There's Holes in My Soul // [Lorenzo Ruined's Last]

It only gets more shit when the enemy appears from nowhere; Fallon and Tamron turn up, but I don't feel the same rage. There's no anger, no fear weaved into passion, no need to wear my sweater of self-belief and courage. It's a truce, and it'll last as long as this body does.

We're accompanied by the dead, it's only right that we reflect the peace we see scribbled across his face. So we stand and sit with our arms by our sides, our legs still in the wind. I'm not a weapon in this moment, and they do put up their fists with pride. Our fire tongues have been cut out and replaced by snowflakes.

And in this moment, it's simple but innate; we have respect.

Salome speaks once more but no petty accusations are thrown anymore; Lucas has learnt his place in this bitter and cruel world.

"I don't know who did. I heard him calling out. I didn't want him to..." She's struggling, I know it. "To be alone." I figure that he will never be alone, not any more. He had a sister who fought before, she put up a brave fight, I heard people talking about it back in the Capitol. They will be together—and that's a much needed comfort in the chaos.

"I'm sorry for your loss," and then her words run dry. Breaths become movements, and slowly, she disappears into the illusion of a manor that possesses traits of trickery and taint. I sit beside the body, continuing to pull out the grass as I watch her go.

She is replaced by the feminine body of another: Eva Hope. There is war between her fingers and a fire that burns through her bloodline back to her sisters; I feel like I know her and she knows me. There's a bridge built between us and we don't know who did it—but it is there and we take advantage.

It's better than turning it to ash out of grief. Grief is a bad thing.

She slips food between my palms. Mum told me that sometimes eating was the only way out. It takes your mind off of things and sets you free from the pain you are chained to. Part of me could do with stuffing my face just to forget, but I told myself that I would remember.

I make it a promise, right here, right now. One look at the cold that is taking Lorenzo's body by storm and I promise myself not to forget. I'm not going to walk away like Salome, I'm going to stay. I'm brave now, I've saved myself from ghosts and burnt away the hell that was beginning to break loose.

I'm brave, I tell myself, and I'm right.

Man and woman talk from the other side of the body. Lucas and Eva reassure each other, and I think that there isn't anything else more perfect than a broken woman for a broken man. It's no fairy-tale but it's a story; I always preferred stories over fairy-tales anyway.

But hearts split and Lucas treks away. He gives no warning, only soft words to plump the pillow beneath the body's head. And then he turns, taking the scene in his stride before following in Salome's footsteps and wading out of the thick of the shit and into the unknown.

Grief has got him too. I'm sure of it.

The broken man is stepping on an eggshell world hoping it won't break. I sigh, pulling grass from the ground repeatedly, throwing it to my left and right.

No, I tell myself. I'm brave.

"People are leaving, Lorenzo. But I'm staying." The corners of my mouth perk up. "All the time, okay?" 

My hands slither to the crayons tucked between the seams of my uniform. The colours remind me of the beauty in the catastrophe that happened hours ago; the empty side of me taking control and forcing myself to get comfortable with my reality. That's all fighting is, really, something you just have to get comfortable with.

I put the darkness to the bare ground, drawing a series of lines and curves. I am a weapon, a legend of my own making, but who is going to protect Lorenzo now that he is lifeless? Lines meet, curves bend until eventually—darkness becomes her.

Eva was right, but by Ripred, how is this even possible? I do not dare to recreate memories from my childhood of drawing on the living room walls only to have my mother scrub at it for hours—it'll come to life and just squiggle itself out the door.

I look down to the weapon, eyes wider than a full moon; there is a hand to hold as the handle, and a tall, long blade extending from the base. A sword; it's like the ones I'd seen in the books my mother would read me. It's a sword from the stories where the hero would not always win, and where death was just a sentence on a page.

"Look, Lorenzo. It's real! Friends don't lie."

Another crayon that came down in the rain with the photographs of Cricket Antoinette and Hera Levelwright graces my fingertips. A dirty red, a brick red moves through the grass to form a hip flask. It's just like the one my mother used to have: it even has the lip to tuck photographs into—I take Cricket and Hera in my hands and slip them into the space. It's perfect, I think.

It reminds me of her, Mum—and I know it should be painful, but I don't feel anything. I burnt her.

I meant it.

"It's all real!" I tell the body, but he's fading.

It's all real, but he isn't going to be.

I sit with the sword by my side and the hip flask tucked into my uniform. Broken crossed legs; I continue to pull up grass from the ground.

It's still shit, but it's a little less shit. Just a little.

table by dars