Anna Cardo // District Ten (FIN)

Anna Cardo // District Ten (FIN) Mar 1, 2014 13:07:36 GMT -5

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Post by Deleted on Mar 1, 2014 13:07:36 GMT -5

PLEASE LET ME KNOW THAT MY ONE BAD DAY WILL END

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A N N A C A R D O
DISTRICT10 | THIRTEEN | FEMALE

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"Do you know how little of a chance you have for that to happen? Anna, none of us will be reaped."

Those had been the last words that I had heard from my brother's mouth, his rough hands clasping mine as we'd walked to the district square. If i'm being completely honest, I had believed him. 100% I had put all my faith in him and really, I had felt quite relaxed in that square, surrounded by fidgeting children and tears and holding hands and reassurance. I had thought of them as children at that time, a trait that had been unknowingly put into me by Thistle, as if I was any better than the screaming twelve year old that was down the line from me, the one i'd given a dirty look to as if telling him to shut up. I had stood there, small fingers twirling through the short, jet black hair that sprung from my head, wrapping it around my finger and pulling the tiny digit loose from the hairs over and over again as if it were some fun game I was playing. In reality, though, it wasn't just a nasty habit (my mother had chided me, telling me i'd pull all my hair out), but a way to relieve stress, and in the case of the Reaping, some way to relieve my nervousness.

I think Thistle read books to relieve his stress. I didn't know where he got them, or how he even learned to read in the first place (I, unfortunately, didn't get that chance), but he still read. One time I watched him, small, sad eyes staring blankly as if he was doing something so extraordinary my mind was about to explode into little itty bits of plasma if he continued on. After a while, though, he'd noticed, and he'd stared me down with one heck of a bewildered face on him. "Can I help you?" I always thought he was so cold sometimes, like I could feel the icy breeze radiating off of him because of his personality, the way he talked to people, the way he addressed others. I hadn't even come close to realizing yet that that was just how he showed love, that he was so fucking empty inside because of what he'd been through that it was like his heart had been replaced by one giant icicle. But I didn't realize that, I just thought he was being the typical asshole that I took for granted and i'd dipped my head down in the shy, unconfident way i'd always done throughout my life, and i'd actually apologized for being interested in something he was doing, as if that was one of the worst things I could of done in the world, thick strands of hair bouncing slightly as I shook my head at him. He'd chuckled slightly, told me to come over to him. For a few moments i'd simply just sat and stared at him, brown eyes staring warily as if I was looking at some big bad scary monster that was gonna gobble me up and spit out my bones. Eventually, though, I found my legs pushing up, lifting the small amount of body weight it had to and pushing myself towards him.

"Alright, close your eyes."

I did just that, and as I ever so slightly lifted one eyelid up I could vaguely make out Thistle's shape rummaging through something, a drawer perhaps, maybe under his bed.

Eyes closed, Anna.

My eyelids snapped shut almost as fast as Thistle could run.

"Hold out your hand."

Tiny digits formed themselves into a bowl, gently extending out into the unknown. I was honestly, one hundred percent unsure of what he was actually going to do, so naturally I jumped a tiny bit when a small object was dropped into my palms, landing without a sound and flipping over onto it's back.
"Alright uh, you can open them now."

Thistle sat cross-legged on his bed, the mattress buckling slightly under the pressure of his weight, his book sprawled in his lap, pages bent and torn and the red lettering on the back almost completely faded away. But my hands were where my eyes went first, the tiny bowl I had made with them now holding a small, rectangular piece of... Gold? It was crinkly, like the wrinkled face of an old woman and it was very light, yet it caught the sunlight that broke through Thistle's windows and reflected it, creating a minuscule wonder every time I moved the thing.

"...What is it?"

I was too young to even know what it was, the tiny piece of chocolate that was wrapped in aluminum gold, the tiny nugget sitting in my hands.

"It's candy, Anna. Try it."

I raised the golden item to my mouth, ready to swallow the thing whole. To be quite honest, it felt like a very thin, almost metal like texture, and I was a bit afraid of how it would taste.

"Wait. Here, let me see it."

He chuckled at me, shaking his head a little bit before quickly reaching out and removing the tiny piece of gold from my hands, his thick fingers picking at the golden outside before he peeled it off all-together. I can remember thinking how amazing that was, that he had just pulled off real gold like it was nothing, and how crushed I was when he rolled it up into a ball and threw it to the ground.

"Here, it's chocolate. Try it."

I was reluctant to even hold it at first, the dense and dark color a stark contrast to the golden covering that had adorned it before. Somehow, though, I found myself raising it towards my mouth, taking a small bite of the thing before immediately cringing in disgust.

It was like a deadly combination of bitter and sweet, except it wasn't halfway between the two. No, the flavor switched as I held the thing in my mouth. One moment it was extremely bitter, and then the next it was too sweet. Even worse, the texture changed as it stayed on the tip of my tongue. It melted into a puddle, swallowing my tastebuds before I eventually swallowed it.

"Ick. You like that stuff?"

I was far too young to understand the look of sheer disappointment on Thistle's face as I shoved the piece of candy back into his hands, my brother placing it onto his bedside table before slamming his book shut and placing it next to it, swinging his legs off the bed. "Sorry, I thought you'd like it." Maybe I had been too young to understand the look on his face when I had nearly thrown the candy back at him, but I could definitely tell he felt bad now. His whole body language had changed, going from calm and relaxed to stiff and uncomfortable, and he wanted out of that room (That really didn't take much thought for that last one, it was evident when he nearly sprinted to the door). "Thistle, wait." His body stopped in the doorway, hand resting on the broken door handle as he turned around, an eyebrow raised. "Um, thanks anyways." Before he could sprint away I wrapped my arms around him, barely reaching past his waist as I hugged him lightly. "Uh, yeah. No problem, Anna"

I found myself thinking about that moment as I stood at the reaping, short dress on and hair tied back in some elaborate looking hairdo that my mother had worked for about two hours on. I had initially been scared of this whole thing, of getting reaped and being shipped off like cargo to die, but instead I found myself thinking about fucking chocolate instead. I would have liked to try that stuff again. My mother did always say my tastebuds weren't fully developed yet, maybe a sweet tooth came with age. Yeah, I would have liked that.

A single moment of breathlessness as he called the females name, before I let out a deep breath. I was safe, my sisters were safe, and with so many boys in this district-

"Thistle Cardo!"

Time stopped in that moment, the only audible sound being a fairly loud gasp from me and a loud sob from one of my sisters. Denial hit me first as my brother made his way towards the stage, chest pumped out like he was some big shot who was going to win. He couldn't have been reaped. No, there was no way he could have been reaped. Not possible. If I could, I would have shouted out at him to look at me when he was up there, for him to even lock eyes with me as they swept over the crowd. Everyone was silent, eyes refusing to meet him like he was some outcast that would turn them to stone if they looked directly at him. Cowards. He looked so tall compared to that Aurora girl. Just look at me Thistle, please

He did no such thing, and as he was led inside the grand building that jutted up from the ground behind him I simply stood, un motionless until my mother's hand gently grasped my shoulder. I could feel the trembling in her, and she was already crying. I think shock had hit me just then, clawing at me with sharpened nails. My brother, Thistle Cardo, was going into the games.

My brother, Thistle Cardo, was going to die.

Tears. Thats what I remember most from that day. My mother was crying, my sisters? Balling. I swear, we could have flooded our house with all the water that was coming out of their eyes. My dad held them all, stretching his arms around them in a weak and feeble attempt to provide support during a time when they needed it most. My eyes were watery, but I held a pout and a deep frown on my face.

Thistle had lied to me, every word he'd said to me before the Reaping had been a lie. "Anna, none of us will be reaped." I was so angry at that point, but I was such a mess as well. I can remember sitting in my room, holding my knees and pulling them up to my chest, my small, fragile body becoming even smaller. I was seething with anger, yet tears wouldn't stop pouring out of my eyes. I couldn't understand it, I was too young, too innocent and to alive to even comprehend the fact that I could feel two emotions at once, or in this case every single god damn emotion at once. My mother had entered the room with about as much gracefulness as a person with no legs, hunched over and crying. She hugged me hard. Hugs, so many hugs had been exchanged by that point. It was like every single time i'd make eye contact with one of my family members it'd be some natural instinct to embrace each other. My mom had initiated so many of them, planting soft kisses on our heads as if to try and cover up the pain, to try and put some veil over our eyes that would block out the fact that Thistle was leaving us, that we would get to see him one last time before he'd be sent into some ~~deathtrap~~ arena to kill or be killed. My mom had tried so hard to cover it all up.

But she couldn't do that, there was no way that she could do any of that. That I could understand. She'd just lost her son for Christ's sake. I thought I was close to Thistle. No, I couldn't even touch the relationship between my mother and him. Seventeen years she'd held him, held his hand through thick and thin, through his father being shot and through everything else that could have been thrown at them by life. I'd never known my Mom's first husband, but by the way Thistle talked about him I could only think of him as some... Idiot? Thistle made him sound so stupid for dying. It'd worried me, in all honestly, that my brother could hate someone, hate his own father that much.

I couldn't tell if reality had struck me yet or not. I knew it wasn't fully real yet, that was for sure. Everything seemed blurry, like someone had put something over my mind that had fuzzed out all the insignificant details. The walk to the District Square, the color of the dress I wore and how my hair was done up. I remember none of that, I only remember being mad, being so angry at something, at Thistle for lying, at the Capitol, at the escort that had picked his name from that giant glass bowl. Were there such things as tears of anger? Because I think that's what I was doing at that time, as we were escorted towards the room where Thistle was.

I had hastily dried my tears, desperately trying to cover them up because my personality always had me do that, had me cover up emotions and replace them with things like confidence, pride and determination. But I couldn't do that, every single swipe of my hand only brought more tears down my face and after a while I just gave in and gave up, shrugging off my sister's hand on my shoulder before they went to go see him.

I wish I could say that I had everything planned out before I went in there. That I would hug him and tell him how much I loved him, that I would kiss him and be that wall that he needed to lean on, tell him that he could do it and that he could win. I wish I could have done that, I really do. I'm almost regretful about it, because as soon as the creak of that door closing stopped all that anger surged forth, bursting like a pimple as I pointed at my brother.

"You told me none of us were gonna be reaped Thistle. You lied. You... you"

I was so selfish. I was so unfair and brutal to make him feel bad about doing nothing but trying to make me feel better about going to the Reaping. My finger trembled as it pointed at him, and as soon as his body moved to pull me into a hug I was fighting back, slamming my fists on his stomach before pushing him away from me. I didn't stop to look at his face, I didn't stop to even consider that what I was doing was so unbelievably cruel and heartless, I was pushing my brother away during the final moments that I was going to see him.

I thought reality had hit me before. Ha, no, I was sadly mistaken. That moment was when reality had hit. The walls seemed to lurch closer, threatening to trap me in this room forever. The pictures of all the long gone tributes hanging on the walls, dust collecting on their faces. Thistle would be one of those pictures soon, he'd be dead and in a wooden box, shipped here like some cargo and dropped for us to get rid of. And here I was accusing him of lying. My head dropped like my heart had when I heard his name called at the reaping, and I could feel his embrace around me, a soft kiss on my head. The first of many to come, though the last to come from him.

I'd always thought he'd be cold to the touch, that his skin would be icy like the frost that adorned the grass in this district. But I was wrong, completely, one hundred percent wrong. He was so warm, his large body wrapped around mine. I could have stayed there forever, I could have stood holding onto him for so much longer but instead, I feel another pair of hands grab my shoulders. Those hands were icy to the touch, freezing my skin wherever they touched. I could feel Thistle tighten his grip on me, before we were torn apart, tears again springing out as I fought to stay in the room with him.

I think that's a pretty big part of my personality that decided to showcase itself during that moment. I've always been so quiet, so shy and so innocent. It's no wonder everyone wanted to protect me. I'd always been protected my whole life because I was looked at as weak. Just a little girl that had to be protected by the strong because she couldn't do it herself. But there were things that proved that wrong. My mother always told me to fight for what I thought was right, and i'd always dismissed it as nothing more than a saying. But maybe she was onto something there. I think that I fight not for what I think is right, but for the things that I really want

And in that moment, all I wanted was to be with him. I can vaguely remember shouting his name and fighting against the peacekeepers as they tried to pull me out of the room. In all honestly, I think I slammed my fists down into their crotches, and I think by some incredible stroke of luck that'd caused them just enough pain for them to let me go. Let's face it, I was fighting for something that I wanted but that didn't increase my physical strength.

I was so desperate during that time, that brief moment of pure strength and determination dashed as I grabbed his shirt. He looked bewildered, shocked as he looked down on me. I think I tried to make him promise. To come home to me, to me. Selfishness, apparently, was something I had in me. He said nothing, just stared. That's all i'd wanted, I just wanted to hear him say something to me. I could handle him telling me that he could make no such promise, but I couldn't handle the fact that he'd said nothing. No words, nothing at all, and I could only stare back at him as I was quite literally thrown out of the room, the door slamming shut as I was lead away.

The first night of Thistle being gone was in all honestly depressing. The house felt so empty, so barren of happiness and joy. Thistle never said much. A nod here, a frown there, if you were real lucky he'd even smile, ruffle your hair before going back to the stoic and stale expression that constantly adorned his face. My mother told us stories. About Thistle, about her first husband, about my sisters and about me. They weren't happy stories. No, I won't lie to you about that. We shared several crying sessions throughout the night, the TV playing Caesar's face even though no one was listening.

I'd never realized just how little i'd known about Thistle. I'd known him as my cold brother, the one who always stared instead of smiled, remained quiet instead of speaking. I'd known him as the one who showed he loved us in peculiar ways, a wink, a shoulder squeeze, even a bitter piece of candy. But he'd been so much more than that. My mom cried so much when she told us about Thistle's father, how lively the man was and how energetic and playful Thistle himself was. It all seemed so wrong, like I was listening to some fairytale story that my mother was making up about Thistle. He wasn't playful, he wasn't lively, he wasn't any of those things and yet here my Mom was, proving what I thought wrong.

This whole thing forced me to mature so fast. I feel like I went from a thirteen year old girl to a seventeen year old in a matter of days. Everything felt like it was sped up, like someone had pressed fast forward on my life and my mind, placing a young woman inside of a girl's bio. And it wasn't even that, it was the fact that I was realizing all these things about my brother only after he'd been thrown on a train and sent to the Capitol.

I can't tell you how many times i'd gone into his room, simply stood there, staring at the books that lay piled up against his wall, the mess of sheets and thin blankets. I didn't dare touch anything, I didn't dare trace a finger along the covers of his books and disrupt the dust that had already settled there. I couldn't will myself to do that. Maybe it was some sort of respect for him, or maybe it was just the fact that I was still in shock over this whole thing.

I had sat huddled on the small couch we owned, it's comfortableness long since lost. I'd pulled my knees to my chest like I always did, pulling my night gown over my knees and legs and down to my ankles. I couldn't call this story session happy at all. No, it was incredibly morbid, and yet I still listened. Maybe it was just our way of coping with the loss that we'd suffered from.

My mother had told us so many stories, the sound of wind howling outside a constant background noise. These weren't fairytales, they were nothing of the sort. There were no happy endings, no knights in shining armor that rescued the princess. Yeah, my mother and father had a happy marriage (I was honestly surprised my mother had re-married in the first place), but it still didn't seem happy. Nothing seemed happy at this point, our family had been sucked dry, the only thing left for us to do being cry and hug, try to forget about everything that was happening and move on, as if that was possible.

I still consider the people of this District to be cowards. Not because they didn't choose to volunteer for Thistle, that'd be selfish of me if I were to say that. No one deserved to go into that Arena to die. But they hadn't even looked at the kid. I'd tried to imagine what it felt like to stand up there on that stage alone, the victorious tributes behind you, burrowing holes into your back with their eyes. And you didn't have anyone to look to. Maybe that old man that had dropped his gaze to the ground would have provided some support. He looked like he had kind eyes, ones that could maybe help my brother in a way.

Maybe that woman with the deep laugh lines and the fiery eyes could have locked eyes with my brother and given him confidence when he was standing up there. He needed that. But no, she'd looked to the side before looking down, just like everyone else. Thistle had needed these people, and they didn't even have the courage to look him. I'd tried, i'd tried really fucking hard to get him to look at me. I'd felt like screaming at him, waving my hands in the air to get his attention. To get anything out of him. Anything would have been better than what he'd done. Completely ignored, I was useless, I was completely ignored by him like he was ignored by the people of District Ten. It felt horrible. I'd felt useless.

It's kind of funny that when you go through a tragedy people seem to think that they have full access to doing anything to try and cheer you up. I've always been a fan of personal space. We each had our own spaces that we called ours, and people getting to close to me just felt wrong, in a way. If I could, I would have carried around a piece of chalk with me, and every time I stopped I would have drawn a circle around myself, claiming it as my own personal space. My space.

During the days after Thistle left, that personal space was completely violated. Hugs were nice, hugs were absolutely amazing when they were from your family, when they were from my Mother and her soft touch, my father with his swallowing grasp, Thistle with his icy-warm embrace. Everything about hugging them just felt so right, but i'd never felt so wrong in my life. I could hardly make it down the street normally, I didn't need people coming up to me and wrapping their arms around me. I'd felt strangled, like I was being swallowed by these people and I had no where to go. Maybe i'm just being rude. It didn't take a lot to see what these people were trying to do. They were trying to cheer me up, to protect me because I was always the one that looked like she needed protecting. It was a sad mixture of sympathy and grief for them, and it was a horrible mixture of awkwardness and fear for me.

Every passing day brought with it more and more sick anticipation for the games. My brother'd ridden in a chariot, looking as alone and afraid as ever. He'd been interviewed by Caesar, picking his answers carefully because he needed sponsors. It brought with it nothing but dread for us, more grief and sadness to crush us into nothing. Sleepless nights and wordless fights, thats what I would call it. Every night I dreamed of him dying, each getting worse than the next. And I was always fighting against it, against the fact that he was most likely going to be dead within a matter of days.

The letters were the worst part. Oh god the letters. I can still hear the sound of the envelope ripping open, papers unfolding and one hitting the ground and sliding before coming to a halt. There was two, one not marked and the other carrying a name. My name. He'd written it as fancily as he could, folded it up as neatly as possible and tucked it away with the other letter. This wasn't right, Thistle knew I couldn't read. He knew that. I can remember being angry at him for a few moments, angry because I thought he was just taunting me with a letter he knew i'd never be able to read. I'd dismissed those thoughts almost as soon as they'd popped into my head, pushing them out as quickly as I could. Thistle wouldn't do that. He was cold, he was quiet and intimidating but he'd never do something like that. I could hear my mother read the letter addressed to my whole family, I could hear her start to cry, my sisters doing the same thing but I wasn't paying attention. I was too wrapped up in the fact that I had gotten my own, Thistle had written a letter specifically for me.

And I couldn't even open it.

I couldn't bring my fingers to do it, I couldn't bring them to unfold that last precious piece of Thistle I had left. No, I clutched it, holding it against my chest like it was the most important thing in the whole world. I'd stored it away in my room, hidden and protected under stuffed animals and broken toys. I'd read it someday, but I wouldn't, I couldn't do it now.

No one had the guts to turn the TV off. We'd tried so hard to ignore it, to ignore Caesar's painfully cheery commentaries about kids who would all soon be dying, to ignore the sounds of trumpets blaring as chariots carted tributes, my brother around for everyone to see. Sometimes i'd watch it, plop down in front the television and pull my knees to my chest, shuddering and crying until someone came to pull me away from it. That was the thing about the Hunger Games, they always pulled you in. It was like it had some unseen force that would lasso you and just drag you right in, suck you in even though you were trying impossibly hard to not to look.

I didn't sleep. No, I was too worried for that. Most nights we'd all sit around the tiny table that sat in our kitchen, huddled around it in a desperate attempt to comfort each other. But we didn't talk. I wish we had, really. The most I got from my mother and father were soft pats on the back, ruffles of the hair and kisses on the cheek. My family'd alway been like this, even in past games when other families had kids who were reaped. I'd never thought it'd be us, really. I was too pumped full of lies and soft comforts to even consider that one day one of us would be reaped. We'd always sit around the table every year, so pumped full of worry for the other families that we couldn't even sleep.

I think Saffron winning her games last year had shed a little bit of light on these games. We felt confident, proud that someone from District Ten had won again. It'd given us the chance to think we could win again, that Thistle could beat everyone else in these games and come home relatively safe.

I was so angry the day of the Bloodbath. They wouldn't let me watch, they told me to leave and go to my room even though i'd been watching these games for the past week. It was always like this, they'd never let me watch the Bloodbath because, well, it was a bloodbath. They didn't want me to see it. I would be sent to my room to painstakingly wait until the short Bloodbath was over.

Some years, Thistle would go with me, sit in my room for the hour and a half that it took for tributes to be slain by the others. We'd hardly even talk, really, we wouldn't even talk to each other that much. He'd sit and read, while I sat and did anything that a small child would do. It wasn't much at all, but it was comfort.

And that comfort was now gone.

Each step I took down the stairs was met with small creaks of the floorboards, my body stopping in anticipation as if my family actually heard it. I really shouldn't have wanted to watch it. I wish that, looking back on it, i'd just stayed in my room, clutching the stuffed rabbit i'd had since a toddler to my chest and laying on my bed.

But I can't change it, I can't change the fact that I crept down the steps and peeked around the corner, staring at the small TV that sat in the living room as Caesar discussed the upcoming Bloodbath. He talked about sponsors, about Careers and training scores, about odds for the tributes and bets. It was like i was stuck as the cameras went to the Arena, the slow hum of the stands rising filling my ears as each tribute was raised up into the arena.

They all did the same thing. They all looked around at this new strange place that they were forced into, into the arena that would either be their death place or the place where they would survive. My breath caught every time the camera showed Thistle, his tall and built frame standing there. He looked so afraid, so full of fear as his gaze settled on the Cornucopia.

"Saffron did it last year, why can't he?"

That was all I thought to myself as the robotic voice counted down to the beginning of the games. The odds were never in their favor, and as each and every tribute got into a running stance in those fleeting seconds before they began I could only clutch the wall.

Thistle was always so fast, i'd always watched him run when I was a little kid and i'd always been amazed by his speed. But he didn't look fast anymore. He looked scared as he'd ran towards that gleaming horn, just trying to survive.

Almost as soon as he was in people were attacking him. The blonde haired fucker who'd sliced at him, that kid who'd hit him in the chest with that shuriken. I'd held my breath as his blood splattered across the ground. But that wasn't even bad. I thought him getting sliced at by what looked like everyone in the games was gonna be the worst of it.

As soon as that girl lifted her sword i'd felt such a sick feeling, like i'd been punched in the stomach for hours on end, like that feeling you have when you know you're going to puke. My mother had screamed when the sword went through his neck, blood spraying out of his arteries like fountains and coating a nearby camera in blood. I can remember gasping and gagging as his head hit the ground, eyes staring endlessly ahead and mouth half open.

It all went to shit after that.

My mother was screaming and my father was desperately trying to support her. Both of my sisters were already crying. The screams were the worst, the wails of my mother as she fell to her knees, her only son now headless and dead on the ground. I wanted to scream, I wanted to puke and I wanted to punch something as hard as I could when Caesar laughed at it. How could he laugh at that? I couldn't comprehend it, I couldn't even begin to understand the fact that all the people in the Capitol were enjoying this. My feet carried me backwards until I hit the bottom step, falling backwards and landing on my butt.

I should have flinched from the pain, gasped slightly like Thistle had when each bit of skin had been ripped from his neck and blood had squirted out of his arteries. I should have screamed and cried like my family was doing right now. But I couldn't believe it, I refused to believe the fact that Thistle was dead, my mind was telling me he wasn't. No, there was no way he was dead. This was all fake, all a dream and Thistle was just upstairs in his room reading, reading that book he always read. What was it called again? The Book Thief? Yeah, that was it. He was perfectly fine, his head was still on his body and he was still alive.

I dashed to his room, tripping more than once up those stairs that suddenly seemed like they would never end. My hand stopped at the doorhandle, the broken door handle that didn't even need to be turned for the door to swing open. And swing open it did. I fully expected Thistle to be there, laying on his bed. He would look up at me with that same confused look. Can I help you?. Thats what he would say, with the book resting on his chest. Maybe he'd even give me a piece of chocolate like he had before. I wouldn't throw it back at him this time. I wouldn't be disgusted and unthankful like last time.

I swear I could hear reality laughing at my face when the door opened and no one was in there. It slapped me in the face, leaving marks with it's fingers.

"Where is he?...where..." I stumbled forward as reality came full force. A punch to the face, a kick to my knees and my legs faltered. Scraped knees and a torn up toe as I fell to my knees. I felt pain, pain from all of it, from those scraped knees and the fact that I had just been forced to realize that my only brother, the one who'd comforted me in the oddest of ways, the one who sat with me during the Bloodbaths was gone, ripped from my life like his head from his body. All I could do was scream, pull on my hair and scream as loud as I could until my voice cracked and faltered, until I was forced to just sit there and wallow in sadness and the filth of reality.

Time didn't matter to me. Maybe it had stopped, maybe it had stopped so I could be in pain forever and ever and never be able to get better. That would have been cruel, so cruel. I heard the door open and a soft hand fall upon my back. I thought it was Thistle, I wanted it to be him so badly because thats all I wanted at this point. All my life i'd fought so hard for the things that i'd wanted and more often than not, i'd get them.

But this was different. I was fighting an endless war against Death and Reality, two of the most powerful beings that you could ever wage war against, and I would always lose. I could never win, and yet my mind still forced me to believe it was him.

It wasn't.

It was my father, torn face looking down on me and watery eyes looking me over. He opened his mouth to speak but all that came out was a weak sob. He tried to get me to stand up. It was like i was glued to the ground, and even worse I didn't even want to get up. I pounded against his chest, told him to get out and let me just sit here. I could see that it hurt him. Why did I always do that? Why did I always hurt people. I'd hurt Thistle the last time i'd seen him, I could see it in his face when I pounded on his chest and told him to not touch me. Anna Cardo, the sweet little princess who hurt everyone around her. Thats all I was, like a rose, beautiful until you pricked your finger.

It took all my god damn strength to pull myself up against that bedframe, tears sliding down my cheeks and dropping off my cheek like my eyes were a pair of storm clouds. I tried to pull my knees to my chest but they wouldn't go, they wouldn't even budge and I didn't have the strength to pull them up.

It took me so long to realize that my hand was resting on something, on some flimsy and tiny object that was being crushed under my hand. I thought it was a pebble at first, and as I pulled it out from under my tiny digits I could only let out a small laugh, one filled with sadness and heartbreak.

Fate had joined in this war, on the side of Death and Reality. Death, Reality, and Fate, they were all fighting against me, and as I stared at the small and dust covered golden wrapper I could only shake my head. I hated fate the most, and she knew it. Hesitantly I undid the damage Thistle had done when he'd crumbled it up years ago, throwing it on the ground like it was nothing. But it wasn't nothing. This was a piece of him, like that letter that I hadn't opened and hopefully wouldn't open anytime soon. I cringed at every rip I put in the thing, no matter how tiny it was. I couldn't believe i'd thought this to be gold when i'd first seen it. What was that saying? All that glitters is not gold. I'd heard my mother say that once, and i'd thought nothing of it until now. Maybe this wasn't anything valuable to anyone else, and maybe it shouldn't have been valuable to me, but I undid the fairly large wrapper, looking at the red letters and gold wrapping.

And then, I crumbled it up again.

But not recklessly like Thistle had, no, I wouldn't do that. I folded it, and then again, and again until I was left with a small, long and thing line of the wrapper. It wasn't big enough to fit around my ring finger, but it was plenty large enough to wrap around my pinky, the size of the tiny digit finally coming into play. I was so hesitant when I wrapped it around my finger, making sure the gold side was up and twisting it around the underside of my finger, making sure it would stay there forever. I wanted it to be there for all eternity, I wanted my skin to grow over it and I wanted to die with this thing on my finger.

I had been fighting a war with those three beings, Death, Reality, and Fate for so long, fighting back hopelessly, but I was done now. This ring, this ring was like I had entered into a relationship with the three, a marriage of acceptance. I wouldn't fight them anymore, they would always win.

I wasn't even close to accepting Thistle's death. No, tears would still be shed and I would never be able to accept it, but I wouldn't fight it anymore. Fate grabbed my hand, Reality grabbing the other as Death stroked my face. They helped me up like my father had tried to do, only minutes before when i had fought against him. I didn't fight anymore, fighting would be saved for the games, for when people insulted my brother for dying so quickly.

Tiny feet carried my out of that room, the door closing with a soft click and that book still on his bed. Past the sound of my grieving family and into the room I shared with my sisters, onto my bed. Knees pulled to my chest.

And now, I would wait until those three beings came to guide me into whatever challenge I had to face next.

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