peggy fray {d1} fin

Lights whisper in the night. They shine, sure, but when I stare up to them through squinted eyes, I am met only by their dimming and murmurs from the past. I remember being told as a child that the fallen become the brightest star—but if we are made of stardust, how can we become it?

And so, I look up to the night and am met with darkness. That is Scout; that patch of black to the side of a constellation made up of the hit and miss of lower districts. Because they are just darkness too, and the glimmer of hope which their comrades have is what illuminates the dark.

They won't let it go; every sunrise and sunset is met with longing eyes. Smiles of reassurance are false and are really just a compilation of broken feelings and lies. I think of it like I know it, like maybe, inside this skeleton is something empathetic and delicate—but everyone knows that being a Fray slots you into a category of brutes and careers, and I am no exception.

They can't be compared to me, to us, for they only know what it feels like to lose. To feel the frustration and be in a constant state of panic and anxiety. Perhaps they didn't have to watch a person train for years to become something beyond human, but they did have to sit in invisible restraints, knowing no words, scream or shout could change fate.

And they don't know is what it feels like to neither gain or lose and just remain whole. To be born and to live, and to stay alive. Justice did that, and it's a strange feeling which is bound to our family now: toxicity and victory. We are essentially poison.

Justice's fate was changed and I don't know how, or why. Changing fate is something that is beyond us, something that is beyond stardust. It's for the world to do, and I don't know how it happened because I've learnt that the world is not always on our side.

One look at Dad and I'm reminded of that. Venomous man who sits in a plaid armchair like a throne, wheezing in the corner as he spits words of judgement and intolerance. He's a product of his own era; the happy memories shared are nothing but plain to him. Nostalgia reduces him to a grunt, and recalling my childhood makes him silent.

He's a mystery, in essence. And part of me feels sorry for him, because whatever made him like this, is permanent. His wings are losing feathers one by one as dawn becomes dusk and I've tried to pick up the pieces and fix him—but not even a career like me can reverse the fall of man.

The other part of me wants to see him become his own victim.

Parts of our status derives from him. But the honest work of yesteryear has lost it's relevance in today's world.

It has taken years of trial and error to reach our position in One. Fray didn't start off as a household name, it took time and dedication to our attack and defence. Fame comes under bittersweet terms too: televised failure tried to snatch glory from our surname, but we are a family tree of legends.

And like legends, we never really die.

Honestly, we owe it to dedication. It's in my blood like it is in my siblings' and cousins'. Specialising in our own fields, mastering our own preferences. I'd chosen the axe before I crawled from the womb, and it has since become my most prized possession. There's something classic about the weapon: simple yet savage. The two words could be used to define me, at times, although I swear I'm much more than a cold-blooded career.

Reckless half of the time, soft-hearted and absent-minded the rest. The two sides clash at times and I'm forced to take the reigns and steer myself into a calmer state. Control over myself is something I'm proud of; I know how to lock up the shit and then let it out when the time is right.

But the hours and months spent training are not the only thing I share with my family, for we are each composed of the same elements which create the typical Fray child: small wrists and blonde hair. Oceanic eyes but a mind like a volcano which is set to erupt at some point. Word on the street says that we are all identical, but really, we are each our own. Beautiful is on lock, but what onlookers don't see are the hidden insecurities. They sit behind flexed muscles and teeth like pearls—I'd know. 

I make myself have a fringe because this forehead is a whole new level of killer.

But we are bred by our ancestors' strength which is multiplied by our effort—us Frays can move physical and mental mountains.

Brutes and masterminds; we really are a sight to behold. A simple education has allowed us each to bloom in a garden of knowledge. Pushing up through the class to reach the top; that takes time and dedication too. The price paid is an ounce of humanity, but when you are at the top of your game and can ready yourself for a war of the worlds, who cares?

I do—not. 

I have conflicting answers to the question. Being both soft and strong is something barely anyone can master, and though I want to let the soft side of me soar, too often it is considered a weakness. I'd show them that it isn't if I had the chance, but from the outside looking in, it's hard to understand.

Worse—from the inside looking out, it's hard to explain.

I'd try though, tongue-tied and as twisted as I am. I'd tell them how I am a girl who bears the Fray name, who bruises and beats in the day and feels in the night.

A skeleton with thick muscle and thin skin; the rest is stardust. Something I don't need to become, it is something that I already am.

Burning fires likes stars between my fingers, but dainty and soft like dust. Stardust—I am.