catacomb willis :||: D8 :||: FIN

  

  Nostalgia vibrated through my veins, like atoms it shuttered through my coursing blood and caused my ears to buzz. The want for what I once had, for what I once use to be, but was and had no more. I miss watching my sisters chestnut hair flicker through the orange sunset while she raced ahead of me. My little feet puttering on the pedals of my scarlet tricycle. Her long legs reached further then I could keep up with, her soft blue eyes looking back at me, as her lips parted to reveal the gaped teeth that where beneath them. 

    They had said my hair flickered the same vivid browns as she, my eyes just as soft, and my teeth just as gaped. But if we had been so similar then why could I barely remember her face, why had the mirror made me look even more like a stranger? It would be years before my legs would outgrow the span of that tricycle, years before my legs would forget the circular sensation of momentum. Those years had come and gone too quickly, life had began with a flick of the wrist, and the fall of an angel. 

    I had always been told to keep the stitch tight, always double check my measurements, and to be aware of my fingers. Though as a child I always seemed to forget that last one. bandaged fingers filled my row of ten. The pull of a needle through fragile flesh, the gasp of air that leaves my lips, like each prick had been an even bigger surprise. Mother would always huff, I had stained yet another piece of fabric with crimson. 

    Stitch by stitch mother made the most artsy of clothing. She had a knack for making things I could never imagine. I'm sure she was given a design and then asked to recreate this, but still with such ease she astounded me. As I child I had always wondered what drove her to create clown clothing. I was naive, unaware of the stylistic ideals of the Capitol. Mother snickered when I asked such questions, but always told me to keep thoughts to myself, and so I would obey. 

    This lead to silence becoming an ally of mine. I had learned that with silence you could listen to the sound the needle makes when it breaks the surface of the fabric, or the hum of my mothers sewing machine, or buzz of bees that always seemed to hover above my windowsill. I had learned that with silence, father hit me less. That with silence I could conquer the world, because silence was something that took strength to maintain. 

    My sister was a child prodigy when it came to stitching clothing. She had known more stitches then I could even imagine to this day. As a child I would sit and listen to her sing the most beautiful music, her face always filled with a sense of wonder and want for her work. She brought light into our home, she reminded me of our mother, well what people said our mother use to be like, before she met father. Nowadays mother was also very silent, her and I had both found sanctuary in it. Sister of course didn't enjoy silence she wanted to spread joy, and noise produced joy. 

    Our father took care of shipments of clothing, he wasn't much for sewing or designing clothes like the rest of us. He was always a very angry man, but mother said he wasn't always this way. It wasn't until his mother and father died because of some kind of rebel mix up, that he had been filled with so much hate. He had said that we were all part of a system, a system that would only lead us to failure. I'm unsure if he meant the games, or just our structure as a whole, but it drove him mad. So mad that my only interaction with him was the act of his fists turning my body a deep velvet purple. 

    Sister was always a rebellious type, she had gotten pregnant midway through her final year of schooling She had plans to be married to the father, move out and pursue her own happiness. I envied her, her courage, and her lust for something greater then all of this. Father lashed out and her blood filled our halls, her face left unrecognizable. She was buried six feet beneath the dirt on that night, and he fled the district. I had always assumed he was caught and either killed or turned into an avox, but there was no way to know his fate. Though it's not as if it mattered. He destroyed any hope there was of happiness, of recovery for a child that still bares the scares of his fathers fists. A child that will never leave home because if I step out of line, I will only be punished. You see...we are all part of a system that is set up for us to fail.