight, but he held the child close to his, brushing back his short hair, her cries becoming more quiet as she looked through her lashes at Wren’s tired face.

She smiled. Wren smiled too, tears coming to his eyes. He shook silently, tears dropping onto his hands. The baby held up a hand, and Wren gently held it, kissing the small knuckles.

“Hello, my name is Wren,” he whispered, knowing full well the child could probably not understand him. He brushed back some more of her soft white hair, looking at her watery, golden eyes. “I’ll name you Iris, like the flower.” The child laughed, it sounded wonderful to his ears.

She liked it.

“I’ll take care of you from now on.”

Wren walked out of the room, after wrapping Iris in a clean blanket he had found in a closet that wasn’t burned. She had closed her eyes, her mouth parted slightly as she began to fall asleep.

He wished that his phone hadn’t of run out of battery life, he needed a ride so bad. But he didn’t have a lot of money, so getting a taxi was a dream too.

So he took the subway. He sat on the worn leather seats, watching the underground walls pass by through the dirty windows, holding Iris to his chest, keeping her legs and torso covered by the blanket and part of his leather jacket. It was cold, before he got on the heated train he could see his breath in the air.

Iris was asleep.

People looked at Wren oddly, probably wondering why an injured, teenage boy was doing sitting on a subway train with a small baby in his arms. Wren didn’t look up, he merely watched Iris through half-lidded eyes.

He was sore, his back hurt horribly, and he almost groaned in annoyance as the train came to a stop. It meant he had to get up.

Slowly, he stood, and got off the train and made his way to the surface. He made his way to a bar, he knew the woman who owned the bar. She’d help him, or at least give him a chair to sit down at.

The smell of nicotine and alcohol attacked his sense of smell as he walked into the bar, he felt Iris stir against his chest, he felt the confused eyes on him, but he look straight ahead and began climbing the steps up to the apartments above the bar.

“Wren?” A woman stood at the top of the stair case that lead to the second floor, her long black hair hastily tied up.

“Alana, take Iris,” his voice cracked as he held out the child to the woman, the baby passing from shaky, bloodstained hands to soft, welcoming hands.

Wren met the hard stairs.

Alana looked at the small child in her arms, then Wren who laid on the steps, passed out and smiled. This child could prove to be a good thing for Wren.

Wren felt stiff, his entire body screamed with ache and soreness. His torso was covered in bandages and gauze, and he knew that Alana stitched something on his arm up, he could feel the stinging. Leave it to Alana to not use pain-killers. His head throbbed softly, the bandages that were wrapped around his head were a bit tight.

He felt horrible, but all he could think about was: Where is Iris?

Alana walked into the room he was in, sitting down on the end of the bed Wren laid on. Wren looked at the small child in her arms.

“She’s very cute. Iris is her name, isn’t it?” Alana smiled at Wren.

“Yes,” he held his hands out for Iris, the child saw him and smiled, also holding her tiny arms towards him. That made him smile.

Alana carefully handed Iris to Wren, and he slowly leaned back against the mound of pillows behind him, cradling Iris in his sore arms. He rubbed the palm of her right hand, letting her wrap her small fingers around his index finger. She laughed, and he smiled.

Alana silently walked out of the room, smiling, leaving the big brother and little sister in peace.

Age two

The playground was empty. It was seven o’clock in the morning, the sun was just coming up. Wren and Iris were wide awake.

Wren kneeled in front of the small girl in front of him, expertly balancing on the front part of his feet. Iris steadied herself by putting her hands on Wren’s knees, looking at Wren and the blue popsicle he held in his fingers through white curls, her eyes screamed that she wanted some. Wren laughed softly, moving his hand so Iris could take a lick. Her face was all sticky when they finished the cold treat, a small smile set on her lips.

It made Wren laugh again.

“There we go…” He mumbled, wiping the ice cream from her face, pulling her into his arms as he stood up.

She made a face, her thin eyebrows knit together. “W…Wr-Wr…”

It was like her tongue was tripping over her words, Wren tapped her bottom lip and kissed her forehead. “Yes?”

“Wre-Wren…!” She grinned after she said his name.

He grinned too, “Yes! Very good,” He smiled, making her laugh, and gently put his forehead to hers. She reached out and tried to tug on his lip ring. He winced, he just got it the day before. “No, no, don’t tug on that.” He cooed, gently unwrapping her fingers from the ring.

Age six

Because he wasn’t the legal guardian or had enough money to drive her back and forth everyday, Wren couldn’t get Iris into a school. And the whole not living at a house thing. They lived in the top apartment above Alana’s bar, but he didn’t have enough money to legally own it. Alana let him stay, though.

So, Wren began to teach Iris how to read and write by himself.

She knew how to count to fifteen, and could write her own name and Wren’s in large, childish letters.

But you could read them clearly, that Wren was happy about.

Age nine

Wren started smoking and drinking when Iris was eight. He had never gotten drunk with her around, he never got into a fist fight, and never gave her a smoke or a drink.

His back got worse after the car accident when Iris was seven, she wasn’t hurt, but his back was permanently bent an inch forward. Nicotine and alcohol made the pain easier to bear.

The car was trashed, Wren mourned over his poor Mustang for a week before Iris took him to the playground they always went to and made him push her on the swing.

They walked everywhere after that.

Wren was twenty-three then, he had just gotten his hair cut into his soon-to-be-trademark ponytail Mohawk. His silver-blonde hair had grown lighter over the years. By then, he had a total of twenty piercings. Iris only had one, a hoop that both her and Wren had in the right ear.

He promised her that even after those earrings were gone, she’d always be his little sister.

Iris grew to love the smell of Wren’s cigarettes, she felt safe when she smelled it.

And she didn’t talk much, she only really answered questions when Wren asked them. Iris became quiet, only observed instead of asking questions. She didn’t smile as much.

Wren loved her the same anyway, and her rare smiles made it all worthwhile to him.

Age twelve

Wren had a total of twenty-six piercings: ten in each ear (which included industrials), one in each eyebrow, a lip ring, the last three were rods that pierced through the skin on the back of his neck. One for each year he has been alive. He had a intricate, demon wing tattoo on his back, a tiny signature of Iris’ name signed on the end of the wing.

Iris lost her eye in the cross fire of a vampire and werewolf fight. Wren never forgave himself, and was even tempted to kill whoever shot Iris.

She stopped him, saying that she only lost an eye, and that she could be dead instead.

He resolved in just hugging her close for a couple minutes, apologizing over and over again. She hugged him back, her fingers brushing over the tiny, abnormal bump in his spine between his shoulder blades. The exact place where his spine was injured. A vertebrae was permanently out of place. But he could still walk.

A miracle.

That was what she could never forgive herself for doing, if she had never distracted Wren then he would’ve stopped at the red light and they wouldn’t of gotten hit.

But Wren told her not to worry about it, so she never brought it up again.

They weren’t perfect, but they were pretty damn close for a family of two.