nemesis {D1}

They were sitting at opposite ends of the dinner table. The sun was hanging low outside, brushing the horizon with a tender touch and painting the inside of their house orange. Her father's hardened gaze flickered from plate to daughter, plate to daughter, never acknowledging the empty seat her mother once occupied. His eyes were dark like shadows, dark like her own yet not as defined by lingering traces of sanity. They had been pumped dry by his own twisted conscience, and now there was nothing left but jagged edges. They bruised her from head to toe.

The string of clinking silverware and pursed lips was broken by criticism. "You were slow today," he said, ever the perfectionist. "You should be making progress."

She stared at her peas. "I'm sorry."

"Look at me when I'm talking to you."

His voice was thick like molasses, and years of listening to it summoned reflexes she wished she didn't have. Her head snapped up. Here, there was no risking disobedience. If he said look, she looked. If he said jump, she jumped. If he said improve, she improved.

Except today, apparently, although she hadn't personally noticed any delays in her talents.

"What did I say about apologies?" he continued, words like a drill to her skull. He was a stubborn bull with a relentless temper. She understood that at too young an age, just like she understood why apologizing was unacceptable. She should've known better, but forgot. A careless, rookie mistake. Perhaps she was slipping up after all.

"Apologies mean guilt," she murmured. And guilt means that I care. She was not allowed to care.

"You remember why I named you Nemesis." He said it as a statement, but she knew he expected her to treat it like a question. It was not the average name, she had heard. Her mother had been against naming their baby girl after a rival, a downfall, something villainous. A living grudge, so to speak. Clearly her father was powerful enough to claim the final say, and then terrifying enough to drive her mother away. Who even knew where she had gone.

He didn't seem to care.

"Because you're going to make me unstoppable." Then I will rival the entire District.

"You can't be unstoppable if you care. If you apologize, you feel guilt. If you feel guilt, you care."

She had heard this speech maybe a hundred times or more.

"Next apology I hear, you're missing dinner for three days."

She didn't say anything. She knew better than to risk displeasing him further. A day's work without dinner was a torture method. It would weaken her, slow her progress, and spark his anger to a blaze. As the obedient (and only) child, she silently stared at her peas, waiting for him to drop the subject. It wasn't over yet, she could sense it. The silence was too thick.

She heard his chair screech against the wooden floor. He was standing up. "You know how I feel about sluggishness," he said, opening one of the kitchen drawers. Her peas were still cold and untouched, and the chicken half-consumed. The purple slash on the back of her neck flared up in anticipation. He was going to punish her. His wooden "whip" looked like an old stick he picked up from the woods, yet it felt like a week-long wasp sting. Pain is relative. He always said that. She wasn't sure what that meant, but he insisted that one day she would understand.

"I have to punish you."

I know.

It was odd for him to announce it. She heard a metal click and lifted her head. There was a gun in his right hand, and he raised it to eye level. She screamed and dropped to the floor before he pulled the trigger, erupting the kitchen with thunder. On her hands and knees she crawled beneath the table and covered her ears. "I've got good aim, Nem, you know I wouldn't shoot you!" He was circling to the other side of the table, to where she was trying to protect herself. Nothing would work. He's never pulled a gun before.

"If I wanted to kill you, you'd be dead. Come on out."

He planted his feet apart in front of her.

"You have until the mark of three!"

She scrambled out and stood in front of him, eyes glued forward. It was almost impossible not to acknowledge the gun, but she managed to keep her eyes off of it until he brought the barrel to her forehead. It felt like an ice cube. "You don't know if I'll pull the trigger. You never will." Her bones were coated in a layer of frost. She couldn't move if she wanted to. "Not today, not tomorrow, not the next day."

But you can't make me unstoppable if you kill me.

She swallowed. Nothing made sense, yet he always insisted that one day it would click. One day she would understand everything. Never doubt him, he said. Never doubt the mission.

"You afraid of this?"

Yes. She didn't answer.

"You won't be, not forever." He raised the gun above his head and fired it into the ceiling. She closed her eyes and flinched. Dust and debris sprinkled their foreheads. "Get used to this, Nemesis. We have a lot of work to do."

I have an interview today. His name is Charlisle and he owns a jewelry store a few blocks from the Square. Once upon a time it wasn't my style; now with nothing tying me down I have piercings and wear rings and bracelets to my heart's content. I don't look like much of a saleswoman, so maybe it still isn't my style to be working in such a high class business, but my father's savings are running dry. I have no money of my own.

Last week I talked to a man named Toni in a pawn shop. I guess my "no experience" resume didn't impress him. I've got career training to back me up and that's it. So far it hasn't struck me any deals, not even at the career centers. I'm not old enough to train the little tikes, they said. Maybe when I'm older.

I know fuck all about interviews. My father didn't teach me those valuable real-world skills. When I asked my teachers for advice, they said to polish my resume (except wow, I have done absolutely nothing) and charm my interviewer with people skills. I have no idea what that means. Be polite, I figure. That's easy. Hasn't fucking worked yet, so maybe I'm missing something. If I bomb this interview I might end up asking for advice again, and that's just annoying. I should be able to fend for myself. That was the point of "unstoppable."

Then again, my father died too early to finish his mission, and that mission involved volunteering for the Games. I was supposed to do it when I turned eighteen. Now I don't have to, so I probably won't. Unless I'm homeless and desperate, but I'm trying to avoid that outcome. Third time's the charm, maybe?

I cook two eggs for breakfast and dress in my nicest clothes. It's quiet around here now, like a ghost house. All I can hear is little Skippy barking across the street because he escaped his yard. I know he's barking at the street lamp because there's a bird's nest in it. I don't know what he has against birds, but it must be serious. Maybe they owe him money.

My father owed somebody something. There's no other reason why anyone would break into my house, shoot him in the chest, and take only his wallet. I know about the gang violence around here. I have this feeling he pissed one of them off.

His life was not theirs to take.

Father hated dogs, so naturally I love them. I give Skippy a little head pat and go my own way. The jewelry store (one of a hundred in the District) is open from nine to five, so I approach the front doors at 8:55 to prove promptness and dedication. He makes me wait out in the humid morning air for ten minutes before he actually opens the door and invites me inside. I introduce myself and shake his hand, then he leads me into his office at the back of the store. It's very tidy and...white. It's a bit creepy, but I can brush off creepy.

"Let's get started, shall me?" He says, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. I sit down and cross my legs. "Why do you want to work here?"

Easy question. "Because I need money."

"..Any other reasons?"

Was there any other reason to work anywhere? Money is the whole point of a job. I don't see why he needs me to list another reason.

"I like jewelry."

Not bad, kudos to me.

"Okay. What are your strengths?"

"I can fight, and I'm not afraid of anything."

"Any strengths related to what the job requires?"

I squint. "I just have to talk to people and sell jewelry, right? Those aren't special skills."

This guy sounds like an amateur. He owns this place?

"..Fair enough. What are your weaknesses?"

"I don't have any."

He stares at me like he doesn't believe me. I challenge him with a stone cold stare of my own, because I'm not lying. Father trained every weakness out of me.

"Why should we hire you?"

"Because you need an employee, and I can do the job." I grin for better effect. I'm supposed to be charming, after all.

He leans back and sighs. He doesn't look as satisfied as he should be, so I wait to hear what went wrong. "Unfortunately, I can't hire you at this time."

What? "Why?"

"You don't meet our qualifications."

"What qualifications do you need to sell jewelry?"

"People skills, for one."

There's that phrase again. People skills. Sounds like a load of shit to me.

"Have a nice day."

I walk out in silence. Another opportunity down the drain because I don't have "people skills."

Fuck. I don't want to work in those factories. I'm not fit for degrading labor like that, and it doesn't pay well. I'm not angry. I'm not disappointed, either. Just puzzled, maybe a tad annoyed that I'm gonna have to repeat this process again. He didn't even interview me for that long. It's like he gave up on me.

Maybe it's a relief that not everyone is like my father.