Blood staining sleeves and the smell of pressed starch. Perfectly coifed lapels and a set if platinum cuff links. The taste on your tongue that comes with being a constant disappointment. Decades, or maybe even centuries old scotch being poured down the drain. Resentment for a people who have shown you nothing but cruelty. The city skyline twinkling at night and blossoming trees locked away in a heart long ago forgotten. Darkness where light should have seeped in.
If beauty is terror, then it is no wonder you were such a fascinating child.
You were a silver-haloed god come forth from the depths of the world to show the people of District One what it meant to be glorious. Even as a small little thing, it was like all you were capable of being made up of was languid grace and a haughty chin, shoulders always straight. It was like you knew all along that you would need to be a soldier at attention before you even knew what it meant to relax, before you could learn what it should have meant to be part of a family.
Before you should have learned what it meant to be loved.
Your family is proud, almost to a fault, with heads held high and shirt sleeves always settled just so. Maybe it's just how the world works, how One works, but they are no different. Your father, a man who knows coldness as intimately as he knows success, someone manages to make sure that you are never afforded the hearth you think, just maybe, that you deserved all along. Your father is concerned with only a careful number of things: fame, fortune, and glory, and he expects even more from his only child.
Which is more tragic, you wonder to yourself in the dead of night: to have felt love’s sweet caress and to have lost it? Or to have never felt the warmth of love at all?
You've has never been able to compare the two, but you suspect it’s the latter.
You can't put a name to the problem, have never quite been able to understand why life was the way that it was for you as a child, but there you stand, ever the disappointment. You were never quite able to be enough for your father, never quite number savvy enough to impress an unimpressable man, never quite cruel enough to drawn a smile across your father’s cheeks. It never mattered how many fights that you won, never mattered how many times you tried to volunteer for the games, never mattered that time and time again you spit blood onto the marble floors like a champion.
You were not enough.
For that was all that you understood, cruelty and coldness and diamonds—these were the things that made up the marrow of your father, and anything else was out of the question. And for all that you tried, desperately, helplessly, terribly—that was something you could never quite commit to, always just slightly too soft. It didn’t matter when you spent hours mastering the traditions of combat, or when they spend hours studying their textbooks cover to cover and then back again. You were a god's child, but not quite god enough, and like a raven-haired harbinger of death, your father condemned you time and again the moment you showed any sign of weakness, the moment you showed a sign of being anything but perfect.
The beginning of the end for you starts when you are on the cusp of becoming an adult, a mere seventeen years old, just beginning to learn what it is to grow up, what kind of a person you must become in order to perhaps finally gain, if not your parents love, then at the very least some degree of their respect. You think that you're starting to work your father out, starting to understand and come to terms with the idea that you will never be enough.
You have already begun to fall out of grace with your parents, a father too cruel to command your respect and a mother too soft to teach her husband what it was to be a good father. Not that you blame her, not really, not in any way that lingers with you still. She loved him, and you think that in his way maybe he loved her, but she never stood up for you and he loved to kick you to the ground.
Neither knew how to deal with your burgeoning teenage rebellion.
Tired, down to the bone exhausted by the endless disappointment, endless criticism, endless want, you pour a decades years old bottle scotch down the kitchen sink. You pop the cork on a bottle of bubbly and get it all over the ornately embroidered fabric covering the cushions. You show up to charity events with your tie undone and liquor on your tongue. You are a Kim, and you are meant to be perfect, the mirror image of the cruel man who has done anything but raise you, and somehow you are anything but.
But then he comes at you.
He lashes out at you at the end of the night, waits until all of you are back at home and then brings his hands to your neck, shoves his knuckles into your cheeks and expects you to do nothing, to say nothing, to take it like a Kim and move on, learn a lesson and become something better, become something worse, become something terrible. But hadn't he taught you better than that? To never take a hit lying down? Hadn't he taught you that your knuckles were crafted from diamonds and that your teeth were made to bite? So you did just that—you bit back. When he lifts his fists to you, you meet him with your own. And when he ends up dead, the press talk about it for weeks, call it self-defense and you live on in infamy as the boy who killed his father and inherited an empire.
And what are you now?
The man who's father trained him too well. The man who's father didn't train him well enough.
The man who lost nothing.
The boy who lost everything.
Last Edit: Aug 14, 2019 23:48:35 GMT -5 by kaitlin