DISTRICT ONE // tarquin aemilius rex [fin]

He's gone again, slipped through the fluttering curtains of our window hours ago with a triumphant smirk and a wink, receiving nothing but a blank stare in response long after he's gone missing for the night. It's always the same, his brown hair flopping in his face as he sneaks out into the darkness of the night and seeks the company of the lost souls of our district and his chocolate eyes sparkling with the shimmer of the stars. It's been this way for years, my hand having long since left his as he let himself be enraptured by the night. My feet are no longer the ones that accompany him on his twilight returns, body weary as he crawls back in through the portal to our own little world. I haven't been the one to accompany him on his escapades for yours, my heart having long since given up on living as he has, fluid and graceful and there in an instant and whisked off in the next. There's a grace in his step, as subtle as a summer wind but just as soothing. I've always noticed it, especially in comparison to my own static movement. I never change, staying grounded and rooted with the earth as he sparks up a maelstrom of fire and brimstone. I'll never be as he is, whirling through the world with a devil-may-care attitude and a passion for life. Oh, how I wish I could.

It wasn't always like this, my eyes straining to catch my mirrored reflection's shadow as he takes off into the night. It's gone within moments, my eyes turning instead to the reflective glass before me, hand extending to trace the picture of his face. The slim nose sits center, blending in with pale skin and washed out eyes of dull brown. Pale, thin lips are drawn into a harsh line of distaste, carefully hidden straight teeth sitting just beyond sight. I itch to gnaw at my lower lip, my entire body taut with tension as I shove myself away from the mirror forcefully. The dresser rocks and the circular glass falls, shattering across the floor and stinging at my feet as I stand. There is silence then, though I'm not sure if I should appreciate the privacy or despise the solitude. It seems as if I am always alone as of late, whether I be curled around the characters of books or the characters of life with my hands fisted in the sheets in desperation and deprivation. I am oh so tired of my hand being empty. The long, slender fingers curl in on themselves as I pull myself away from my shattered reflection, my eyes catching for just a moment on the bloodied figure below me. He is everything I am and am not, everything I want to be and fear becoming.

The pain in my heels are sharp, but I pay them no mind as I twist my skinny frame into the sheets of his bed, trying to control the anger that has been building up for so long. I've never been able to release it, not on my own. I can't train away my feelings like the rest of my family can, can't picture those that have wronged me as my targets and let my darkest wishes come true. I have to keep my control, lest I become the volatile monster that I always see in my reflection. I can't let myself go as the rest of my family does, not when I so fear what lies just beyond that unspoken boundary. There is so much I could do, so much I could become, especially with the attention I would surely receive. I could be great, you know, and anger would help me on my way to greatness, there's nothing no doubt about that, no... but I can't. I've tried, tried to let go of my boundaries and will and just be as violent as the Victors of the past, by my heart isn't in it. There's really only ever been one thing my heart has been in.

Ever since I was little, it was always me and Ty. Tyrannus was my twin, my reflection, everything I was and wasn't wrapped up into one complete package. We were perfectly in tune, our words and actions so similar that we could go through a day pretending to be the other and not get found out. His spiteful nature was the opposite and equal force to my more demure nature. That's not to say I didn't have my moments either. I did. Sometimes, when I was younger, I would get so furious that I couldn't hold myself back, lashing out at my siblings and torturing them with my words and actions. More often than not, momma thought that it was Ty despite my pleading and hit him anyway. Once, she hit him so hard that I don't think he even felt it, his eyes wide and glassy as the blow landed hard across his face. He wouldn't come out of his tree for two days, not even for me. I had climbed up to see him several times, nursing the swelling purple bruise on his cheek and bringing him food to last the day. When he came down, we pretended it didn't happen as we walked back inside, right past the Gogo and her stupid little diary. I slapped it out of her hand as she made a comment. Ty got hit again later that night. I tried to pretend nothing was wrong when he crawled into my bed that night and spooned against my back, breathing going soft quickly as our hands lay laced together against my chest.

We became routine, then again, we always were. More like some of our habits became more routine. Late at night, he would slip in behind me and hold me close as if I were a lifeline. I would cling back just as fiercely only to wake up to open arms the next morning as Low and Gogo would come sprinting into the room and demanding we get ready. We'd eat, we'd train, we'd sleep. Everything was like clockwork, right until Ty started sneaking out late at night to enjoy local haunts. Then, everything felt backwards. He'd come in just before we'd have to leave for training, a quick smirk and his hand in mine the only thing that made me feel as if he hadn't swept me off in his tornado in the morning, the only thing that seemed to ground me. I so longed for the comfort of the earth again. He threw me into the air with his every action and I was so tired of trying to spot my landing before I fell.

I have trouble with adapting, it seems. I can deal with changing food and switching what books I read, but my routine has always been my routine. It has been stable and static and I quite liked it that way. I would wake up, shove Ty awake, shower, stare at my gaunt reflection in the mirror, comb my hair back and neatly part it, brush my teeth. Then, I'd leave the bathroom and change, prod at Ty to get up again, kick him when he didn't respond, laugh when he'd pull me down to curl against my warmth again. That would last all of ten minutes before he'd be pouncing about the room to get ready, our feet in sync moments later as we walked down the stairs hand in hand. We'd eat and then train for hours upon hours upon hours, only taking breaks when the trainers thought we would literally keel over if we didn't take a drink. then we'd train some more and go home and do some school work and then we'd go to sleep. Then Ty threw a wrench in my schedule by going out late, getting ready earlier, and doing different training exercises. I felt as if I'd been punched in the gut, pushed out of a plan I'd been so used to for so long. The trainers focused on Ty more, with his rage and ruthlessness. I was left to fend for myself a bit more, my schedule freeing up to let me read a book more a week, study an hour more a night, breathe a minute more a day.

My gut twists just thinking about it, how many hours I'd gotten to spend Ty training extra. My reflection was powerful and sharp, every movement smoking his unstoppable fire into a blaze that I could hardly stand to look at. I don't know what he is, but he can't be human. He can't be human as he strikes blow after blow on his sparring partner without remorse, when he rips into Gogo's heart with his hateful remarks, when he fuck up everything in the house with another one of his stupid pranks. I hate everything that he is with every fiber of my being. He is fire and air, the combination of two fluid elements that spurs into existence a flare of heat and malice that I've never seen. I am earth and water, grounded and safe but powerful in my own way. Where he burns, I soothe. Where he rushes, I stand still. He is my opposite, but I am terrified that he is my future. He is everything that I am, everything that I wish to be, everything that I disallow. Every moment near him feels as if his inky blackness is sinking into my skin. He'll prod and prod at my stoic disposition with his unmatchable nerve until I break, shatter just like the mirror that lies at the foot of my bed and embedded in my heels.

He returns in the early hours of the morning, as per usual. The sun is just coming up, bathing him in a crimson fire as he slips back inside and takes a curious glance at the shards of reflective glass around him, the pieces cracking under his shoes. His eyes flutter to me then, questioning and determined, willing to do whatever it takes to make me talk. I simply flip over, feet sticking to the bedspread with a mixture of caught threads and dried blood. It takes only a moment for his hands to start working, picking at my wounds with care until I am free of the filthy reflection of what I am, free of the blood splattered across the bottoms of my feet. Then, he is behind me again, holding me close just as he always did and whispering good mornings in my ear. And in that moment, I don't quite mind being his reflection as I turn around, limbs tied together as we linger in the last few moments of piece before training. In all honesty, I never do. Why? I suppose I can't run from who I am after all.