damea vennable | district three | fin

damea ;

Try as she might, Damea Vennable could not sort out the real memories of her brother from dreams and stories she had been told about him. His face had been reduced to nothing more than pictures in a scrapbook and ghosts of memories everyone older got to have.

"You're so much like him," Mer would say, braiding Damea's hair over her left shoulder just the way she liked it, "I see him in your eyes all the time." Caramel colored broken promises stared back at her, the scars on her feet seeming to grow weighted. She always had a fear of fire, but the one who stole her parents away from her was yet another life-changing moment she did not remember.

When her father wasn't there to teach her how to ride a bike, Drake was supposed to take his place. And after his death, there wasn't supposed to be anyone left, and she had been grateful that Vexter had taken on the role. A stranger among strangers in a house with a past no one was comfortable explaining to her: Drake's girlfriend and his best friend found solace in each other, and raised her the best they could. That was all she needed to know, apparently.

But she never knew how right Meredith was in saying Damea was like her brother. Card games in smoke-filled rooms, someone's rent money lining her pockets as she made her way down the street with a prideful smile on her face, and a charming allure that was always ultimately outweighed by her desperate fear of sharing her heart with someone.

Even when she moved out and got her own apartment, Mer and Vex were frequent guests. Vex would bring her food and accidentally leave a wad of cash on her coffee table; Mer would just try convincing her to move back home.

"We would be happy to have you, Damea. You know that."

But it was time for her to grow up, and she had already depended on too many people in her eighteen years to have realistically made it this far. How she had was a miracle, but she had. And that was what mattered most. She would just smile politely from her place on the couch.

"I'll think about it," she would say, despite both of them knowing her mind was made up.

"I just don't understand. Sweetie, if money is an issue—" She would try. Damea would always stop her.

"It's not."

Truth be told, it was. There were days when she doubted she would be able to afford her rent, and she would go out every night, flashing a golden grin at some young bouncer who hoped it would mean something more so she could get into clubs, and she would head straight to the back, quick fingers and a neutral expression as she was dealt her first hand of cards of the evening.

She was met with some decisions in the form of Kit Cross and his rich parents, when they approached her with a contract she would sign in blood. Live with them, make money for them as long as possible, get the cash payout when it was all said and done. She would have been set for life if she got through it, but if she didn't, her life was the price. Rags to Riches in its purest form.

She took in a deep breath by the fire place a week later, staring at the pristine documents. Dexter and Val would have killed her themselves if they ever found out, there was no denying it. As she scribbled her name across the dotted line, she made a choice.

"I guess I just won't tell them."

————————

"You're so much like him."

She must have heard it a thousand times in her life, and her replies had grown as she had.

"I doubt it."

"Poker face Damea doesn't have quite the same ring, though."

"Guess not."

And then, as she sat across Mr. Cross at dinner one night, and he looked at her very seriously, she heard it once again. "Your brother won my watch once, you know." She tried to avert her eyes while everyone else in the room looked her way. "Beat me in poker. Hopefully, you share his affinity for lies and deception."

Temper flaring, she gritted her teeth and offered a forced smile.

"Oh, don't you worry," she braved,
"I'm better."