look at what i'm left with now. lawsons jb.

look at what i'm left with now. lawsons jb. Oct 4, 2021 17:16:24 GMT -5

Post by 🌱 kaitlin. on Oct 4, 2021 17:16:24 GMT -5

The morning is frantic.

But then, they always are, you suppose, and in hindsight it has nothing on the frantic race of your heart when your sister's name gets called and you just—stop breathing. Arms limp at your side, it's like your whole body just stops. All at once, you stop breathing and your blood stops flowing and your eyes don't blink and your jaw doesn't move and your whole body just freezes.

Clenches.

Stops.

Somewhere in the distance, you can feel your mother crying. You can feel Remy trying to rationalize. You can feel Katie start to panic. And you think about each and every single one of them and the ways in which you aren't going to be able to help and you watch a Peacekeeper wrap his arms around your sisters bicep and it's like everything is happening in hyper drive and slow motion all at once. Ginny is up on stage and then she isn't, and all the while it feels like you haven't moved, but at some point you do. You take a step, and then another. You have to. This is what you're good at, what you're made for, you tell yourself over and over and over again. Girl with a mask, girl who can handle anything, girl who could put the world on her shoulders without losing a single step. Your brain switches off and then turns itself back on, tries to reboot and feel the awful things that it wants to feel, but you won't let it. You won't. This calm, you need it. Your mother is the strongest person you know and she's crying and this is what you do, eldest daughter, big sister, girl with too many expectations. You wrap your hand into hers and you go to the Justice Building as a family and you put on your mask and you tell yourself that everything is fine.

It's not, but you're going to fall apart if you tell yourself that, so you pretend. You're going to be fine. You're going to be fine. Everything is going to be fine.

You're the first one through the door, though everyone certainly tries to fight you for it. This is your job, though. Yours. First daughter, first to deal with it, so you storm through that door and don't give the Peacekeeper that's guiding you a second glance even though you know it's rude and not proper and you're going to scold yourself for not being kinder later, you just you can't becauseGinny. There's Ginny. Rotten, heart-filled Ginny with a paintbrush sticking out of the mop of hair you didn't bother with doing this morning because you thought yours was more important. Baby Ginny, no way she was getting reaped. Who cared if a camera landed on her.

You add that to the list of sins to scold yourself for later.

Because there's Ginny. Baby Ginny. Ginny who never knows better. Ginny who you would die for, but whose hair you couldn't be bothered to braid. Ginny who you would die for, but who you can't be bothered to give any attention when it counts. Ginny, curled around herself on the floor, tears streamed down her face.

She tells you to go away and you ignore her flat out, drop your mom's hand and stride right over to Ginny, put both your hands under her armpits and drag her up off the floor instead. "Shut up, Gin," you say into the crook of her neck, wrapping your arms so tightly around her that you think you both might suffocate. "Don't be like that."