deja kerrington, district eight / finished

More than anything, she hates the echoing.

Every footstep, each voice, a symphony of floorboards creaking and champagne glasses clinking; all the sounds in her home have a way of making it back to her. Hard as she tries, she's not yet learned how to escape from 'it.' She runs, tirelessly and restlessly, but whenever she turns to look over her shoulder, she can never quite put into view what's chasing after her. Feet covered in roots, standing in place, and on the horizon, there is only the heat lightning and the tension of a storm brewing.

Have you ever been so terrified of a thing that you don't know the shape of?

There's always been the unhappiness, resting in the pit of her stomach like wilting flowers in a vase, but the reason to this day avoids her. Child sneaking out the window, jogging into town and making a beeline for the public library. Not once, and perhaps now, never — did her parents ever seek her out during her various escapades. She would fill her brain with knowledge, seemingly useless, and at dusk she would walk back up the driveway and return through the front door like she never left.

It wasn't until her fifth excursion that they even noticed, and her mother had only turned her lips downwards, that condescending displeasure ever fixed on her pale, lovely face. "I just wish you would learn to take things more seriously." But everything in this life, all of it, troubles Deja so deeply that she's not sure how she can succeed in that task. When she closes her eyes, she thinks of a future she's not sure she even wants yet, pretty puzzle pieces spread out on a cherry wood table.

They never come together, and she never decides if she wants to be a veterinarian or an author, a chef or a pilot. The only identity she has is being their daughter, being Ziggy's sister, and she feels awfully inadequate at performing both duties. As she grows up, her distance from her parents turns into resentment, a girl too smart for her own good and the two people who provided the foundation for her to become this person. Ever sharp, ever unsatisfied, the only legacy to the Kerrington name is wanting.

Auctioneers aren't to be trusted, and yet, it is them who holds the control in this house. Whatever you seek, treasures of every size and design, if it calls to you then it can be obtained for the right price. Fans in the air and the skirts of evening gowns dragging along the floor, the game they play is a delicate art — with many rules and expectations. And she hates it, the false bravado, the pretending to be bigger than you truly are. Jewels around throats, glittering fingers, the shining doesn't mask what's beneath.

None of it is real, not in a way that matters.

Headphones on, scholarship granted, she loses herself in melodies and fantasies alike. When she's no longer herself, she thinks, then she'll find that happiness. A birthright does not always have to be claimed. And for her brother's credit, he's more suitable to the lifestyle than she had ever been. But there are moments when she speaks to him, when his smile alone is enough to warm her to the core, that she wonders what this kind of life might make of him. She doesn't want that kindness to leave him, hates the idea that one day she might come back home and only see a flat line in its place.

'I have to go, but never change. Be the same when I come home.'

It's a cruel request, and it is one that will never be made. Pinkie fingers locked, seven and five, eighteen and sixteen, these moments come in flashes. When she's standing in front of him, when her eyes flit away from the horizon, there is nothing she will not do for him. Her father's distant, her mother's cruel, and she's a failure. But he still has a chance; to look at his reflection and not consider bringing his fist against it.

Be more serious, Deja, use logic and reason and stop acting with every drumbeat of your heart.

When she receives the call that her parents have gone missing, only two weeks into her college experience, she drops everything — each dream — to be home with her brother. He's too young to handle the estate on his own, and now, there is no one else but her to help. That first night back in her bedroom, the silence seemed to stretch on forever. She walked through the door, and her mother had nothing hateful to say to her, only quietness. When she walked past her father's study, his chair stood empty and proud at the end of the room. All the fear and bitterness becomes remorse.

It's like running your finger over a scar, but only seeing smooth skin.

Her purpose, now, is to keep him safe.