breaking point // speakers day four

We hurt like wolves.

We fly like butterflies, but we have lost our beauty. Covered in blood, bruises, wounds, gashes; we have been reduced to a collection of parts. Somewhat human, but we're losing ourselves. And that is scary, that is what turns people into the ruthless careers who tear down cathedrals and stop at nothing, nothing at all—in death, they find their life.

In death, I find voices of the fallen. I speak for them know, we all do. It is almost like we made a silent pledge to carry each other on after people died; that is what makes someone admirable, that is what makes someone honourable. With the weight of Anton and Lorenzo on my shoulders, I pray that this doesn't get any heavier.

Because I want Lucas to still be out there. Prayers have a habit of going unanswered, especially when you are a person that doesn't even believe in a higher power—but Ripred, keep him kicking.

All I have now, is Riven. And we're a state, that is for sure, but we are together. Kind of, at least. Riven is missing a leg and it's such a bloody sight, one to make your eyes sore and one to make you turn away out of agony but there is more to life than a body. There's a connection; she and I, me and her, we're friends.

I think.

Although, I don't know if that is a good or a bad thing in this situation. Mum would tell me that trust is a fragile thing. Trust is like walking a pirate's plank. It's treacherous, it's dangerous and if you fall off—there's no coming back.

But that is a risk I am willing to take; it's a risk I have to take. Going it alone is for those on a high horse. Eva may have done it, but I don't know when she will come back, or even if she will come back. It takes nerves of steel, a calm head and hands that don't shake—I could do it, I think, but I have people who have my back.

I can't let it go, not anymore, not after all we have been through.

Times are changing, people are leaving, going, coming, the skies stay as the constant, as illusions, but the melting of my knives signals the dawn of a new day. I sigh, wax dripping through my fingers onto the ground. I respond in the only way I know how, hands scrambling for another crayon in my bag.

I have never been good at drawing, but I like to think that I've got better with time. It's not a fuzzy collection of bendy lines anymore; I've got a steadier hand, a sharper touch and one that has become more lethal, more deadly. I think that it is because that is all I've seen the past few days: brutality.

We know it all too well.

Blades turn to edges, serrated and dangerous; the gold crayon quickly turns into a dark sketch which is brought to life with a breath. One, two seconds and it flashes into reality, my hand wrapped around the long handle as I look forwards towards the golden point at the end. All the others have been perfect—they've kept me alive—here's hoping this one can do the same.

And then we go on, further and further, flying and soaring between the tension which swells thick in the air. The peacefulness after the boy's death has gone now. The air is denser, almost like the world is closing in, slowly but surely, crushing us. Forcing us.

Making us.

Bravery continues with survival and a figure comes from the distance. But I know it, I know him and there is a great sense of warmth that plumes in my stomach, billowing between my bones and blood and making me feel whole again. Just another reject; the only real one I've got left.

I hide a smile by taking my lips between my teeth.

"And here I thought I got the worst end of this deal," his deep voice booms like a cannon, "what the hell happened to you guys?"

There is so much to explain, time ticks down but I am a little girl with strong words; I can make it happen.

"We had a bit of a mare." Mum used to say that she was having a mare when the electricity would blow and all the lights would go out. I think this is a mare that is much worse, though.

I shove my stuff to the ground—that's all it is, really, it is all it will ever be—stuff. A blue-green crayon slides between my fingertips and I colour a long roll of bandages to help me patch myself up. The shading brings it to life and I wrap my wounds up tight to stop wolves from licking at them. It's the little things that do the most because the littlest things can mean the most.

The littlest things can be the best. No, I think, they are the best.

"You don't look too bad, though. Find your boyfriend again?" I rock back and forth on hardened heels; I've heard about what people get up to when their days are numbered and some of it sounds like it bloody hurts. My two front teeth bite down into my bottom lip.

I perch on the ground with crossed legs, leaning against the clutter I've collected. The image of Cricket Antoinette has been scuffed up and bent by time, but I can still hear, feel the message loud and clear. Her picture reminds me that it is possible, it's all possible.

She's living proof, I think. I nod my head slowly because it's the truth.

The portrait of Hera Levelwright tells me that there is a lot more to come, but it assures me that I'm ready. I have to be. We all have to be—that is if, we want to win.

Hera and Cricket threw me to the wolves today, but I came out fighting, I came out alive.

Hera and Cricket threw me to the wolves today, and I think that I came out as one of them.