Mercury Scoff [D10] ~ FIN

Day 1:

The doctor said I have to do this. Said I have to write about my days at the very end, just have to keep on doing that and maybe I'll start remembering stuff he hopes. He didn't sound very optimistic, he must know a hopeless case when he sees one. I ain't ever getting the past back. It's lost, dead the moment that horse planted it's foot in my face. Apparently I was asleep for a month, unresponsive and they just couldn't wake me up. Funny, you'd think that I'd remember that; nearly dying from having a hoof shoved in my face and all but I don't. It's all a blank.

So today was my first day back home. I barely remembered the house but it was definitely small and I wasn't exactly surprised to see it was cramped. If there's one thing I remember from before it's that District Ten was a shithole and no one actually a damn thing to their name. So when I went into our house to see it was small I wasn't surprised or upset; just numb. At least it had the basics; a bath bucket, soap, bathroom and all that other stuff; suppose I should be grateful for that.

With our good mirror I looked at my own reflection for the first time since I woke up. I look like most people in my family, the typical Scoff look. Dark hair, more to the black side than the dark brown. It's short, apparently while I was asleep they kept cutting it short cos apparently I never liked it long - got in the way too much. A pair of very light sea blue eyes stared back at me through the reflection, a rare deviation from the typical Scoff look. Everyone else got dark brown eyes to match their dark hair but not me. I got face structure of a Scoff as well, a strong pointed jawline and hollow cheekbones cos I ain't been eating all that much. A pointed nose that's pretty crooked now (not from the kick, it's like that in the pictures). The shadow of a stubble marks my face as well; I'm becoming a man now.

The worst part is the large scar running across my forehead (partially covered my the hair at least) I suppose that's where the horse kicked me.

I'm not a tall guy and all that extra sleep I got didn't help one bit. The doctor's report says I'm five foot eight so I still got some growing to do obviously. In the pictures my siblings are all taller than me and my dad's a giant compared to me in the family pictures we got from before the kick. I'm too skinny but I used to be way more filled out than this, the family pictures are proof of that but I guess a month being fed basic stuff with a tube wouldn't let me keep that up. Well, I still look better than most kids in the District that I saw as we took that slow walk home, they looked like fucking twigs.

I took my shirt off to see myself more clearly and I recoiled in shock. My ribs are painted various shades of black and blue and my tummy is all red and inflamed; as if angered by a sting. Who the hell beat me up? Or better question, who keeps beating me up? They didn't hurt, a small touch and nothing happened, I pressed on them even harder (just in case) but still nothing happened. They're old, maybe even years old. I strained and strained in front of the mirror; trying so hard to remember how I got them but I just drew blanks. Another blank to add to my memory. When I look down I see my knuckles are big and reddened and my hands are riddled with small cuts. I guess it's from my old work or something.

It's funny how I remember how to read and write, I remember how to walk and tie my shoelaces but I don't remember the stuff that counts. I didn't even know that my own name was Mercury but I could vaguely remember the Scoff part. Ain't that pretty sad? I didn't even know I had brothers or sisters or what my parent's faces looking like.

It wasn't long before the boy staring back at me became distorted. Distorted by tears.

~Mercury

Day 9:

My dad's a broken ass hole.

"Dad, who's Mantel and Jordan?" I asked him and the moment he heard those words he dropped his knife from whittling his wood and went over to a cabinet. His whole body started trembling and his hands were fumbling with the lock on the cabinet. When he finally got it open he pulled out a bottle of golden rum (that was about three quarters full) and began drinking it straight from the bottle. I stepped towards him.

He erupted.

"DON'T SAY THOSE NAMES IN THIS HOUSE!" His broken screams rung through the room and my ears. I recoiled in shock. That wasn't normal. My dad had been nice, not violent at all. Any time I needed something: a glass of water, some fruit, a picture, anything he was the first one to tend to me need with his warming smile and giant frame. He was constantly smiling, never touched a bottle of alcohol (for the whole eight days) and never even raised his voice at any of us. Until now that is.

"Why?" I asked, my response automatic. Apparently I'd always been a curious person, I could never let well enough go. According to him that is.

"Just do what I tell you," he replies and takes another mouthful of drink but I wasn't willing to stop there.

"But they're family,"

"They died a long time ago, that's all you need to know!" He growled and poured the remainder of the rum down his dry throat.

"They died in the games, how?" I pressed on.

Big mistake.

He flung the bottle at me as breakneck speed. A shocked breath escaped my lips and I only had time to lift my right arm before the bottle shattered and I was sprayed with glass shards. I think one or two nicked my skin, and drew blood and I stumbled back. Before I could even react he was on me in a flash. His fist was lightning, it struck me right in the crooked nose and I was knocked off my feet and onto the cold wooden floor. "Do what I tell you!" He snarled and I couldn't even protest, I was clutching my nose as tight as I could (praying it didn't bleed) and I didn't reply I stared right in his hazy, maddened eyes with defiance on the tip of my tongue.

He planted his foot in my ribs and I stopped staring. On the bright side at least I now know where all the bruises are from.

The pain was immense, I don't remember too much of what happened after that because everything was a blur. My mom came rushing down the stairs (my older siblings were out and my younger ones were in bed) and she began shouting at him. I think she was telling to stop.

She should've known not to fuck with a broken man.

I saw his hand crack across her face like a heavy whip and she was sprawled onto the ground as well. However, she's much stronger than I because unlike me she got right back up and kept shouting at him. I don't even remember what she said but he was like a quelled giant and he slowly began calming down. He stumbled back upstairs and my mother collapsed next to me and began holding me close.

Even a mother's warm embrace cannot beat the cold aftermath of your world crumbling under the fists of a broken father.

~Mercury

Day 14:

Apparently we go camping every month.

Dad announced that we were going in the morning, all of our little stuff already packed and everything. At first I thought he was only doing it to apologise for his little episode. He's always the sorriest man alive the day after his little episodes. The day after he hit me and mother my mother came home with a new pair of boots that he paid for. I never really bothered to ask one of the older ones about it, never really thought to. In fact, I never really talked to them a lot.

Still, all of us went out that day with our meagre possessions packed and we went into the little forest on the outskirts of the District. I won't lie, it was really good being out in the fresh air and such. Mother and Father looked so happy and I didn't see him go anywhere near the alcohol cabinet to get a drink since that day. They were working together, directing each other, helping each other out. Hell, I even saw them share a kiss (that's a sign of affection right?) and they even laughed together and all.

When it was getting dark Dad took me aside to gather firewood and make a fire.

He showed me all the steps, that apparently I had known like the back of my hand before, and I was learning. Well, I was re-learning how to make a fire. We laughed at my failed attempts and cheered when I finally got it right and a bright flame sat in between us. He was nice sober, he felt like a proper dad. We talked for ages, the memories of what went on five days ago slowly being lifted off of our shoulders. He told me about girls, work or tips on how to cheat in school and the future. I loved it.

It wasn't long before he reached into his bag and pulled out the golden-brown bottle.

"You look like you need a drink, son." He told me, his voice barely above a whisper and the ghost of laughter on the edge of his lips. I cringed at first, the bottle of alcohol that turned him from a father to beast so quickly. I wanted to scream at him and tell him no. I wanted to slam my boot on his soul and ask him "how dare you?"

But fuck it.

I took the bottle and began pouring the bitter, burning alcohol down my throat. It made me wince at first, then a shiver went down my spine and it was disgusting. He must have seen the disgust on my face. "Trust me, you'll get used to it, drink a bit more." He told me and I took a few more swigs.

Sure enough he was right, it stopped tasting like bitter lava piss.

"Don't worry, I ain't gonna drink any." He said, the amusement evaporated from the tip of his tongue.

"Good." I replied.

We talked a bit more, more idle conversation; women, work, making friends it was all new to me because I couldn't remember any of it. He'd had this conversation with me before, I could tell because it sounded oh-so-familiar but oh-so-foreign. He didn't mind, he actually seemed to like having the conversation with me.

"Son, you asked about Jordan and Mantel; I think I owe you an explanation." He said.

Everything stopped, in the second we were weightless as air. The loud cackling from the embers of the flame filling the air between us. My throat twisted at the sounds of their names; I never told my parents what I had done when the ghosts of two boys were whispered in my air.

"Go on." Was all my dry throat was able to let through.

He took a deep breath and his hand trembled once again. He wasn't looking at me any more, he was eyeing the bottle clutched between my fingers with hunger in his eyes. "Mantel was your cousin, the kid to my brother -your uncle- and he was a sweet boy. Never had friends, always bullied because of his ,er, affliction..." He begun. He took a deep breath and gulped. "He was never a fighter though, so I guess it was sealed the moment he got reaped for 65th Hunger Games." He ended and he allowed the silence to hang.

I took a deep gulp of alcohol.

"Jordan Scoff-Reye was his half brother, same dad but different mother. He looked almost exactly like you, a lot like you as well. Trust me, you two were close," he begins, a small chuckle escaping his lips, "he was so angry when Mantel died, you both were. He got reaped into the 69th Games and died as well."

Another gulp and my words are automatic. "How did they go?"

My father pauses and looks at me through grief stricken eyes before speaking. "Mantel was stabbed and eventually bled out, coughing and sputtering his last words," he breaths in before allowing another trembling breath to escape his lips. "Jordan, well Jordan went and got crippled and he had so many enemies. One of them caught up to him and... and he burned."

Three more gulps and the bottle is a quarter empty.

The long silence is once again broken. "Who's the unlucky one? You got two kids who never did nothing wrong. You got one brother who was already disadvantaged and he was cut down and left to watch his own blood drip from his body before having his body ruined..."

I shake my head, silently begging not to hear any more.

"Then you got his other brother, who's forced to die with the smell of his cooking flesh still on his mind, who do you think got it the toughest, huh?" He asks me.

I think and take two more deep gulps.

"It's uncle, the dad who has to watch it all and has to live through all that to this day." I answered - I couldn't choose who got it the worst cos they're both bad ways to die.

To my surprise bitter laughter escapes father's lips and it quickly turns to tears.

"Live to this day? Son, we found my twin brother hanging from his ceiling two days after Jordan Scoff was burned to oblivion."

I finished my drink that night.

~Mercury

Day 26:

The weight of the bottle was too much so I broke down.

I left my room after a whole day of staying there and walked down the stairs to find my mother sitting on the sofa, waiting for me. I think I should've expected it, I learned a lot of things since I woke up. Mother knows best. I dropped the empty bottle onto the ground and it shattered under my feet and I broke. I folded, I couldn't handle it any more. Some day I'll die, some day I'll die and it won't be pretty and it won't be easy but I don't want to die with no family.

I folded and collapsed into her warming embrace and didn't hold back the tears for long. I was getting her shirt all wet but I didn't care if I'm being completely honest. If anyone from the outside saw me like that they would never take me seriously again, they'd think I'd gone soft or something. Days and days of being at school since I woke up and I punched my way to the top, to making everyone fear me. It's funny how something as fragile as tears can break that.

Slurred and muffled into the shoulder of a mother's embrace. "MomI'mdisgusting."

"No, Honey, you're just a Scoff." She told me.

I'm just a Scoff, to think that we're all like this.

Everything went downhill the moment the 65th happened for all of us Scoffs. Apparently I was angry the day Mantel was reaped and apparently I punched a mirror the day Jordan was reaped. Everything's calmed down now, everything between me and my mother is actually okay because the pressure of the bottle broke me. I won't drink again, I won't drink because it's disgusting and it's twisted me. My past is dead and my future ain't looking bright at all.

A Scoff is not allowed a merciful death but at least I'll die that death without sickening myself.

I swear I won't touch the stuff again.

~Mercury

Day 40:

A month and a third of writing you and I haven't remembered jack shit.

You're pretty damn useless aren't you? I've poured everything out to you and for what? All this sentimental bullshit and for what? I'm not a sentimental guy who should be keeping a fucking diary, I'm not a damned idiot who keeps all his secrets on paper for the whole world to see. Ever since I woke up and the Doctor gave me to you I've poured everything out to you. I've poured out all I've wanted to you for forty days, forty pages worth of ink I've wasted on you.

I'm frustrated and I'm angry like a true Scoff.

I'm so useless because I'm a drunk.

I have no friends because I try to kick everyone's face in who comes close to me.

There, I said it. I'm an aggressive, friendless drunk who's got no future cos the powerful kick of a horse broke his past.

I guess I shouldn't be taking it out on you should I?

I'm only angry because I went to visit their graves today. Two brother's gravestones who are so far apart, separated by a good seven worthless gravestones from tributes who's names I don't even know. They should've been buried next to each other, they shouldn't be so far apart. I guess it doesn't really matter at this point to be honest. Dead is dead. Doesn't matter how fair it is, how noble or nasty you were because once you're dead you're death. A man's live is measured by how he died, not how he lived and Scoff's aren't allowed to die merciful deaths.

Father took us to honour his dead family. What makes me even more angry is the fact I had to walk so far to find uncle. No, he doesn't get buried next to his special deceased tribute kids because that's just not how life works. No, he has to be buried in the masses with a tiny stone grave. I saw all three of them; confirmation that their real and not just folk stories. I don't know what I expected to gain by going there, I don't know what I thought would happen if I went and laid flowers by their graves.

Memories? No, those are gone for good.

Closure? No, I didn't even know the kids.

Doesn't matter, whatever I was looking for I was lying to myself if I thought I was gonna get it. Life don't work that way.

The glass is always half empty. There's no bright side, there's no 'at least' there's none of that. Dead is dead and that's it. Jordan Scoff-Reye burned dead. Mantel Scoff bled out dead. And Mercury Scoff? I don't even know about him any more, suspended in this permanent state of limbo. He did not get a merciful death because I am his future now.

I think I should stop writing in you now, I don't see the point any more since it's been so long and I'm no step closer to remembering anything than before. I died when I was fifteen and that's that. I'm not the old Mercury any more - whoever he was I'm not him any more. I don't want to know who he was because what's the point? He's dead. Let's confirm that; deceased, gone, never found. He looked like me, talked like me, acted like me but he's not me. He's gone, I've accepted that, so why should you stay?

Fuck, I've grown attached to you so I think I'll keep you around for a longer, just a little bit. I think I'll go back there tomorrow, the company of the dead boys isn't much different from the company of home. Every breaking wave, every howl of the wind is felt when I'm standing over the graves of the dead. It's strange how stoic I can act when I'm there, no matter how much rage builds up none of it can still - it stays bottled up. After all, the old Mercury died with them, I don't even remember these boys. They're simply gone, knocked out of my head by the powerful hoof of a horse.

I'm not gonna apologise cos this is just a diary entry -I don't even apologise to people after all- but I shouldn't be taking it out on you (whatever you are) but surely you have to understand my frustration. The doctor handed me a black notebook the day I woke up. "It's a notebook, write you're feelings and the summaries of your day; it might help you jog your memory." I've followed his instructions to the letter and written in you every day, forty pages for every day.

So why do I only see decay?

I'm gonna keep trying, I don't see the point but I'm gonna keep trying to write you for some stupid reason. Maybe, just maybe, you'll come through in the end (hah, no) or maybe I've actually come to enjoy filling your pages with ink. Either way, I ain't gonna throw you away yet, even though I should I won't. I got home and I was this close to ripping out your pages and throwing you in the trash.

Perhaps I'm becoming too soft; can't even get rid of a fucking book.

Fuck sake, it's so frustrating - being stranded here in limbo and the weight of two dead boys and an uncle hanging over my shoulders- and I think it's about time I gave up trying to pick up the shards of my shattered past. We can go into the empty future together but is there really any point in that? I am a Scoff... and a Scoff is not allowed a merciful death - that's the truth of it.

Fuck me, I need a drink.

~Mercury