.:My Heart It Don't Beat The Way It Used To:. [Zarc Blitz]

Heathcliff Travers

If destiny were kind, Heathcliff would’ve felt something. More than the bile that pushed up at the back of his throat, or the flatness that persisted within the training center. Was he too used to the repetition of the day? He didn’t despise any of the twenty-three—yet —though it was admittedly easy to picture any one of their heads on a pike. That was district two within him; the world was a beating heart, until it stopped. His own pounded through his chest, and into his ears, just as soon as he thought how little he knew about anything at all. The moments would come, hands unsteady on a polesword, and he’d tumble too far left.  

He had wandered the circular hallway to find a means of escape. Not among plants or bandages; that would have been too easy to convince himself he was trying to escape. There would be too many symptoms of weakness. No, he trundled along with his hands in his pockets until he pressed through a set of double doors that revealed a sight that couldn’t have made him happier. A hardwood floor and mirrors all along the walls—likely a room for stretching or running or all manner of aerobics. The boy stripped off his shoes and revealed his hardened feet. He assumed the first position and stared at himself in the mirror. 

The reflection stared back, pallor showing through. He clicked his ankles together and at once, he was a bird. There was no need for music. He had enough within his body for a thousand operas; better to drown out his thoughts and the thump, thump, thump of feet against the floor. He pressed hard into the air, leaping toward the mirror before racing back and giving another turn. Sweat built upon his body, and he stripped away to just his shorts. He felt the cool of the air on his skin and breathed deep. What had the story of the dancing little girls been? Ignoring their parents, dancing on their beds, until they all fell over, dead from exhaustion? 

Maybe he could die, too—he would die—but not today. 

Heathcliff continued another stride along the hardwood floor. There were sounds in the hall but he ignored them, focused only on the flick of his feet, the spin of his hips. He could imagine his mother screeching for his feet to be together, for his sister in step beside him. All the while he could see himself in the mirror—himself, but, not the same. He pressed on, chest heaving, legs burning, stopping at last only when he came down too hard on one foot and nearly lost his balance. He placed his hands on his knees and breathed deep. He watched the sweat drip down his chin, and ignored the boy standing at the doorway, his reflection over Heath’s shoulder.