a beast with an orderly heart : klaus & marina

The afternoon moves slowly, as though time is resting, exhausted by the busy lives of the entire District. Daisy and I trace familiar steps, sitting in the armchair together and reading book after book, until the pile on the floor is taller than she. Outside, the rain pours down, a constant and heavy pounding on the windowpane. Predictably, my daughter begs to be let out play. I frown through the glass and squint into the darkness; winter is fading already, and yet the gloom that haunts the final months of the year has yet to lift. For a moment I pause, about to insist that she stays beside the fire and tends to her teddy bears. It's then that I remember a morning many years ago when I sat with a pack of cards at the table with Jamarion tugging at my sleeve.

"Come on," he pleads, and yet concealed in his tone lies a threat I knew all too well. Just seven years old, I hesitated and glanced outside. It wasn't that I disliked the rain. I found it soothing and gentle, as though each falling raindrop carried with it a calm that could only be found when one is curled up in blankets and holding a warm mug of hot chocolate. I glanced down at the cup in my hands, biting my lip. Steam rose high into the air, for we couldn't afford to heat the house that year. "Klaus," he says again. What he really means is 'I wont ask you again'. I stood, pulled on my boots, and followed him into the garden. Part of me likes to remember the day as one where I emerged shaking and cold to my very core, wishing against wish that I'd stayed inside. That part of me likes to be right. In truth, we played for hours outside, feeling the water splash on our exposed skin and run in rivers down our cheeks. When we finally arrived on the doorstep once more, I was grinning, having spent the day being dragged along through a world I was unfamiliar with. Our father scolded us, and we exchanged glances and hidden smiles. That was one of the few times that I felt as though I was worthy of my brothers time.

With the memory glowing with nostalgia in my mind, I turn to Daisy. I raise my eyebrows and beam at her, and lower my voice to a whisper. "We can go out, if you want to," I tell her, and her entire face lights up. She babbles happily to me and claps her hands together in glee as I tug on her mittens, rain boots, coat, scarf and hat. And then, hand in hand, we face the weather like fearless children. My daughter, just like Jamarion was, is completely unperturbed by the relentless shower; unlike me at that age, she is strong and brave, giggling as she splashes in puddle after puddle. I admire her for this, and thank every God I know that she is growing up far more brilliant of a human being than I ever was. At three years and two months old, Daisy Ripley Goravich-Darling is better than I ever was.

I watch her dance to and fro, the kind of shameless only a child can be. She puts her hands on her hips and prances about, all the while shrieking at me to watch her. (As though I am ever not watching her, trailing her with my eyes and my heart, thinking all the while about how one day I'll have to let her go, and how the man I am now is so lucky to have her to hold onto. I count the years until I'll have no choice, and pity the Klaus that will have to say goodbye, in one way or another.) "Daddy! Chase me!" she screams, and I oblige willingly, following her about the garden in a mock-run until I am out of breath. Finally, I catch up to her and pull her into my arms, bundling her soaking body close to mine and breathing into her soggy curls, "Caught you!"

With that, she's off again, filled with the kind of life I can't be sure I've seen anyone possess before. She halts at the foot of a tree. It's much smaller than the ancient oak that lived in my old garden - the one I was terrified of climbing, the one my siblings forced me up all the same. I hesitate, remembering the way my stomach would drop when I looked down and my entire body would freeze as though suddenly encased in concrete. I don't want Daisy to ever feel this way. And yet she jumps, trying to grasp the lowest branch in her greedy fingers. "Can't reach!" she calls, ready for me to fix her every problem. 

Obligingly, I move toward her, still afraid to let her climb. It seems like just days ago that she was an infant - all chubby cheeks and fine, baby hair. Then, she smelled like talcum powder and and slept as though nothing was capable of waking her. Now, she is undoubtedly no longer a baby. Independence runs freely in her veins. This, I know, is a trait she never could have inherited from me. My mind wanders to her mother - and the photo I still have not shown her, enclosed in the photo album beside the very first image I saw of Daisy. Lethe took that one back in District Five, and when I saw it a tear rolled down my cheek. Now, another tear does the same, even though I have sworn never to let my daughter see me cry. The rain washes it away before she can notice, though. She looks at me expectantly, all wide eyes and hopes and dreams, and I carefully lift her so the grasp is within her reach. 

I don't know how long I sit in the pouring rain and wait for my child to come back to me. I want to bundle her inside and warm her up, but she's still laughing and insisting she wishes to remain here. (Perhaps I listen to her too much, spoil her, give her the world, but how can I not when it is at my fingertip? How can I avoid fighting her every battle when I was left to fight my own, and I never did anything worse? And surely there is no way I can ever let her know the truth - that no matter what she believes, I am not a hero. I am not the good guy on the pages of her fairy tales, and I am not the night in shining armour. The only villains I ever slayed weren't villains at all.) 

Finally, Daisy comes running toward me across the grass. She's speaking, saying something probably unintelligible but also unheard, for the thunder is beginning to sound now. And then, all at once, she's slipping, tumbling, falling. Time, which has trailed along so slowly since we awoke this morning, stops. I cannot do anything - I can only watch as she hits the ground, her tiny body a ragdoll. "Daisy!" I shout, and I am at her side in an instant. If I can't protect her, even from things like this, how will I ever save her from the big bad world? "Are you okay, sweetie?"

She gets to her feet uncertainly, as though unsure of her exact condition. She seems alright - I check her over for scrapes, and the only cut is a tiny graze on her knee. It bleeds a little, watered down blood running in pink streams down her shins. It seems to only be then that she notices her hands - they are covered in mud, along with most of the rest of her. At this, she bursts promptly into tears. "Daddy! Daddy, it's all yucky! Off! Off!"I sigh, relieved. This is a problem I can fix. I hoist her up onto my hip, getting myself covered in the same thick, dark mud she slipped in. We head inside together, her body still shuddering in disgust and disapproval. 

The house seems quiet. Everyone was out this morning and it seems that nobody has yet returned. It's a strange feeling, being all alone here. Usually, the place is filled with voices and footsteps. Despite growing up in a place far more overcrowded, the endless inhabitants of my Victor's Village home have begun to suffocate me. Not for the first time, I consider moving elsewhere - perhaps taking Daisy to the Capitol, away from my family. I force my mind away from this thought before it can take over. How selfish am I, considering abandoning the very people who supported me ever since the day I was born? I am distracted from my argument as Daisy wriggles to get down. I set her on the floor, and we reach the end of the hallway side by side. She stretches up to reach the door handle, no longer crying, and I let her do it herself. After a moments effort, she does, and the door swings aside. 

Daisy first screams, and then bursts into tears once more. "What? What's wrong?" I begin, and then set my eyes upon something my mind cannot at first comprehend. My sister - who I have barely exchanged a word with since the day I was reaped - who's avoided me and declared war upon my very existence, and then lived in the shadows of my mansion ever since - lies on the floor, her limbs twisted at odd angles and a scarlet pool of blood surrounding her. In her hand something glints, and it is a long second before I realise it's a razor. "Shit! Marina! Marina!" I shout, stepping forwards. I turn to my daughter, who's still looking pathetic and cold, dripping with mud and rain. Too quickly, I push her behind me and out of the door. "Daisy, get out!" The door swings shut. There's a pause, and then another roar. "Daddy! I'm still dirty!" she cries, and then continues her tears as though her world is falling down. 

Mine is. I kneel beside my sister and snatch the blade from her hand, cursing beneath my breath. It cuts me; blood spills from my fingers. I do not wince. "Marina. Marina, talk to me." My hear breaks over and over as I listen to the sound of my daughter on the other side of the door. I sink down into the tiles, overwhelmed.