reggie blume. / district 12 (fin)

Death don’t discriminate
Between the sinners and the saints
It takes and it takes and it takes
And we keep living anyway

---

⎾                                                                            ⏋


R E G I N A L D    W E S L E Y   B L U M E
seventeen  •  aries  •  chaotic good neutral
[ tw; death, suicide ]


⎿                                                                            ⏌

You're all that remains now, a lone survivor, and what's left of your father's legacy is finally within reach—a path you promised your mother you'd never walk—yet here you stand. At a crossroads. Which will you choose? Prodigal son or Momma's boy. 

Are those the only two?

Yes. 

No.

Decide.

I won't.

You will.

---

You're eleven the first time you visit the mines. Legs wrapped tightly around your eldest brother's shoulders, hands clutched to the sides of his face. He talks of monsters, of snarling beasts that roam the tunnels during the night, how it isn't safe for a little boy like you, how he hopes you never follow in his footsteps. But I want to help. Mommy and Daddy need the money. You will yourself brave, steeling your fluttering belly, shaking off the chill sneaking down your spine as your eyes are consumed by the darkness that lies ahead.

That's not for you to worry about, Reggie. 

Isn't it, though?

Riley works twelve hour shifts, along with your father, and Russell, and Ryan—just two years older than you are—but it's never enough. The growling in your stomach, the gnawing hunger, the sunken features, the tired eyes, they all tell a much different story. Anxiety wraps its heavy arms around your slender frame each night, met with a rumbling in your gut. The first thunderous, bass tones of survival roaring one loud, deafening demand. 

Decide.

---

You're thirteen when you drop out of school. It's been six weeks since you've eaten breakfast, even longer since you had more than bread and water for supper. The hard hat fits better than you expected, suiting your soft, filled-with-dreams head in a tragic sort of way, the kind that makes your mother cry herself to sleep at night; you can hear her, trying to muffle her sobs into her pillow on the other side of the cabin.

She's not angry, never, she says, adding on a my sweet boy, as she caresses your cheek. I could never be mad at you. 

Just disappointed, you hear. In a desperate plea to your father when she thinks you aren't listening. The mines are no place for my sweet boy. 

He's not your sweet boy anymore, is all your father says in response, turning his back away from her only to lock eyes with you as you peek around the corner. He's a miner just like his father, aren't you, boy?

Yes, you say, something akin to hubris swelling in your chest for the first time—far too grand for a sweet boy like you to possess. Ego takes root as your father slaps an approving hand to your shoulder, acknowledging his soft, little thing for a son as someone of which to finally be proud. A man he's grateful dons the surname Blume.

When do I start? You ask eagerly, walking up beside him with brows raised, expecting an answer if for no other reason than to prove a point, to show her exactly what you're made of, paying no mind to the way it callously twists the knife you just stabbed into your mother's back.

From that moment on, you will your gaze to never meet hers, avoiding her at all costs. No more bedtime stores, no more lullabies, no more sweet boy. Instead you tunnel your vision toward one goal, shifting all focus to two very important tasks at hand, the only things that matter now: feeding your family and earning your father's praise. 

For a while, it's enough. With your help, your extra hours of back-breaking work hundreds of feet below the surface of the district you call home, you and your family nearly make end's meet. Scrimping and saving, you even earn enough to buy your mother a necklace spotted once Saturday afternoon at The Hob. A silver chain with a rose pendant just for her, a present you wrap carefully and keep hidden beneath your mattress. You'll give it to her the day you quit, at least that's what you tell yourself. When there's finally enough money to keep the family going. 

One day. 

Illness takes her before she can ever open it, taking any and all softness she gifted to you with her. 

---

It's a day like any other, mindlessly making your way to the mines at the crack of dawn, tin lunch box in hand as you trail behind your father and brothers, nothing but silence to share between the five of you. There's no words any more, nothing to be said when there's still work to be done. 

And god there always is, is there not?

Rations dwindle, winters grow colder, and still you all struggle. Even without the extra mouth to fill; and it feels like a sin, betrayal thick in the back of your throat when you think of her this way. With such disrespect and disregard for what she really was, so much more than just someone to feed. But where there's work, there's money to be had, and where there's money, there's food.

You clock in at six, make your way down the elevator, and peel off with Ryan to work on furthering the southern tunnel. That's the last time you see him—well, see his face, anyway. His last screams for help will never leave, though. Arm outstretched through the crumbling Earth above, but it's too late. Something loud and muffled sounds, a distant eruption; you can't tell, you're far too focused on the ceiling collapsing, entombing your brother within seconds. 

The ground quakes, shaking beneath your feet, no choice but to flee as the tunnel threatens to take you, too. Not today, you think as you sprint back the way you came, back toward the family you know you still have left.

Another explosion.

A hard smack to the back of your head. 

Darkness. 

---

You're trapped.

It's been three days since you've seen the sun, felt fresh air on your face, had any food in your belly. You're accustomed to hunger, but it's an entirely different feeling when you know there's no hope. No chance of a rescue, not when you're buried this deep. As hard as you and your brothers worked to survive, as determined as your father made you, it's no match for despondency.

Madness takes Riley first.

He mutters to himself quietly, talking over his shoulder at nothing, as if something is there no one else can see. On the fourth day he waits for the cover of what's to be perceived as night—though it's hard to tell with no real sense of time when you're buried alive—and grabs the gun off the one unfortunate Peacekeeper caught in the collapse and puts a bullet in his mouth. No note left behind, no warning, no chance to react.

He's gone before you can open your eyes, the sight of him lying there lifeless sickly enough to burn away any good memories you had left. 

Russell doesn't make it through the week.

He was always the weakest, you father says, shoveling the last little pile of dirt atop his grave.

A part of you agrees with him, the evidence clear as you stand there, still alive. Starvation was never any match for you; you learned to live with hunger long before it tried to end you and your brothers, and this surely wouldn't be the last time it raised its fists to the likes of you. 

It takes your father next, features gaunt and lips dry, you wake to find him lifeless beside you. He lasted seven days. Longer than any of your brothers, longer than most of the other men trapped, but not longer than you. 

---

Resilience is all you know now, all that's left of you.

That, and a name.

Blume.

Some would say synonymous with survival, like a dog caught in a trap, you thrash against any and all constraints. if for no other reason than you demand to live another day, to see the light once more, to sate the hunger that's made a permanent home within; but to you it's just a name. And a useless one at that.

What does it even mean now that you're alone? 

What shall it stand for now that everyone you shared it with is gone? 

You dug your way out, left so many pieces of yourself behind, but you made it. 

Now what?

Decide.

---

And if there’s a reason I’m still alive
When everyone who loves me has died
I’m willing to wait for it

⌖⌖⌖⌖⌖⌖


WHEN THEY DIED
THEY LEFT NO INSTRUCTIONS
JUST A LEGACY TO PROTECT