i was a king :: jb :: zori

Be wary of the man fighting for destiny.

There were plenty in the district who had called out in the brief moment of confusion; district two had no shortage of martyrs. Heathcliff had less to fight for than most, he had more to fight for than many. That they could know his compulsion to call out was not to save another’s life, no. This was a folly he would never entertain, though it sounded well enough. Heathcliff had stared into the mirror, and the mirror had stared back. His life had shifted; he couldn’t recognize the figure staring back at him. This place was not where he would find himself. He could never be the flesh and blood that crept under his skin. He could dance across the stage and carry on as far as he knew, but there was no end to the crack of electricity across his bones.

Today was the start of this journey—a search to find just who was the one in the mirror that he saw. He should have had a better answer as to why, all of it was immaturely selfish at the sound of it. But they couldn’t know what crept in his heart, what he whispered to his sister. That spark was enough, the opportunity to disappear beyond these walls and make the most of it, he could start again. Perhaps there was an itch for suicide masked beneath. He was selfish and more selfish still. Sadness had lingered on him since boyhood. Everyone here was sad; his sister Magdalene had reminded him. But there was more to this—he had fallen down a well, he had fallen so far down that the ones looking in were barely flickers of light now. He’d found a way out and if that meant giving up what meant the most to get there—that was enough.

But there was one who wanted to know him. There would be many that would want to know him, to love him, to hate him, to split him into three hundred pieces. He would have to steel himself. He was comfortably numb as it were. This was the benefit of never feeling the highest of highs or lowest of lows. The steady drumbeat of the middle was good enough. But this boy—older, handsome—you couldn’t put a face to his name because you knew so few. He was wild, eyes expression. Explosive, even. What was it about the boys of this district, wanting to prove themselves with all the vainglorious pride they could never have? Heathcliff listened to his words and stared. He liked the way the lines creased across the boy’s forehead.

You know that you have more guts than I ever did. But now is not the time to be strong, it's the time to listen good.

There was much to learn. How to get others to like him, how to build his skills at all the weaponry. Would he win the affection of rich capitolites, and better himself than Cricket or Julian? Heathcliff was an ingénue, he was a caterpillar staring down into the abyss. And yet he recoiled. The itch on his skin furthered looking at this boy, listening to what would not be the last of times that he needed wisdom. Who was anyone to tell Heathcliff how to life his life? He crinkled his nose and cocked his head. What a sight indeed.

“Ummm… okay? Who exactly are you?” Heathcliff began, shifting his weight onto his hip. “What is it that you have that’s so important to tell me?” It wasn’t that he believed that he would win but—he had so little time, so little precious time. He would not waste a breath on a conversation that revealed no secrets. “What do you want?"

Made by Frankel