what happens when it's all gone? {kareem&nowles}

I am twelve. I'm in father's study. These walls have seen too much conflict. Greed, anger, and lust. I am internally afraid of the life he leads. He draws me close, by the fire, beckons me to sit at his side. It's the only place I've ever aspired to be. He tells me that honest men are idiots, and that they deserved to be cheated. This is his first lesson.


It's not until I am eighteen that I find myself mumbling those same words - like a reflex, some half-remembered sentence. I'm watching the reaped and the selected train side-by-side in the training center, and the study bleeds back into the forefront of my memory. I see the shadows of his face dancing in the glow of the fireplace, I hear the coarseness of his voice.

He often tormented me with his lengthy advice, never tiring of his own opinions, keen to stamp his beliefs on me even at that age. I tried never to to take any of them seriously. I only nodded and went along with it all because I feared what would happen if I didn't.

We've been here for two days, and I've not spoken to a single Tribute. My mentors have advised that I try and form an alliance with like-minded individuals, people I can trust in to survive. Only no one wants to trust a murderer. No one wants to even speak to one. Dirty looks and ignored smiles are aplenty.

It's funny. By the end of the month, half of them will be just like me - hands drenched in blood.

The distorted clanging of metal echoes repeatedly off the high walls. Faraway bodies dance on balance beams with poles in their hands. A rehearsed performance. There is clapping now as one has bested another at their harmless game, and then they reset to repeat the show.

Career trained killers with not a kill to their names. They often claim to thirst for violence, but have any of them had to get their hands dirty at all I wonder? It's not nice, taking another's life. It's not an enjoyable experience, no matter how much you hate the person.

My hand crawls like a spider over the array of weapons on display. None of them feel right - most too heavy or ridiculous. How is any of this practical? A knife best suits me, but I don't think I can pick one up again. I think it would bring back too much that I'm maybe not ready for.

What am I even doing? I'm stood lingering past my time in this world - a lost spectre waiting for judgement. What's the point? What am I going to do with what time I have left? Atone? No. Seek forgiveness? I am way beyond that.

So, what do I want?


I am fourteen. Father is on his third business partner. All of the others have all been arrested for embezzlement. I suspect only he knows the truth.

We are walking down the old garden steps - the ancient stone is infected with ivy and weeds, sprawling and intertwining as they fight for ownership of the ruined craftsmanship. Beyond them is a once impressive four story chateau, with great voussoirs propped up by hand-crafted granite pillars. A detailed cornice tells a story I never cared for, whilst a lone half-moon window frowns at the centre of the pediment.

The rain stopped about fourteen minutes ago. Beyond me the architrave of the great house is weeping in the aftermath of the downpour, some fifty feet high.

An indistinguishable origami animal lies tortured between my fingers, it’s shape contorted and distressed as I pull at its limbs, half-opening the paper to glance at the scratchings of ink imprisoned within. The words are barely legible, black icicles stained into the parchment, damp and blotty from the rain. The malformed letters are constantly interrupted by the harsh folds and creases that run like scars from edge to edge.

I read the note and look back at my father, who nods in confirmation. She's gone, and she's not coming back. Women are bastards. This is his second lesson.


I am eighteen when I see a young girl close to me and I hear his words in my head once more, and in that moment I know what it is that I want.

To know that he was wrong.