[93rd] The Reaping - District 3
Jan 31, 2023 9:15:33 GMT -5
Post by Arrows on Jan 31, 2023 9:15:33 GMT -5
Hunter. Holmes.
Perhaps there is more to a broken violin than a severed string.
Often times he feels that way: torn, tattered, a minute minuscule out of pitch pursing towards the final stretching seconds of sound. It’s there, on the verge of evisceration, on the cliff before caterwaul, on a causality of chorus, he floats as phantasmal figments of musical notes. Mixed in the myriad of music, somber tones burrow into the broken wood of his being, loss the legion from which his heart plays. Dramatic in theory, but reality for the boy who’s sister shriveled and decayed and who’s hands have now held the small mirrors of her own as if to say he was always her.
That’s been the song he’s been playing on his final string: his sister’s swan song.
Maybe that’s why he doesn’t notice the ketchup stain on his cream colored coat or the fact that one of his socks is maroon and the other turquoise. Maybe that’s why he accidentally trips the girl in front of him as he stumbles half tired through the square. Maybe checking for their faces among the splattering of spectators is why he isn’t listening. Maybe a million different things that all boil down to three boys, three children, three tiny segments of his sister that keep him from noticing the most important thing of all: that his final string has snapped.
“Hunter Holmes.”
Eyes, expectations, anxiety, but most of all confusion. That name doesn’t even feel like his anymore. In that moment between breaths, where the next beat of his heart feels just a moment too far away, he realizes he’s forgotten how to play his own song. He’s forgotten how to live. Hell, he’s forgotten how to walk or even talk as words tether in tendrils behind his teeth. “I don-“
That’s when someone else starts playing instead, a chance to change his strings: a chance to live.
[Hunter does NOT accept the spot, alternate post coming]