no eres tú . de la cruz

luca de la cruz

estimated time: year of the 1st Hunger Games

Your gaze doesn't waver from the movement of his lips as he tells the group about the future of the Drifters, your future. His words sink into your skin, invading your every thought and permitting your heart to beat. It's only been a few months since you met your preacher, your leader, Drift, but his lack of animosity towards you, or anyone else around the campfire for that matter, leads you to believe that he's been in your mind all along. Everything he speaks is somehow all you've desired: a resolution to the chaos, the hate, and the ugliness that war and violence brings into the world.

{"And when we're not seen as the fringe, we'll build a community right here, in these woods. It won't be much, but we don't need much. All we need is each other to survive and thrive."}

You keep an eye on Ander, your brother as he chips the bark off of a fallen branch towards the outside of their camp. He still doesn't seem to trust the group, at least not as much as you do. You want to grab him by the wrist and pull him closer so he can listen but that would only associate the two of you. Drift stressed the idea of dissociation from those you care about, for the sake of the community. And if you can't dissociate, shift your attention somewhere else. The sum is stronger than its parts alone. You return your attention back to Drift, who kneels close to the fire now to keep warm.

One of the other Drifters left yesterday. You tried to convince him to stay, for the group's sake, but the boy just called you a colorblind fool who couldn't tell the difference between red and green. Running through a red light because you mistake it for green, he said, was like shooting off a gun before you see the enemy. He criticized you for staying. {"Charisma is a curse for those who are poisoned by it."} He was referring to Drift, the leader. {"A man like that can piss on you and tell you it's raining, and you would accept that, mouth open wide."} After he left, you told Drift what had happened. He paused for a minute before taking both his hands and placing them firmly on your shoulders. He said you were strong, and your faith was worth more than a hundred dissenters.

{"Just stay strong, Drifters. Heaven on Earth doesn't happen overnight,"} he says, before inviting one of the boys to feed the flames with more fire. He concludes for the night and walks back to the trees where his hammock rested. You follow him back there, alongside a few of his more trusted members of the group. The hierarchy confused you first, as Drift always seemed to prioritize his friends over the rest, but you quickly learned to understand that it takes a village to create a divine community, and it required immense organization. After his stories and comments of the day, these few members, the other leaders, would go and laugh along with him, some of them resting in the hammock with him. You wanted that for yourself again, that idea of control for your future.

When you get there, Drift already has a lit cigar resting in his fingertips. You emerge behind the rest of the group's higher members, but the first one that Drift cares to acknowledge is you. His index finger aims in your direction. {"Took you long enough! Gentle-Drifters, if you'd, well, excuse us for a little bit."} On his command, the rest of the pack that aimed to accompany him for the rest of the evening dispersed, leaving only you and him left by the hammock. {"I've been waiting for you."}

Other than when you first met him, you never had a one-on-one conversation with Drift. It feels so hard to even get within a few yards of him, so forget being able to muster up the courage to actually speak with him. "For me? What makes me so special?"

He invites you with a friendly gesture to sit on the hammock with him. You're scared that you might break it as the two branches that the hammock sways on seem flimsy enough to snap, but you can't say no.

{"Your curiosity about what we're all about shines like a laser beam, my friend."} He takes a moment to tend to the cigar, but his words make a lasting impression. Your friend? Not once did you both carry on a conversation longer than a few minutes with each other, but the status of your relationship still feels valid for some reason. The bond you hold with him is organic, despite the dissenter trying to argue to the contrary. You haven't seen him speak to anyone with a natural intrigue like he does with you. The dissenter is wrong. He cares, even for those that stray from the path. You watch the smoke leave his mouth, mesmerized as it rises above his mustache, his eyes, and eventually dissipates into the sky. {"Well, go ahead. Ask me a question!"}

You're startled by his sudden rise in volume. His words are commanding, passionate, and gentle all in one. Just a question? There's too many to think of off the top of your head. There's so much more you want to understand about the Drifters, the society, and the future that he has planned for you.

"Uh.. Heaven on Earth? You mentioned it tonight," your words start off a little shaky, but Drift rests his hand over your knee, letting you know that it's okay to be forward if you have to.
"How do you know it's coming? I know, faith, but there's a difference between believing and knowing." There's another pause, as if Drift is expecting more to spill out from your lips. "I believe, Drift, but how do we know for sure?"

His expectations are satisfied as he lets more smoke fill the air. He looks firmly at your chest, half-revealed from your green and brown flannel shirt, and presses with two fingers on your necklace. Your cross. He clears his throat masked by a chuckle before giving his answer. {"This man opened the skies for us, Drifter. He made it possible for our life after death."} You nod along. Although Mom and Dad kept it on the down-low, it's what you and Ander were taught to believe from a young age. De la Cruz, of the cross, was your faith. {"Nowadays, there's a man who has harnessed that serenity, captured that tranquility, and is willing to build it down here. No more lines, no more waiting."}

Drift's gaze matches yours now, with both of his hands now lying over yours. {"That man is me. That's how I know."}

He begins to rock the hammock, leaving you time to process what he said. Is he.. Telling you that he's the next-

{"Do you believe me? Will you help me build it?"} The palms of his hands now move back to your shoulder, with his thumbs gently pressed up against your neck. He toys with the cross attached to your necklace, swaying it back and forth.

You nod your head. The past few months have been filled to the brim with awe and faith in Drift's ideas, and there was no rhyme or reason for you to lose that now. "Yeah, I do. I- I will."

Your pledge to him leads a pleased grin to form over his face. He's happy that you agreed. He wraps his arms around you for a tight hug, muttering thanks between each squeeze. You want to tell him there's no need to thank him. After all, you're God. I should be thanking you.

He's resting now in the hammock, with one leg touching the ground to sway you both back and forth. You begin to stand and grab your canteen of water, hoping not to overstay your welcome, but his fingertips brush against your arm. {"Don't go, brother. Stay the night."}

Once again, you can't deny God his wish. Drift moves slightly to the right, giving to room to lay in the hammock next to him. You're uneasy at first, but Drift's soft scratching through your hair calms you down.

Snug but comfortable in the hammock, you rest your eyes, nodding off to Drift's soft-spoken hums.

Through death, loss, and tragedy, you're glad that God has found you again. With Drift's lips planting a kiss on your cheek, you feel confident that this time, you'll never feel lost again.

Drift's invitation to 'stay the night' extends for the rest of the week, with each night growing more and more intimate. Love swings on the hammock by the seventh night, and after that, you no longer spend the nights watching Ander from a distance. He'll learn soon enough that Heaven on Earth was the best place for him. It's just a matter of time.

luca de la cruz

estimated time: year of the 3rd Hunger Games

Sun and moon roll over the world above while you slouch further and further in the pit. Every now and again, you flinch from the hundreds of tiny legs that disturb you, ears to ankles. Time seems to have left you unguarded the moment you lost your footing on the ground and fell down with.. with him. You're scared to even think of his name. Your captors are trying to break you, paralyze your entire body except your mouth. The need to survive and survive better than your neighbor seems to have taken itself to a new realm.

Days ago, you wouldn't have believed that the people of District Eight would stoop so low as to be eyes and ears from the Capitol and their little bitches. You ran from this place during the war because your family did not trust that indifference on the issue of the Rebellion was going to be acceptable, not only for the Capitol, but for the rebels themselves. They managed to pull your arms in two different directions when all you desired was to stay still and live the life you begged your parents for: a life of exploration. Instead, both sides snapped your arms off like a plastic doll. The Capitol took Mom and Dad and killed them, or perhaps even worse. But now, those who have breathed the Rebellion for years have suddenly decided that a kid simply trying to be free is the only one who they need to revolt against.

Another morning comes, what's this one, the millionth? No. It's only the third day. Every morning the little man dumped the bucket of bugs down into your hole and left them there. You should've let the tins crash on your head to get it over with. No information, no satisfaction of them being able to see you snap.

You're beginning to wonder if that was even their intention. Wanting you to break and become a tell-all book of Drift and the gang's biggest secrets. Surely they would've sought to make it a bigger and more intimate spectacle. Instead they have you rotting away, barely squirming like the bugs you've flung off your elbow a thousand times. What if they want something more? Like money, answers for their kids who might've drifted away? And what if they're just sadists?

You ponder on that thought as the grinning man draws his head over the hole. His fingertips drum on what sounds like another bucket of bugs. Yesterday, your breathing only grew heavy for a short while, which was a vast improvement from the other days prior.

{"Drifter! Are you ready for some more of your friends?"}

At this point, you can barely keep your focus on his square-shaped jaw and hair dangling as he looks down on you. You can barely keep your eyes open and your neck's crane is slowly fading. He keeps tapping on his tin, waiting for an answer. Mouth half opened, you wish to say something smart or quick-witted, but you can't. Everything you desire to say falls mute on your tongue. The only thing your body can do is shake its head back and forth twice. After that, your neck tilts over towards the corner of the pit again, waiting for your punishment.

{"Sorry, vision has been a little buggy lately Say it to me!"}

He's taunting you now. If you could guess, his lips, brows, and ears are all raised with a tight grin. Just give him an answer, damnit. Don't give this torturing motherfucker another shot of satisfaction.

"No, sir,"

Instantly you seem to regret it.

{"That's unfortunate. You and your friends need to take a lesson on etiquette: what you want and what you deserve are two different things. You want our livelihoods, our stability, our hard-earned money. What you deserve? The feeling of one hundred insects sliding on your flesh."}

On cue, he dumps the next bucket of bugs in, with the tin dropping down shortly after.

But you don't mind it anymore. The vibrations of crawling creatures bounce onto you again and again, but you don't mind. Your strained neck aches, but you don't mind. You want to hold your brother in your arms again, but you can't. You want your mother to hold you in her arms again, but she can't.

What you want and what you deserve are two different things.

Tears fall on your frozen face.

"I deserve nothing."

The words feel sort of like an afterthought as the tension in your fingers release and your shoulders relax.

You deserve nothing. You don't mind anything.

You're silent as the creatures prey on you again. They don't scare you as much as they used to before.

Motionless, you hear the murmurs from above.

A few minutes (that drag on like hours with empty thoughts) pass, and a rope with a foothold drops down to your eye level. The fibres of the line brush up against your chest, but you don't feel a thing.

You're numb.

{"Grab on, we're done for now."}

You do as they ask and wrap your arms around the rope and step onto the hold. They hoist you up, leaving the plethora of bugs rushing at the bottom of the pit.

{"Now, what's your name?"}

"Dri- Luca. Luca," you can't meet his gaze but you're honest with yourself for now. Who are you kidding? Your name isn't Drifter. It's Luca.

{"Can we get you something to drink, or eat, Luca? Then, we can talk."}

Luca De la Cruz is your name. Luca, of the cross. You search your jeans pockets for the cross that you forcefully ripped off of your neck a few days ago, when your reaction to insects was much more severe.

Drift, as he told you a million times, is the man on the cross reincarnated once more, to build Heaven on Earth. Yet you drop the golden cross and its thin chain necklace to the ground and turn to the men wiping dirt off of your shoulders. Drift is God, you believe that to be true. But God abandoned you, practically pushed you into the pit himself, just like he did with the kid before, and who knows how many before that? Just to move on and pretend nothing happened.

Evil. That's what Drift is to you.

When you go to the pub with the men, you give them as little information as possible. Ander is still out there, probably still by Drift's side, and you can't endanger him. Numb to almost anything, the desire to protect your brother at all costs is one of the few things you feel. If not for him, you would throw Drift, the God Himself, in harm's way. You have faith that he's a God, there's no doubt in that, but you are damn certain that God left you and who knows who else for dead. So sure, you can have faith in God's existence all you want, but your faith that you despise that God is even stronger.

Of the Cross. Luca De la Cruz.

That is not you. Not anymore.

luca dela

estimated time: year of the 3rd Hunger Games

The next day, you find instructions on a ripped piece of notebook paper to 'dress nice.' Once again, it leaves you clueless as to what all this could entail. Keaton and Vito prefer to keep you on the edge of your seat, but you've learned in the past few years that unexpected turns are more despicable than the most daunting challenges. You would much prefer some planning of your expectations than be thrust into a poor situation on short notice. Nevertheless, you twist the knob into Keaton's closet where he keeps all his clothes. In some ways, this place still functions like the Drifters do. Mi casa es tu casa, Keaton would tell you. Unfortunately that and a few other words are the only pieces of the Spanish language either of your buddies know.

You're slightly slimmer than Keaton is, but not by much, so his clothes fit well enough for whatever event has been planned for you. Keaton almost never puts on any of the shit. You see him as more casual than formal, his blank white t-shirt and unbuttoned flannel and form fitting jeans aren't exactly elegant, but all this? It works like a rich man's closet. Keaton, though, a guy who does tricks and shows in the streets for a little pocket money, is anything but rich.

You exit his closet and see that he has made himself present in the room, ready to look you over. {"Vito's gonna be here in fifteen, but then we're getting outta here and going to have some more fun."} He approaches you now, leaving about an arm length's distance in between. Up and down he examines your choices like you're some sort of textile model showing off new fabric. But you decided to be basic. Navy button-down shirt with faint yellow dots with the same yellow-colored tie to match, dark grey dress pants. He shakes his head at your decisions, though, and quickly goes to fix you up. The first thing he does is loosen your tie up so it hangs down a little bit, and then he unbuttons the top two buttons of your shirt. {"Luca, we're going to have some nice fun, we're not going to a fucking wedding."}

"Well, if you let me know where we're going, maybe I'd know how to dress."

{"We told you, buddy. It's a surprise. Literally. It's a surprise until you get there. Come on, let's go outside and wait for Vito."}

Vito applauds your stylistic choices. You try to mention that Keaton held your hand all the way through it, but he cuts you off, giving every ounce of credit for the aesthetic to you. He's always been generous in that way. Truly good men will make you feel good inside and have no motivation for doing it. Bad men? They can be cruel, or pass for being kind with a fake smile or forced chuckle. Keaton treats you right, and you appreciate it. Can't say the same for anyone else in your life. Anyone else alive that is.

{"Okay, blindfold on, Luca."}

Blindfold?

"Blindfold?" The word slips out of your mouth as soon as it's brought to mind. "What? What do you mean blindfold?"

{"I told you, it's going to be a surprise. Johnny sort of requires it for newcomers. Just a safety precaution."} Newcomers? Safety precaution? You stop on the sidewalk for a moment, despite Keaton and Vito pushing forward. What kind of fun requires safety mechanisms and blindfolds in District Eight? You're puzzled for a moment, but Vito grabs your hand and pulls you forward, walking once more. You stop at a corner where Vito takes a long black line of cloth out from his bag. He ties it tightly around your eyes to the point that only the sun's light appears to be the flicker of a candle's flame against the wind. With Keaton guiding your left side and Vito your left, you follow their lead, going wherever they want to take you. Trust. You're gonna need to get that back if you want to live again. You know it's essential to any sane life, but a dangerous hurricane rebuilds its walls around your chest at the mere thought. It's not that you're fearful to trust but rather you are fearful of being betrayed. Trust is what you desire more than anything, save your family coming back to you.

The sounds of a Sunday's chaos die down into the hushed pitter patter of your group's footsteps. You're in an alleyway now, you can sense it by the echoes of buildings closing in on both sides. {"Alright, we're here!"} Vito bangs on the door about fifty million times before someone finally answers. The person who opened the door converses with him and Keaton about the fun for the day. {"Johnny, our friend Luca here, he really needs a pick-me-up. Someone to talk to, hang out with. Maybe just for a few hours, if that's what he wants."

Johnny's hesitant to say anything for a few moments, but eventually he concedes to the request. A free trial, he says, no cost necessary for today. The only request that Johnny has for you is that you don't take the blindfold off until you're done for the day and your friends take you far away. His skepticism of you feels like a dagger dragging its ragged blade down your chest. But you nod and agree to whatever the hell you're being influenced to get into. Johnny takes you by the hand and leads you into the building. The sounds of the District outside has been eliminated now, and instead replaced with quiet music that might just be an afterthought. You hear the sounds of men and women talking and laughing around you, and all you wish for is to see what's to come. Vito and Keaton gave no hint nor explanation, not even a word of advice. You're flying in blind, quite literally, with a man whose smoky breathing practically screams not to trust him.

"Should I be scared?" Johnny doesn't answer but the question lingers. You know what the answer is. Yes, you should be very scared. This man could be leading you to an organ harvesting chamber for all you know. The reality is, though, that you're not. You are not scared because you can't be anymore. Three years of hell and that instinct of fright for something in the physical realms has been removed from your being. There is no fight or flight for you anymore.

Johnny instructs you to sit in a chair. You feel around quickly, trying to see if there's anything else around, but all you find is air. And so you comply, delicately making your way into the seat. {"I hope you don't mind, uh, what's your name again?"} Dela. Your name is Dela, you say, and he goes on. {"Just one last condition, don't take the blindfold off, okay?"}

You hear footsteps approach shortly after. It's a woman now, you recognize the graceful thud in the ground every time she takes a step in her heels.

{"What's your name, sweetie?"}

There's something familiar about her tone, but you can't put your finger on it. Tip of the tongue syndrome, they say.

"Dela," you say, and the pressure on your leg lifts. "What's yours?"

She laughs for a moment before getting closer to you, enough to feel her breath in your ear. You know the voice now.

You feel chills.

luca dela

estimated time: year of the 3rd Hunger Games

Elation wipes off your face within minutes of reuniting with your mother. She's been here, alive, back in District Eight, and couldn't grow the courage to search for her two sons again. She knew that you'd be out there, holding your brother around your arm as you went along. Yet when those Peacekeepers escorted her back to District Eight, she stayed put. You thought for so long that she was dead, shot on sight just like your father was. She got a pass, and ever since then, as she recounts her stories of the past few years to you, she's had a smile on her face.

You were simply an afterthought to her. As she put it, she knew that you'd have a better shot living out there than if you returned.

You lean up against the brick wall, rubbing the back of your head against the jagged and uneven siding of the building. She keeps trying to claim that it's better this way, and your return to her life is the icing on a cake. You're not as forgiving. It took her, what, the blink of an eye to let her husband's corpse sink into the forest dirt and she's already back in District Eight working for Johnny and his Johns. Family. That's all she talked about when you decided to run away during the Rebellion. You thought she threw adventurers' caps on your head, but really, she pulled the wool over your eyes. It was probably all a plan to get Dad killed so she could move on. She'd never admit it to you, but you can't put it past her. With no qualms, she picked herself up from the ground, walked home with the Peacekeepers on both sides of her, and moved on.

Moving on from the loss of your kids and the death of your husband shouldn't be possible in a lifetime, let alone a week's journey. Yet she did it, somehow, while you and Ander found yourselves frozen in a freefall.

When she's done telling her story, your red eyes lift up to meet hers. She's staring at you like a teacher waiting for their student to give an answer. "What?" you say, arms and legs crossed with dissent.

{"No 'I'm so happy to see you again?' or anything? I know it's a little miraculous, Luca, but you don't have to seem so shocked."}

"I'm not shocked. I'm disappointed. Disgusted."

{"With what?"} She dares to ask the silly question. You see right through her now.

"You're talking like a fucking w-"

She raises her voice at you. {"Watch your mouth, Luca. I've taught you b-"}

You raise yours higher, "LIKE A FUCKING MANIAC WHO LIT A BUILDING ON FIRE AND WALKED OUT, WONDERING WHY PEOPLE ARE PISSED. WHAT DO YOU MEAN 'WITH WHAT?'" Your eyes are red but they stream blue. She's silent now, looking down at her five-inch heels. "You gave up on us, and for what? To fuck every guy in Eight? Is your family worth that little to you that you'd throw it to the curb without a second thought?"

{"You're acting like I had a choice. Life or death-"}

"I SAT IN A HOLE WITH THOUSANDS OF ANTS, WORMS, AND BUGS FOR DAYS JUST SO ANDER COULD LIVE. SPARE ME LIFE OR DEATH, MOM."

{"I know, baby, but-"}

"NO. No, no. You don't get to call me that. I almost gave up my life. I gave up my god for him, I gave up my safety for him. Hell, I fucking gave up my body for Ander. You? You gave up. You gave up dad. You gave up Ander. You didn't just give us up, you gave up on us." Your fevered pitch subsides into a more reduced tone. "You gave up on me."

You refuse to let her have the final word and rush out of the room. Johnny's sitting with a sheet of paper in one hand and a cigar in the other, but within seconds he's in the exit, blocking you from leaving.

{"These weren't the terms we agreed to."}

"Fuck your mother-fucking terms. In fact, fuck you for letting my mother fuck all these guys," you shove him to the side of the doorway and grip his shoulders, holding him there.

{"Your- what? I- No. That's beside the point. Put the blindfold back on."}

"No."

The click of a blade comes from below. Almost instantly, you release your grip to try to leave, but he pushes the tip of the blade into your thigh. You swat Johnny's arm away, the knife with it, and shout out, "MotherFUCKER" You rush out of the room, grabbing at the reddish-grey blotch at your pants.

Keaton and Vito are outside, smoking a couple cigarettes. They seem startled when you call out their names but don't take more than a few seconds to take you, one arm each, and help you out.

Once you're far enough away, the three of you stop for a moment, each one of you catching your breath. Vito's the first to break the discomfort. {"What happened?"}

You fall to the ground up against the sidewalk. With one hand holding your bleeding leg and the other covering your sobbing face, you can't manage to give a response.

Keaton's hand pulls your bloody one off of your leg, and his own takes its place. {"Dela.."} He mutters your name a few times, trying to pull out a response, but all that comes out of your mouth are frantic gasps for air taken in between choking sobs.

It's at least ten minutes until the well dries up and you can let crackled words out. "I can't- I can't keep doing this. I- I have to go. I…" All you desire is to go back to the forest, back to Drift's land of forbidden fruit.

The ball and chain of the four strong hands of your two best buds keeps you from getting anywhere. You're practically in shackles. You want Drift's warmth again. At least with him, you had a drip of joy despite the danger of temptation. Vito and Keaton would never let you do it, though. The Garden of Eden that the Drifters' call home is just that: a drifting memory. District Eight, whether you like it or not, is your home.

"Let me go, let me go, let me- AHHHH" Your struggle with Keaton's force stops with a pained groan. Your leg is probably worse than a shallow cut.

luca dela

estimated time: year of the 4th Hunger Games

Stars daze overhead as you begin to come to. It's a dark place that you have managed to find yourself in, with only a dim lamp providing vision. You pull yourself upright for a moment but fall backward. The energy has not returned to you yet. You have no returned yet. Outer space curves upon the hair of your brow as your head crashes into a sea of comfort. A pillow, and much more comfortable than the ones at home. You lay for a moment, mouth partially open and eyes struggling to maintain a steady focus.

Your hand cracks against the hard glass table beside you. A startled voice awakes from behind. They begin to put their belongings together, mumbling something about letting him know that you're awake. Your voice drowsily lets out the first name that comes to your mind. "Ander… It takes a moment to divulge yourself with previous priorities. "Ander." You remember it now, stumbling in disbelief to see your brother off to the Hated Games. They picked him of all people to be the sacrifice. You didn't know who made stops back in Eight. Hell, you didn't even know if he was alive. "Where is he? Where am I?"

A brunette crosses the side of your view. Like the rest of the environment here, she's something you don't know. She looks down at you for a moment, pulling a part of her hair back behind her ear with her blue-gloved hands. The girl wants to say something and respond to your questions, but she refrains from doing so. {"I'll go get Keaton. He's been waiting for you to wake up all night."}

The mention of Keaton forces you upright. The ceiling light blinks every few seconds, adding to the discomfort of being in a new place. Your chest is wrapped tightly with bandages, making it a challenge to use much energy. You're in some dentist's chair, neatly padded but still cold and unfamiliar against the skin. Feet dangle over the elevated seat as you wait impatiently for the woman to fetch Keaton. Voices mutter from above and feet bend the decaying floorboards.

{"Hey there, ol' drifter."} You nearly fall over from the relief of seeing Keaton. {"Woah there, don't lose your balance man."} He keeps you steady with an embrace. Keaton's been your closest friend since you left the Drifter's. Even Vito's not as close (which you can't really blame him for. He's been going steady with a girl for the past few years and it's getting more serious.

"Ander. Is he okay?" Your recognition of the events from before you were whipped is foggy. You remember seeing them order him away. You followed them, calling out for him. "Did they let him go?" The whispers into Keaton's ear are returned with calm breaths at first before Keaton squeezes you tighter.

{"Dela, there's not much that can stop them. The train left for the Capitol a few hours ago."}

You start to cry. Why the fuck did Drift decide to bring him back here? They can't reap someone who they can't find, right? What are they going to do, go on a manhunt for Ander and pause the Hate Games until they do? That man's a bitch on a power trip. He never cared about you, never cared about Ander. Only himself.

Keaton moves you back to the chair. He fills in the missing pieces, sitting with you and holding your hand are the woman reapplies some of your bandages. You wince as she does so, doing your best not to look at the blood, blisters, and sores on your skin through the mirror. Keaton tells you that they gave you two dozen lashings before you completely blacked out and they stopped. After your punishment was over, the Peacekeepers threw you to the first person who reached out. That, of course, was Keaton. Although from what he tells you, your mother tried to claim you but he pushed her aside. And then, Keaton brought you here, to his friend Lauren's house. She worked as a nurse during the Rebellion and dealt with a lot worse than a couple dozen lashings. You look over to her and nod with some respect. It's clear to you that she's trying to appear as if she's not listening, but once you acknowledge her, she gives it up.

{"I'd call what you did dumb as hell, Dela, but I can't imagine being in the same shoes as you with my little brother."}

Lauren moves beside Keaton. She tries to reassure you, {"Ander doesn't seem like the type of kid to be intimidated. If he's anything like you, he might even defy the odds."}

You lay down and Keaton's lap and the tears come back. He and Lauren pet you with their warm hands, promising you that it'll be okay.

But all you did is shiver. "Ander wanted nothing to do this. He's just a kid who lost everything trying to resist. And now he's gonna lose himself."

luca dela

estimated time: year of the 6th Hunger Games

Eighteen months later and you're still only half healed. Forgetting about your brother and what happened to him can only work for so long. You had hoped that the tributes resisting commands to fight would teach the Capitol a lesson. That they'd stop the Hate Games once kids utilized their disobedience. They put them on ships for the 5th Games, flooding the stadium and making it more spectacle. Due to what you can only presume is fear of being eaten alive, the tributes fought, reinstating faith in the process of the Games. It was hard to hear the yelling from the Town Square when the male tribute from our district, Penn Garrick, was dragged off the ship and feasted upon by a pack of seagulls.

You said down with his family to grieve with them. Poor, innocent, sweet. Just like their son, according to the happy memories they shared about him and his stitchwork.

{"And what about your family, Luca? What do you cherish about them?"}

They're well-intentioned to ask considering how therapeutic it was for them to remember Penn. It's rare for you, outside of your few close friends, to share things about your family. The name De la Cruz has rotted you. Your father and brother are dead, killed by the Capitol's unnecessary exploits. Your mother might as well be, given that she abandoned you to save her own skin.

"I remember climbing mountains and swimming through rivers with them before we became locked in here. Ander was the type to stare in awe at every piece of history we crossed by. He never touched anything that looked fragile because he was scared he might break something that needs to be preserved forever. He wanted to preserve our family forever." You recall him begging you to not step into an abandoned hunting shack in the trees once because the floor might give. "That didn't last once we were separated from our parents and started to travel with another group. He got lethargic there, hooked on cigarettes and passing the bong," you laugh, folding your hands in your lap. "People who saw him in the games might look at his eyes and say he's just a grifter… a drifter as we called ourselves. But when I look at photographs… I still see that good kid."

Penn's mother tries to give a hug, but she backs off politely as soon as you refuse it. {"Can I offer you some advice, Luca?"} She sits in the dining chair across from you. {"I don't want to say move on, because I don't believe that's possible. We appreciate your help here but do not forget about yourself. You have a life whether your family is in it or not. Continue on."}

It takes a few more months to figure out what she meant by "continue on." You traded out your dead-end job for construction. It was labor mandated by the Capitol to increase textile production in District Eight. Begrudgingly, you took it, but only for the money! It was more secure than working at the bar, and better for monitoring your alcohol cravings.

Somewhere along the way, you participated in Vito's wedding. Keaton was his best man, obviously, but you took up a role as groomsman along with Vito's two brothers. It was the happiest you'd been in years standing up there watching your best friend fumble through his vows. Lauren seemed to watch you at the ceremony more than she did the bride and groom. And Keaton? His speech during the reception was one of the warmest you'd ever seen him give. {"We're brothers, if not by blood then by love. I hope you'll always consider us a part of your family even as you start a new one!"} His eyes bent toward you, just to make sure you were listening.

When Vito moved out and rent became difficult to cover with just two people, you and Keaton moved in with Lauren. It was a natural progression, as your closeness to one another grew. Your group had been close since Ander was reaped, and Keaton has known her for at least a decade longer. He jokes with you as you carry boxes from one house to another. {"Funny how we're still all together after all this time. You know Vito's inviting us over every Sunday for dinner, right?"} You laugh, dropping the boxes off on the porch where Lauren takes the next load inside. "Family stays family."

It's a Friday night in the winter months when everything changes. You've been stuck inside for the past week due to horrible blizzard conditions. Of course, the Capitol is slow to shovel out most of the District out of spite. Locked away in the house for so long, you grew nervous. The inability to escape reminds you of trauma. The Peacekeepers trapped you, taunted you, and hurt you in a hole that you tried to climb out of for what felt like an eternity. You pace the house after the first day, cleaning and rearranging furniture. Keaton picks up on the fact that you're struggling on the third day. That night, he and Lauren bring out all the stops: painting, board games, snacks, drinking. They care about you so much that seeing you struggle hurts them. The three of you stay up through the night and into the morning when sunlight presses on your curtains.

You lay on the right side of the sofa, Lauren on the left and Keaton in the middle. Lauren lays her head on Keaton's lap and you nestle yourself between his arm and his chest. The buzz from the alcohol tricks you into hazily whispering to them. "I love you guys. You make me feel like I have family again." Keaton tickles your scalp and Lauren nods in agreement.

You've been asleep at the wheel for six years, but today you're finally wide awake. It's spontaneous, but it feels right.

You kiss Keaton on the lips. You turn to Lauren and do the same. There's a moment of disbelief. Not because it's unwanted but because it was unexpected. You look up to Keaton, who's red in the face but smiling. He pulls you in gently by the jaw to return the kiss and offers one to Lauren.

Call it unorthodox, call it complicated, call it what you want. You call it continuing on.