darkness, heart bruising | dominic, night 5

Dominic should’ve known it was time to stop when more vodka trickled down his chin rather than the back of his throat, but still with trembling hands he tipped the bottle to his lips again. Each sip was the last one, he would swear it to anyone who asked, but even when he set the bottle on the ground he would just pick it right back up again. It had been daylight when he first opened it, and now the starless sky loomed overhead, reminding him that the only constellation he wanted to see had faded away.

Alcohol is for livening up the mood, his father had told him once, swatting little Dominic’s hands away from the deep green bottles on the high shelf. Makes people more relaxed and open. If that was the case, why did the fire inside Dominic’s chest only seem to creep higher with each drop he poured atop it?

He had never been the confrontational type. Back home, fights were never personal, even when someone who loathed everything he represented threw hatred at him or someone better than him made sure that he knew it. It hurt, but he was never the true target. He would rather slink back into the shadows than let anyone know what their words meant to him.

But here, there was no shadow, no shelter, and everyone could see him all the time. They saw things become personal. Dominic could convince himself that the blonde girl had deserved it, that a shattered foot was just punishment for taking a life, but he knew deep down that it wasn’t. She had done nothing. It wasn’t personal to him when Kestrel died, but it meant something to Callum, who he had spent so long trying to convince that he was only doing what he had to. When he had killed Xander’s father - left a child without a parent, just like him - it wasn’t Cyro he had wanted dead.

Dominic remembered the mask, how he had made it split in two. How at the time he had brushed it off as just an impulsive decision. How Pisces had reassured him that killing the mutt was something that he had to do, and how Dominic didn’t say that that wasn’t what he was truly upset about. Dominic wanted to be free from his father’s watchful eyes, not constantly wondering if the man was sizing up his form or scrutinizing his choices or asking why the hell his son was looking at someone from a lower district like he had never seen anything more beautiful.

He had spent every hour in the arena trying to hide his flaws from the cameras, trying to play along like Jade for the sake of his father, but he couldn’t. Every word exchanged in that Justice Building had been dishonest. He was not victor material. He was a liar, and afraid, and he couldn’t play the people pleasing game any longer than he already had.

Who was he beyond everything he had been prescribed to be?

Dominic put the bottle to his lips again, this time spluttering from the amount of liquid that filled his cheeks. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, sugar and thick saliva coagulating on his skin. The bottle clinked as he drove it downwards into the mud, pushing himself to his feet. Almost immediately he stumbled backwards, bracing his shoulder against a nearby tree.

"Shit," he said under his breath, taking a few wobbly steps forward. Even as Dominic’s mind painted a straight path ahead of him, his feet had other plans, zigzagging back and forth under the trees. His body lurched forward with each step he took away from Zenia and Jade, walking further into the cloud of petals and thorns.

He didn’t have a destination, really. He just needed to move, to feel something other than stagnation. Some unsteady yards later, the edge of the water came into view, and Dominic stumbled toward it with determination. Soon he was staring at his own rose-tinted reflection, interrupted by the occasional petal floating by. He already had scars when he came, but the way his body stung when he least expected it told him that there would be more that the water didn’t show. And that was even before taking the emotional toll into account.

Dominic watched himself feel for the scar on his neck, partially covered by the cape tied around him. Who was this person? Who did he want to be? His mirror did not provide any promising answers.

He missed swimming. He missed feeling free and being able to dwell in his thoughts without half of them revolving around death.

Suddenly, the knot tied around his neck, damp with alcohol and spit and sweat, felt like it was suffocating him. Dominic fumbled to untie it, peeling the fabric away and tossing it to the side. He closed his eyes and rolled onto the balls of his feet, allowing himself to fall forward into the pond with a splash. The water weaved around him, tugging at his clothes as he sank into the dusty pink depths. Dominic’s eyes snapped open, and his limbs flailed wildly around him. He absently opened his mouth for air only to receive a mouthful of water, and he tried his hardest not to swallow. Need air.

He looked at the sky rippling above him and clawed his way up to the surface, gasping once he broke through the barrier. His limbs were heavy and threatened to drag him down again, but he managed to drag himself to shore. Dominic coughed as he hauled himself onto the earth, hands slippery with mud and petals clinging to his sleeves. He wasn’t sure how long he laid at the edge of the water, but at some point he realized he was shivering.

Dominic sat up on his knees and reached for his cape, wrapping it hastily around his shoulders. He wobbled to his feet once more, starting on the trek back to camp. Once he had located the sleeping forms of his allies, he dug through his backpack for the bundle of sticks he had picked up in some other part of the arena and got to work on a fire. Its warmth and soft crackling were welcome, and in time his shivers began to dissipate.

He took the time to go through his backpack, tossing away what he didn’t want and dropping some damp, smelly meat on the fire that hopefully wouldn’t poison him with how old it was. He found the postcards he had saved from the cornucopia, the corners wrinkled and kaleidoscopic from the storm that had passed through. At the bottom of the pack was the wadded letter he’d received from his mother, and he cautiously drew it out from the rubble.

Dominic peeled open the wad, allowing himself to remember her words again. She wanted to see the person he had become - a person who was undoubtedly different from the one borne into this arena. The letter made him ache all over, made him long for a timeline where she had been around and he’d get to grow old with her. But that was not his reality, no matter how much he craved it. He missed her, no matter how angry he was at her.

He wanted to be someone worth coming back to.

Dominic found the near-empty bottle of vodka and dumped out the residue before setting it in his lap. He rolled up the letter length-wise, squeezing it into the neck of the bottle and watching it unfurl against the glass. The cap squeaked as he sealed the bottle shut.

He was not in this for the glory. He never had been. But he wanted to live to see the other side, or at least see one of his friends make it there. He would make sure of it.

His death would be for his mother as much as his life would be.

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