you]logy . eirlys/hyacinth

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you]logy . eirlys/hyacinth Oct 3, 2016 21:33:19 GMT -5

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Post by Deleted on Oct 3, 2016 21:33:19 GMT -5

---

It's a falling.

A rising, a falling, a rising, a- I breath a steady pace. Just like last year. The fur coat around my body, Hyacinth Mortuus, ringing in my eyes; my sister. My Hyacinth, and my nothing when she dies. She won't make it, I know well enough to know the tempts of god doesn't swing in favor of a broken lamb.

If Celia couldn't, Hyacinth can't either.

And that's fine.

My hand greets the knob coldly, stinging almost; the peacekeeper holds contact. Did you just get done fucking her, I wanna say, I wanna beckon in his irises but I keep my lip close. District twelve kids learn that before they learn to breath. Instead I hold fury in my eyes, staring down until he tells me -- "go ahead."

I inhale as much as I can, enough to feel fire in my nerves and fingertips and near the verge of bursting; "Hyacinth Mortuus." The door clicks softly behind me, like injecting a needle into a vein. I don't want emotions, I don't want this last name connecting us.

"It's just business."

There's a reach in my pocket, my finger's fumbling with the contract in my coat -- "on behalf of the Mortuus Hospital, I would like to offer a trade between the two of us." She knows damn well this is one sided, but it's business. It's business, I'm a stranger and she is no sister of mine. "A deal of sponsorships in trade of your organs, just in case you don't--" I inhale between my teeth.

I stare her in the eyes -- I love you.

"Make it.
Out."

Somethings are just better left unsaid.

[ s k e l e t o n ]

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you]logy . eirlys/hyacinth Oct 5, 2016 4:12:27 GMT -5

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Post by Python on Oct 5, 2016 4:12:27 GMT -5

H Y A C I N T H

M O R T U U S ;

She was guarded by men who shared her bed. They stood firmly by the doors, pretending the Justice Building could hold its name. White was a pure color worn by defiled men, and although she could not claim innocence with the black ink in her palms she knew these men did not know what justice truly meant. How dare they stand in this cage and ignore her like she was not a prized jewel. They craved her affection, her attention, her nonexistent smiles. She was a challenge.

Now she was worthless.

She found herself learning against the window, wishing she could see the Square. What had the Peacekeeprers done with her brother? Drag him into a holding cell? Whip him? She didn’t want their grimy hands anywhere near his scars. Let us be, we’ve suffered enough. Yet as the door opened, she knew that wasn’t the case.

Eirlys hovered in, business before pleasure. The glimmer in her eyes warned her that this would not be a warm welcome. Hyacinth straightened herself, eyes trained on the document her older sister – the sole anchor to this family before long – unfolded, and she was too far beyond denial to reject what was written. ”On behalf of the Mortuus Hospital –”

Home.

”– I would like to offer a trade between the two of us.”

Hyacinth had always been property.

She admired Eirlys for respecting their policies. Sisters were no exception to the market, and that was the cruelty of business. It was nothing foreign to her. She would sell herself by daylight, and when the final sun set, she would sell herself in death.

”I accept.”

Her eyes told another tale; desperation. Protect them, please.

She knew damn well nobody else would.

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you]logy . eirlys/hyacinth Oct 5, 2016 22:47:49 GMT -5

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Post by Deleted on Oct 5, 2016 22:47:49 GMT -5

---

"Make it,
out."

The words ring in my ears, taste corrosive in my mouth; like when Celia stepped on the platform for the first time. For the last time. I say the words slowly, a begging. Hyacinth's eyes in mine -- make it out. For whatever god is listening, for whatever one I have to pray to: I need this one. A broken mother, an absent father; Hyacinth was and always is, the last of me.

Of all, the only thing I have.

"I accept."

Right down to the end -- "Hyacinth Mortuus!" The fur of my coat tickles my hand, a million tiny souls brushing lovingly against my very wrist, I should have expected. I should've done something, I swore to myself. I said the same when Celia died, and I don't know how to stop it.

"Very well."

And I stare her in the eyes. I look at every point of her face and I see the sister of mine, my sister. The word of my very lips, the only one -- no matter how many work alongside me, she was truly the only one not under me.

If I could save her, I would.

I picture her face as she's dead.

Gorgeous and chubby cheeks deflated, sunken eyes - black and blue. The red of her skin drawn out onto the battlefield and her body green, blue, grey. The same as Celia's, the knife in my hand freeing every drop of blood left of her onto that table, shaking and stuttering -- careful cuts of my own sister. I have to rip my sister apart.

"All it takes is a signature, as you know." I hand her the pen, the paper from the inner of my coat, my hands shaking and for a second I can't release either. Celia's eyes stare back at me, her skin stained with every missing organ -- I killed her,
I killed her and sold her and burned her and, and-

I got paid.
I drop the pen.

And I'll do it again.

[ s k e l e t o n ]