ellie wolfsheim-delacroix} nine {fin

I said, "Fuck it all," and so I did. Everything was fucked anyways — it always was from the start.
I couldn't say that I left; there was nothing to leave.

And when I did go, I took anything there was with me, even Charon and Achlys.

("We can't stay here anymore."

"Where would we go?"

"There's somewhere I know."

"Ellie, will you miss home?"

"We never really had one.")

But maybe that's okay. "Home is where the heart is" — well then I guess mine was lost for eighteen years. (But maybe that's okay.)

My father is a drowned himself down in a bottle, and my mother is lost somewhere up beyond the clouds. I don't remember much about her — I was four when she died. I know that she was beautiful, and that she looked like I do. Golden hair, dark, almost copper-toned, eyes, skin sun kissed a deep tan. There's a photo of her, only one, that sat on the mantel of the fireplace in my old house. (I have it now.) It's a little faded black and white image of her when she was younger, about my age or a little older. When I was little, I would look at that photo and think that I wanted to look like that when I grew up.

Back in those days, I never saw what was wrong with my family. I never noticed my father's frown when he looked at me, the bitterness he would have dark in his eyes. I saw the bottles all over the counter, under the couch, on the floor. But my mind was too innocently naive to draw connections between the bottles and my father's bad habit of falling asleep too early on the floor.

My sisters and I would collect the bottle glass we would find on our floors, on the porch, outside the windows, and sometimes in the yard. We thought they were jewels and we'd grin when we found them, hold them up in the light to look at them glint. The green were emeralds, the blue were sapphires, and the gold or brown were amber.

When we realized the real reason why there were pieces of bottles around our house, we felt sick.

My father never hit us, unlike other alcoholic father I heard of. But he wasn't exactly kind to us, either, nor was he a good father in the slightest. It was always me, the oldest, who was taking care of us. After my mother died, I took her place. I became the mother.

Hopefully I raised Charon and Achlys, my two younger sisters, to be better than I am.
Hopefully.

My father was never the same after my mother died. She gave her life so that her child could be born — Persephone, her name was. (Or Percy, as Calypso and everyone else called her.) She wasn't my father's biological child, and neither am I, or Charon. Achlys, two years my junior, is the only true child of my father.

I have always wondered about who and what I would be if I was given to my biological father, Johnathan Delacroix, like Percy was. My father didn't exactly want Charon or I, perhaps not even Achlys. He said he gave Percy away because we couldn't afford to take care of another child — which I don't doubt; there were three kids, and that was enough mouths to feed.

And that was always the problem — finding the money for food for my sisters and I. My father's job at the factory certainly wasn't enough, and when he died, matters got even worse. (And when he died, we hardly batted an eye; our main concern was how we were going to survive.) I would scavenge and steal, starting at the age of thirteen. Charon joined me once she was old enough, and she was especially keen on thievery. The idea of getting caught always scared me shitless, but Charon doesn't feel that at all. Charon would call me a wimp, but I think some fear is healthy.

I was always more level-headed than her, anyway.

There was always this one Peacekeeper who patrolled the Square at night, when we'd usually steal from the shops. We called him Nightwatcher. He was a young man, new at his job and eager to prove himself, so he would take the night shifts.

It was a game to Charon when she was younger — even when she was sixteen, sometimes I thought it still was to her. Objective: Avoid Nightwatcher, get away with the most loot possible. Whoever got the most was the winner.

But it was risky, that was the thing; I've seen what happens to those who get caught.

After years of stealing from the shops in the Square and nearly getting caught more than enough times, I thought of a permanent source of income.

I ran into Nightwatcher at the bakery once, only about a half a year go, before I turned eighteen. I know that look, the one men give girls when they want to see them without their clothes on — and that's just how he was looking at me.

And I found myself not recoiling from it.

I was used to fucking men with empty promises and bad intentions. I never cared, and I liked the way that sex felt — it made me feel confident. I liked being able to grin and say how many men I've fucked. Sex means nothing, it's just a casual interaction, and it feels good — so why not do it all you want?

Why not? — and so I did.

In the night, when he would have usually been patrolling, I'd be in his bed, allowing Charon to easily steal from the shops. It was meant to be a distraction, at first, and I didn't mind fucking him, using my body to get what I want.

It started with that, with Nightwatcher. But with Charon's bigger heists, the shopkeepers began to notice, and more Peacekeepers began to patrol the Square.

"We can't steal with all those Peacekeepers hanging around."

"I know, Charon. I guess I can't fuck every Peacekeeper there, dammit."

"You could."

"What?"

"You could fuck them for money, I mean. Peacekeepers are horny fuckers; they're not allowed to marry, you know. A lot of men in District Nine don't have much money, but Peacekeepers do."

"Wouldn't you miss stealing?"

"Yeah, but it's not that big a deal. It'd be safer this way, wouldn't it?"

"It would but —"

"You don't have to, Ellie. We could figure out another way to get money."

"It's — it's okay, I — I think I could do it. Especially if it means we can get by."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

I can admit that I was reluctant at first, but selling my body was an easy way to make good money, and sex didn't mean much to me anyway. I count my blessings that enough men think I'm pretty, because if I wasn't, my family wouldn't have food on the table.

So that was it — that was who I became. The girl who fucked Peacekeepers for their money so her family could eat. But maybe that's okay. It became easier as I did it more and more — the first time, I hesitated before accepting the money and reevaluated my life decisions before taking my clothes off.

They became my Peacekeepers — my Peacekeepers, and I'd grin; I like the sound of that. I had them wrapped around my finger, always wanting more, never having enough. It certainly kept the flow of money constant.

Sometimes, if I found them unattractive, I would just imagine that I was fucking Nightwatcher or another hot guy, and I could get through the night. What mattered was the cash in the end, really.

. . .

And then everything was turned upside down.

I had always known that Charon and I had another full-blooded sister, Percy, who was given to our biological father as a baby, but I was four when she was born. We didn't have a connection with her, we didn't know her.

But then she volunteered for the 73rd Games.

I felt sorry for her, I did. But I couldn't cry for a girl I didn't know. She was just another face into the sky to me, only she stood out just a little bit more.

My mother gave her life for Percy's, and then Percy gave hers for her friend from Six. She died in vain — he only lived to see another day.

Things did change after her death, though I thought it would mean nothing. Percy's sister and caregiver, Calypso Delacroix, who was the leader of a notorious gang in District Nine, tracked my sisters and I down. She had been seeking out her relatives, and noted that she was particularly thrilled to find relatives, even full sisters, of Percy.

She offered us a bigger house, a better life, more than food on the table and a roof over my head. She said she'd teach us how to fire a gun and that we'd be invincible, just like her. It seemed better than what we had now — a cramped, rickety little house that looked as if a gust of wind could blow it over.

We accepted her offer. Charon and I fit right in with the Delacroixs, with our skills in thievery and ability to think on our feet. Achlys had a bit more trouble adjusting than we did, but each of us struggled to fire a gun and throw a punch.

I kept my favor with the Peacekeepers, and I thought that perhaps it could be useful to Calypso.

"Any Peacekeeper who turns their head gets paid off. Sometimes it's a bit — pricey, but bearable."

"I could help make it more bearable."

"Are you sure? We —"

"I've been doing this for a while. I'm sure."

While Charon and Achlys are practicing on targets with their pistols, I'm out getting fucked. I'm not the greatest at firing guns or negotiating deals, but I do know how to charm the pants off of men and fuck them until they just forget all about the tip they received or what they saw.

So that's it — that's who I am.

At least I'm somewhat useful to the Delacroixs, and that's all that matters. And most importantly, my family is more than safe and sound. We thrive with the Delacroixs — at last, we have a home.

("Do you ever miss home, Ellie?"

"This is our home.")