letters to the members of elysium.

Tonight is the fifth night in a week I've woken up gasping for air. Drowning in a pool of boiling blood, breaking and suffocating beneath collapsing ceilings, burning to death in molten gold, acid eating away at my skin, a sword swinging skillfully at my head--

My head whirls around as someone knocks on my door.

"Justice?"

As soon as I recognize Opal's voice, I exhale and unfurl my hand from the whiskey bottle I had instinctively latched onto. I take a deep shuttering breath and flip on my lamp.

"I'm fine," I say, rubbing the sleep away from my face as I swing my leg over the edge of the bed. "Didn't mean to wake you."

Because I do know that's why she is knocking. I've been screaming in my sleep again. And Ripred knows the Training Center has thin walls to promote "scandal."

"Really, I'm fine, I'm going right back to sleep," I say as I slide my prosthetic on. "Goodnight."

I know she doesn't believe me, but she doesn't protest either as I hear her footsteps disappear down the hall. As soon as I hear her door click shut I grab my whiskey bottle again, leaning forward with a groan. My arm aches where it broke, something they said they'd completely healed. But I still feel it in my movements. I still hear my bone cracking beneath Achilles' war hammer...

("What's there left to do but give in, Fray? Haven't you already failed them all?")

I press the whiskey bottle to my temple, until the sound of her voice stops ringing in my ears. Except when I close my eyes I hear Pillar—("It's not ending here for me.")—as she lights her sword with a whoosh and a hiss, her face illuminated in my mind before the flames lash at my skin. I jump to my feet, tripping into my nightstand, struggling to keep my lamp from toppling over.

("Your mum should have swallowed you.")

I don't even hesitate. I throw the whiskey bottle as hard as I can in Scout's direction, her very existence in front of me enough to send fear coursing through my veins. But all it takes is a single blink of the eyes and she's gone, just as dead as she has been for the last two years. A piece of glass lands in front of my toes; I sigh.

My knee gives out and I sink to the floor. The glass shards shimmer in the light, the puddles of whiskey disappear between the cracks in the floor. I let my head fall forward into my hands as the voices in my head grow quiet for the night. What's wrong with me? Why couldn't the memories have just died right along with them?

I move slowly as I pick up the mess I made. I see my reflection in the dark glass. A tired, deranged boy with a chin that could use a shave looks back at me with a thousand ghosts swarming around his head. No one will ever see them, but they're there to stay. They've attached themselves to the tines on my crown, nagging me, taunting me, hissing—"Remember me!"—as if I haven't been doing that with every breath I take. Even in sleep I can't escape them. They've blocked off every exit; I'm trapped within my labyrinthine mind.


"Ah!"

My finger catches against the edge of a piece of glass, sending droplets of blood everywhere. I stick my finger in my mouth, the taste of blood familiar, but not all that comforting. I toss what glass I've gathered in the garbage bin, moving to my bathroom in search of a bandage. I ruffle through the various medications until my hand falls against soft, worn paper edges.

("O-Once-- once upon a t-t-time...")

I chuckle as tears rise hot and fast to the corners of my eyes. I swallow the lump in my throat, reaching a bit farther until I feel the leather belt that accompanies it. I pull both items free of their hiding places, letting them fall into the sink.

I stare at myself in the mirror in the hopes that maybe my reflection will convince me that I can look at Scout's sketchbook and Roger's belt. Instead my eyes just get glassier as more tears arise. I bite my lip, look away and shake my head. "Come on, man, don't be such a fucking pussy," I murmur to myself, as I steady myself against the porcelain sink.

And with a single deep breath--

I look.

And the world doesn't crumble around me. Time doesn't stop. My heart keeps beating. And the voices and memories—silent. One deep breath. Inhale, exhale. Another. I reach out, running my fingers over the jagged letters—the name—carved into the belt. I was just on the other side of that acid puddle when he notched that name into his belt. I was right there, but--

I pick up the sketchbook and close my eyes. I still haven't looked. I don't think it'll ever be my place to look at the drawings she left inside, but I love the way the pages feel when I flip through them. I love the way they are wrinkled from use and I love the way they smell. So I let my thumb flip through until the very first blank page. I know because it is crisper than all the others. Flat, clean, untouched.


("There was a fair maiden, the fair-fairest in all--")


("Did you enjoy it?")



("Did she deserve it, Fray?")



("I bet it didn't mean a thing to y--")


My fingers close around the piece paper and it tears free of the binding. I blink in horror, my hands shaking as I pull the paper free, the cut on my finger leaving a bloody fingerprint on the parchment. And I know it's irrational and I know it's the most ridiculous thing, but it feels like I've killed her, them, everyone all over again.

"I'm sorry, sorry, so sorry, s-sor--," I whisper loud enough for no one but my own reflection to hear.

Because I'm still just a coward. The ghosts in my head aren't keeping me trapped. I'm just too afraid to try and find my way out of the misery.

("I'll be waiting for you, Fray. For when you finally get what you deserve...")


I breathe in deep, glancing out of the window to where the statue garden stands illuminated in the darkness by a few sparse torches.

I snatch the sketchbook and the belt from the sink and transfer them to my bed as I rummage through my dirty clothes bin for pants and socks. I don't even bother buttoning my shirt or putting on shoes as I rush to leave. I scoop up the belt, the sketchbook, and snatch the pen from my bedside table before switching off my lamp.