julian berne | district one | fin

j u l e s ;  

When so much of your life is buried in bullshit and driven down by the minutae, its refreshing to tell them to go fuck themselves. So that's what you do - every afternoon the training devolves into a shouting match and you leave, dropping the axe that feels like an unnatural extension of your arm, like a dead weight that you must shoulder, a corpse that you must carry around for two more years.

("Fuck off, Troy!"
"You say that every day, Jules. See you tomorrow morning!" )

He laughs, a twinkle in his eye and you hate that he is right. You will be back tomorrow. Because even the bullshit of training cannot reach the extent of wrath of your father.

You part with a middle finger raised, your backpack slung over your shoulder and your cap on backwards. Your training tank and shorts wet with sweat as you step out into the streets of District One, you yearn for an out that will never be presented to you. You were born into this, you will die with this mantle on your shoulders. Sculpted by gods (trainers, actually) and molded into a creature of fury, you hate what you are.  

You find joy in nature - the feeling of grass between your toes, the sun beating down on your face. You climb the highest mountains in District One each weekend, looking out towards the Capitol knowing that you are meant to die there. The dust on your favorite trainers the reminder when you're in the gym that the wilderness is calling, that you can shortly break free of the handcrafted rooms and training machines and test your limits, touch the sky. 

Hiking and climbing, you live for the rush of the altitude. You live for the calluses on your hands, the cracks between your fingers as you break open your skin and it repairs itself even stronger. 

This. This. Pushing yourself to the limit without violence.  Seeking silence in the world that is not painted red with blood. This is what you live for. This is what you could die for. 

Your parents couldn't care less that you hate training - your father has sacrificed large swaths of his fortune to make sure you and twin brother, Claudius, could bring glory to the Berne family. A dynasty, your father calls it each night as he toasts to you and Claud.  A dynasty built on a fragile foundation. A house of cards that could blow over at any moment.

You would think after thousands of years, we would’ve learned from their mistakes. You’d think after thousands of years, we’d stop acting like it isn’t our own fault when our hearts stop beating. But you know that humans never learn anything and that this history is going to keep repeating. You're nothing different, even if you think that you are. You think that you are gold and you are. Gold like the blood of the Victors. Of the gods. Gold like the shine of a crown. But it all ends. Its never gonna last forever. Even gold melts and stars flash before dying.

You learned to bite back without getting blood in your mouth, to swing hard without breaking your fists, to hurt without feeling the pain, to set fires without burning yourself down. Forget safety in numbers. There’s only ever been safety in being alone. You think if you ever made it into the Arena that you wouldn't ally with the other Careers. You know you're wrong - you will seek allies. You know there is safety in being alone but you also know that you need them as much as they may need you.

You only ever loved once and he threw it all away. Your heart is a decayed mess and when you reach in and really explore it, you rip out fists full of crushed flowers, leaves and petals flying off in the wind. Your flowers will grow back. Your heart will grow back, but it hurts. The petals tinged with blood as they sprout anew. You thought he was the sun, but he was the scythe. Your tears are rain and you will grow again. You refuse to choke from the rain.

You know how you look and you know how you should look but fuck them and their warped sense of beauty. Your scars, your skin, your hair - that is you and you refuse to bow to the demands of what they think you should look like. Your brown eyes like the worn cover of old books and your hands calloused like pages crumbling to time, but damnit if you aren't strong. You can lift hundreds of pounds and your arms strain under the weight of it all and the weight of your father. Your legs can run miles and you can climb mountains.

You vow to never make that mistake again. You have no more room in your heart for a boy who will kill your flowers and poison your soil. You have yourself and you have space. Silence filling up the days. And that's enough, right?