harlow youngblood / d2 / fin

I didn’t let Mom and Dad come to her funeral. It felt disrespectful after everything they’d done, after how awful they’d treated her. They weren’t allowed to show up and pretend that they loved her. When I told Kelly and Rory I didn’t want them to come, they agreed with me. They hadn’t been spared from the wrath of our parents, either.

I remember the day they kicked me out. All the words they hurled at me— disgusting, failure— bounced off of me like a rubber ball a child might throw at a wall. I’d grown a thick skin over the years. Nothing they said could hurt me anymore. What hurt worse was the way Delaney clung to me, begging me not to go.

Leaving my siblings behind had been hard. They’d always been closer with each other than me, being triplets and all, but still, we loved each other nonetheless. I’d always secretly been afraid that they hated me, since Mom and Dad held me up as the perfect child. I was their star career, the ideal daughter, the one destined to bring glory to our family. All it was was a dream, and one I didn’t want any part in.

When I left, they projected that dream onto Delaney instead. She’d always been tough as nails, that girl, and now she was going to be their perfect daughter. I felt terrible knowing that my absence had forced her into that position, but I had to leave. She understood that. I had hoped that, one day, she would be able to leave too. Nobody should have lived in that house. Our parents were so obsessed with making themselves look good that they treated us like shit.

Mom and Dad had wanted me to volunteer, but I refused. There was always a fear in the back of my mind that they would eventually make one of my siblings volunteer. Delaney hadn’t volunteered. Her name had been pulled out of the reaping bowl. If I could have volunteered for her, I would have. She took it so well, talking about how she was going to make all of us proud, but I was terrified. I knew she was strong enough to win, but you could never be sure of your odds once you entered the arena.

I was lucky. I outgrew the Reaping before my name could be called, escaped my family’s home before I could be forced to volunteer. For two years, my life was simple. I moved into a little studio apartment in the heart of the District with my girlfriend. I grew plants, drank tea, devoured books. When I wasn’t at home, I was in the library. I learned that I preferred being quiet over being the person I’d been raised to be. There was a difference between strength and violence. I had finally found it.

Now, I’m just sad. I lost my sister. Is there any other way I’m supposed to be? She had been so sure of herself, and she made it so far, but in the end, it wasn’t far enough. I don’t blame her killer— she was a career too, just doing what she’d been trained to do. Still, I can’t stop myself from wishing it had ended differently. You can’t blame me for that.

I’m trying to find a bigger place now, so the boys can move in with us. We hadn’t spoken in a bit, but at Delaney’s funeral, we stood guard together, just in case our parents decided to show their faces where they weren’t wanted. I know they’re hurting too. I wish I had the right words to say to them, but I don’t. I’ve never been good at comfort. None of us have. How are we supposed to be good at something we were never given? All I can do is try to get them out of that house. Maybe then, we can learn together.