Change of Time {Owen's Last}

owen {♔} bowers-fox

I made a promise once, but I broke it.

It was vague and unclear but it stuck prominently in my mind, and as an eight year old I didn’t realize the weight that words could carry. The bond of a brother was supposed to be a covenant unbroken, something that neither death nor sorrow could rip apart. For ten years the seams stayed stitched, even though petty fights and regretted words threatened to break them apart time and time again, only healed by the simple realization that the loss of one another would be too much to bear, and so we trudged on, leaning on each other in times of desperation and clinging tightly to the fact that we were invincible, or so we thought.

“I won’t leave you, not now, not ever.”

And at the moment that Siren Baitwell’s axe struck my arm I realized the promise entitled to Cody alone was shattered. Dedicated years and discarded desires at the cost of one another suddenly meant nothing at the clutches of death. It seemed as though the entirety of our lives had been spent in vain, and the rock on which we stood was crumbling at an ever-increasing rate, threatening to slip out from beneath us with each passing second.

There would be no more nights spent in sorrowful silence, with my own soul occupying the chair at the desk and his back turned to the window as he watched and waited for the first tear of frustration to fall from my tired eyes, and the rhythm of his footsteps never faltered as he stood behind me, gently taking the pencil from my hand and laying his hand on my back. He’d retrieve the piece of crumpled paper from its place on the floor and smooth it out, putting it on the shelf for safe keeping as I laid my head against the cool wood.

“It’s wrong. Everything about it is marred with some bit of imperfection, and I just can’t get it right.”

“Owen, you simply cannot define the beauty of the world around you as either right or wrong, for there are shades of grey in between. Nothing is perfect, no matter how much you’d like it to be.”

His words were the calm rain that followed a hurricane, and though our promise was supposed to be one of equality, he carried the both of us and never showed the strain of it, leading me to believe that he would be okay without me, that I would be a weight off his shoulder. I had disregarded every day of the last decade like they hadn’t meant anything at all, like a promise could be tossed aside at the cost of heroism, that it wasn’t really wrong because I did it in the name of saving another.

I made a promise to Cody Bowers-Fox, but I broke it.

I saved a life once, but surrendered my own in the process.

If I had known that two simple words would change the world around me as I knew it, I wonder if I would have followed through with it. Maybe if I knew I would be clutching at the bleeding cuts that crisscrossed my body and gasping desperately for any feasible amount of air, I wouldn’t have stepped forward to change the life of someone who didn’t realize that they meant anything at all. Maybe fear would have kicked sensibility in the head and made the message clear that heroes weren’t meant to survive.

Bravery and courage weren’t often linked with survival, and though I thought of myself to have a level head and a sensible heart, the burden of saving another marked it all out. Every carefully thought out decision and future hope was tossed away on a whim, and each bit of my future that remained dwindled slowly until regret and blood poured from deep wounds and caused pain to shoot through my body with such an intensity that I couldn’t even bring myself to scream.

And it was all for one person.

For someone who said that he wasn’t cared for, that the words he spoke and those he wrote upon stained pages weren’t important, when in fact it was only a desperate excuse to validate his own actions, the fear that maybe one day he would be alone, that distancing himself now would somehow prepare him for the time that it would actually be so, even if it was probable that the situation was one he’d never have to face.

It was because of this I spoke two simple words that turned the definition of the relationship we had into something horribly complex.

“I volunteer.”

And though he was usually the one who had everything and more to say, he met my gaze with broken speech and empty eyes, and he depended upon me to tell him what he wanted to hear. So I appealed to his wish with false hope and blatant ignorance as my eyes fell upon him for the last time.

“I’ll see you soon.”

I saved the life of Duncan Bowers-Fox, but I surrendered my own in the process.

I gave myself away once, but I received something more valuable in return.

In the dim light of a room deep within the tangles of the training center, I laid in the presence of a boy who seemed to promise me the world and more. The touch of his fingers across my bare skin caused hope to imprint itself permanently upon each place he touched, marking my skin with the idea that not everything was a lost cause, that maybe each broken piece of myself could be held together by his gentle hands.

It worked for a while, as most things do.

My father once told me that everything ends, whether in a good or bad way, and no matter how much I let the thought linger in my mind, I could never decide if my closure with the boy was something positive or negative or rather something that settled in the vague area of neutral.

“Please don’t—don’t leave. I can’t lose you again.”

“For now, I can’t make promises, but I can stay for now.”

But now didn’t last longer than a few hours, and had I known that it would be the last time I would see the face of the boy who had meant so much, maybe I would have pleaded harder or been more convincing or—maybe he would’ve stayed if I would’ve just given him more.

I lost myself in the waves of thought that surrounded the mind of a brilliant girl, as opposed to using the word to describe her as others might be. She swept me away with innocence and a simple request, and though she never was granted the privilege of closure, she remained a beacon of light to those who sat close to her.

I held her through her death, and as selfish as one might consider me to be, I had hoped that the tables would be turned, because I did not want to face death alone. I had pulled her close to my chest and ignored the sound of her cannon and instead begged her to stay through stuttering words and fallen tears. But she left me, with nothing more to remember her by than her blood staining my shirt.

The constant harassment that fell from the mouth of the third caused my blood to boil at every instance, yet her company still comforted me with the promise that she could take care of the both of us, and that her hurtful remarks were simply compensation for having to take care of the sorry excuse for a human being that I was. As if stupid nicknames and snide remarks could mend the mess that we were.

“I’m Owen, from eight.”

“I’m Leon, by the way. District four.”

“I’m Aelia Vanderwell, and I want to see the ocean.”

“I’m Charlotte, from who the hell cares, because really kid, who the hell cares?”

I gave myself away to Leon Krigel, Aelia Vanderwell, and Charlotte Brownings, but I received something more valuable in return—friendship.

I fell victim to ignorance once, but I was shown understanding.

Wafting smoke and tired eyes accompanied the face of a girl who never even told her name until three days after I had met her, one, for I had never asked, and two, I suppose she didn’t deem it important at the time. I was quick to introduce myself, for I felt the need to lay out the important detail at first glance, whereas she was captivating without the need for words. However, when she did speak it was an occasion to be remembered.

“You’re a fool, Owen Bowers-Fox.”

And indeed I am, and no amount of heroism could change the fact that the overwhelming factor of my actions in that past month had been foolish. From leaving home to believing that I could actually make it back to see the sun rise over the crumbling buildings one more time, it was all simply foolish.

She had handed me a white feather, ragged and bent and thinned out, but the color was still pure and unstained. It went without saying that I was supposed to hold onto it, and now, when stopping the rush of blood seemed futile, I reached shaking hands to my pocket as I fumbled around for it. The color wasn’t clean anymore, and I gently laid it upon my arm, right where the point of Siren’s axe had dug in.

Any white that had been left behind was lost behind a flood of red, and blood seeped through and stained it with the color of regret, of foolish decisions and careless actions that couldn’t be reversed.

I fell victim to ignorance, but Saffle Troshaldr showed me some twisted sort of understanding.

I lost myself once, and I’m yet to find myself again.

Between the light of colored fires and spoken words and shallow cuts I lost the piece of myself that I had been desperately clinging to in an attempt to hold closer to home, but it fell from my pocket along the way, and any hopes of finding it again were some sort of lost cause. I dealt pain and received it just the same, but in the end I lost myself to the girl who probably didn’t even know my name. I was worthless to her and countless others, for who could really put stock in the boy who only wanted to save his brother?

I never really believed I’d make it home, and no one else did either.

So as I laid against the dilapidated frame of a wooden building with blood pooling at my feet, I laid my hand against my heart and felt it beat just one more time, because I needed to remind myself that I was still alive, even if it was just for a minute longer. Another beat, this one weaker than the last, and two more follow it, each one dwindling in power as my time drew to a close.

I’m alive.

I’m still alive.

(cannon).

I lost myself once, but I won’t be alive long enough to find myself again.