run on for a long time :: finch jb

Fuckin' moron.

He got dragged back from the stage by Keepers, head lolling to one side and heels of his raggedy old boots dragging on the floor and all. People just got quiet then, an awkward tension that falls after the reaping - only this time it's littered with fear. Petrified, even though they're all safe for another year. That's the affect Wiz has on people. Manages to disgust them and freak them out all at once - it's a talent. A fun party trick.

But everyone's on edge, the crack of a gun and my brother's head echoing through the air. I break the silence the only way I know how - shoving a bunch of girls out the way and carving a path up the stairs in short yelps and groans.

Bet they won't let him have visitors. Every Keeper for a hundred miles knows my brother, my father no good at his age. Some even join me in the unfortunate predicament of knowing both of them. This last name does nothing good for any of us, ruined upon birth. Uncles used to joke about the Curse of the Finches, that old boy Boone and his one working eye damned us all. I never agreed. I've always thought this curse started long before the 6th Games, he just got the worst of it all. That kid was just like us: born unfortunate.

Born a Finch.

Even if they do let me in he'll probably be unconscious, a purple bruise swelling above his ear. Whiskey got the same curse as Boone, among other things, but this is my curse. Watching him suffer. Being left behind. The thing about suffering is it ain't so bad when you've got someone to suffer with. It was bearable - just. And we pretend we hate each-other, Wiz and I, but deep down I know I'll miss him.

I stop mid-step and it hits me like lightning, Maisy Dupree crying and her sister screaming and a whisper below all the noise.

I could've --

Instead I frown and keep walking down the Justice Building hall, shaking it off. Nah. Ain't no point regretting the past, ain't no point hoping he'll come home, all the odds stacked against us since birth. Better one of us alive than neither. Better I, with half a chance in hell of surviving this shit hole District long enough to watch it burn down from forest fires. Better he killed in there than by a Keeper's bullet. He'll get to leave how he arrived - fighting.

And maybe he'll learn a lesson or two before he kicks it, shithead.

By all accounts they shouldn't have let me in, but Rex -- fucking Rex, we are cursed -- looks me up and down and laughs. Two minutes, I just nod. Whatever. Fuck you. Two minutes of staring at this idiot's shit-eating grin, even while he's knocked the fuck out.

Bet he'll be smiling in his grave. That or scowling.

He surprises me. I surprise him. I can already tell Mom hasn't pitched up, know damn well Dad won't. You look like shit, I say with my eyes and a cross of my arms across my chest. An ice pack is wishful thinking, that shit will stay busted 'til they pretty him up in the Capitol.

I want to punch him. I mean, I always want to punch him - but this time it's visceral. It seems like the right way to go about it, a goodbye fit for our odd sibling dynamic. I beat him up and Rex pulls me off of him and gives me a pat on the back for the effort. I know he wants me to be terrible, I know deep down he wants me to treat him with the gruffness we've learned in the place of love.

But I also know that under the bruised, beat-up, scowling surface he's just like Mom. I've never forgiven him for it, but I know it's true.

Fuck you, I think. Fuck you for leaving me here and fuck this curse for making it so.

So I look at him through glassy eyes sitting there on the old worn couch and stumble forward with a start, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him close into a hug.

Because he's my brother. And because, fuck, I'm going to miss him damn it.