my mind wants to control me ✟ arwen&flynn

My family frequents death, I wonder if that's why I turned out the way I did. 

I am acutely aware that I am different - just how different, I am unsure. It became obvious to me when Ivy condemned me, ran from me like the monster she believed me to be; I don't believe I'm that terrible. I have yet to do anything outside of my work that warrants that, and the control I have is reasonable. Still, I do have to wonder, how much of it is genetic. I stand in silence with my hands in my pocket, surveying the victor village of District 6, thinking of Flynn first, and my family second. 

We almost had a victor, once. My late aunt, Hyacinth, sister to my mother, she was a killer, too. As I stand here, I can not stop myself from wondering what she would think of me if she were still alive. It's a question that might just haunt me, she was dead before I ever had the chance to meet her. And I was always taught not to speak of it, of her - of her, or Sin, or Aunt Celia. Ivy will soon be the same, and I will demand the same of my kids. 

The dead are a finished story, the grief is all that remains, and I worry not of that. 

What I struggle with, is the silence. I do not like to be ignored, and for some reason the dead have a similar affect on my psyche. As if I have been abandoned, can you believe that? I wish I could make sense of it myself, but I suppose I will with time. The bodies only pile up, and the kinders are always hot. My mind wanders and wanders until I hear a voice I have only imagined in my dreams - "Arwen?"

"Mr. Garner?" 

I do not name him doctor, in what feels disrespectful. Once, that was all he wanted, to my knowledge, and I can only question what has changed so. We stand on the porch, myself in his presence in the first time, and a bit of me I can not ignore feels honored. Flynn Garner, oh how I have waited. Oh, how I have changed since that first letter. I am who he needs. 

He asks my purpose, and I do not hesitate to respond. "You have been missing from the Hospital, I expected to meet you there first," I admit, disappointment laced in my voice even as I try to mask it. He was supposed to be there, I hate to be alone. Perhaps that is the twin inside of me, always longing for another to complete me. Even if Ivy was my foil, she held life in my heart that I could not deny while she was living. 

Luckily, she is no longer. There is a void in my chest begging to be replaced. 

"I grew concerned, so I came. I hope that is okay." The early spring breeze does nothing for me in this outfit, heat building underneath both my sweater and coat. "May I come in?" I ask, respectfully. 

Flynn apologizes for my disappointment, but it only stings further, like salt in a fresh wound. It is almost insulting to have my suspicions confirmed, that I came and missed the great Flynn Garner in action. Incapable, he is not. I see him with my own eyes and he looks just as he had on screen last year, but tired. It is with great pain that I have to accept the Flynn I admire no longer exists, and instead, this takes his place. 

I must not give up hope, for I know his true worth. Even if it has forgotten, determined to squalor his own gifts, I know there is a greater calling waiting for him. We were supposed to be colleagues, myself accompanied by none other than the prodigal victor himself, a dream I refuse to let vanish into thin air. For what? For what reason has Flynn disgraced himself so? There is an anger that burns in my chest as I look at him, but I do not leave. 

Instead, I venture further, greeted with the mess that is the Garner abode. I try to hide my disgust, but I have always despised a mess. I understand that I have higher expectations being raised in a Hospital, but never had I imagined this would be how Flynn lives. Does he not have help? Even us, in the poorest of districts, had employees to clean what we were not individually responsible for. Perhaps I am laying judgement a tad thick, but I hate when my expectations are not met. 

And I expected quite a lot. 

"Correct, they hired me on as a full time nurse rather than a student," I say, pride seeping into my tone. Despite my malpractice at home, the Hospital of Mercy wanted me in full. I may not be classically trained in the art, but my hand is not to be underestimated, I know how to save a life just as well as I know how to take one. "It is my passion after all, I gave up everything to attend," truth be told, it was far easier than it sounds. Everything, in my case, is not very much at all. 

I do not have a family of love, nor a job that pays. With Ivy dead, in fact, I have less than nothing. Like a black hole, I take and take and take, ever destroying what exists in the hopes that one day I will wake up fulfilled. It never comes, unfortunately, but that could be credited to my own refusal to be pleased. I want more, and when I have that, I want more again. "Coffee would be wonderful," I say with a forced grin, my mournful disappointment still heavy in my chest. 

"Black, please," I have always preferred it bitter anyways. I take a seat at his disgusting kitchen table, pushing the pile of mail and miscellaneous trash to the side to allow space for my hands. I feel as if I am being mocked in a sense, that somehow Vervain or perhaps aunt Raisa herself is laughing at my misfortunate from across the globe. I was foolish for expecting so much from a boy who wears sweat pants and doesn't comb his hair. 

Still, he is more important to this world than I am. Than I may ever be. I wonder if his body count compares to mine, if perhaps I pale him in comparison and no one even knows but the recesses of my mind. I look him in the eyes as he speaks to my sister, and all I can think is I have killed too, Flynn Garner. You are not so special, you are not above me, you are not great. 

But he speaks of her, of Ivy, and I must play the part of the grieving twin. I allow my face to fall - though, the reaction real in the sense that my disappointment comes to the surface. In this moment, I mourn the victor I thought of more than I grieve my pathetic sister. "Do not be sorry," I say to his apology, "I believe she volunteered because she was never going to be happy in District 12. Life is different there. Bleak," I describe, painting my sister as suicidal. 

In reality, she was running from me. Funny, how the living write the stories of the dead. 

"What was meeting her like?" Inquisitive in my understanding of my sister - I do wonder what she had to say to Flynn, if she revealed me at all. It spikes in my chest, the fluttering of anxiety at the idea that he knows more than he lets on. Still, I force a smile as he places the coffee in front of me, uttering a small thank you before taking a sip. With black coffee, you can never check for any grinds that may arise. That is my only gripe with the drink, for I can feel a speck between my teeth that I cannot tell if I am imagining or not.  

Bitter, just as I like. I look Flynn over deliciously as we share this moment of vulnerability, myself guarded but him so weak. It is quite enticing after all, seeing him in this state. "I am sorry, too," I start, holding a pause so I can drink in his reaction properly, "about Johnny." News such as ill-fated lovers made its way to my doorstep quickly, and I wish to pry that pain out of Flynn Garner myself. Perhaps it was losing that stupid boy that brought Flynn to this life style. 

"What was it like losing him?" I ask, greedily. 

There's a proverbial ease that settles amongst my nerves when Flynn confirms Ivy told him nothing. They didn't speak much, but I still feel my famished mind toying around with those words. Much; what did they talk about? What was going through my sister's mind when she met the young victor? There are some answers that will always escape me, and I loathe it so. I desperately need to know everything, and control everything. 

"I can't imagine, she used to be such a talker," I say, reminiscing before taking another sip. It is bittersweet thinking of her, how naively she would navigate the world. Always spilling her guts to whoever would listen, and my ears were always her's to fill. She would shadow me on my work on the good days, and on the bad she would pout and pry on the why. Why will you not let me witness your murders, why will you not let me in the basement, Arwen? 

Well, once I had, she ran from it all. 

Suffice to say, I am not wrong often.

It was too much for her, and she continued to bite off more and more. It was no surprise to me when she had died early; in fact, I was interested when she had survived the bloodbath at all. Ivy Mortuus was no fighter, and definitely no killer, and we both knew it. A foil to myself in every way, she must have taken all the good at conception and left me all the bad. 

Slowly, I feel myself relaxing in the dust-ridden kitchen of Flynn's possession, until there is a break in the conversation. A harsh right turn, my inquisition met with only the petty rage of the Garner boy. Neurotic, it seems, I label him so mentally while I hide my cracking grin behind another sip of coffee. Perhaps I prodded too soon, I could feel it when I asked. Still, I learn more and more of the boy across from me. I am no psychologist, but how I long to explore the recesses of his mind. 

"Who told you to ask that?" Is that paranoia? I wonder what he thinks my intentions are, who does he expect me to say here? Interesting, none the less. 

"Nobody at all, sir," I say, placing the mug back on the table, taking note of the drip that runs down the side and around its base. "Sorry, I feel I misspoke," I feign shame in my voice, giving the impression of a pathetic dog. Rarely do I break eye contact, but I make sure to here - to portray myself as guilty, for upsetting him so. "I-" what to say next? A redirection of sorts, "I meant how are you handling it? It has been difficult myself, losing my twin," relatability is key to camouflage.

Flynn and I are no longer the same, and perhaps we never were.

In the cavity of my chest, I feel myself slipping away from him. There is something mental going on with him, growing so obvious I cannot make further excuses for Mr. Garner. He must be weak in a way he hides with distance, and I must have garnered my aspirations from the wrong hands. Even as I try, it is a hard reality to accept. How I wanted so much more from him. 

"Let's not talk of it please," he says, and I accept his weaknesses with a nod of my own. So that is the end of the discussion, Flynn Garner too fragile to continue on. He asks of the hospital, of my short comings of becoming a nurse, and it sparks an irrational upset in me. "Correct again. I hate to admit it, but I was... desperate to leave 12. The director made an arrangement for me to attend this year rather than next when a spot would open, so I took it." Now that I think of it, perhaps the director is testing me. A boy from twelve, how little I must know, who could possibly let me in their MD program blindly? 

"I'll transfer programs soon," I promise, "for now they have me overseeing a private patient by the name of Pietro," the name still feels so vile in my mouth. I much prefer Ki-tae, "I can't imagine you have heard of him?" 

"Yes, exactly," I say, an undeniable hint of disgust in my voice, "the clown." 

That silly little clown; I loathe how dependent he is. Not just on me, but the drugs, he would trade every drop in his body if it meant one more high. I have known those people all my life, people in Twelve who would let themselves go homeless, begging on the street for a needle or a tab if anyone had one. They never did, indigent individuals polluting the streets until they wind up at my doorstep. Their organs would be useless, their skin ruined with the years of their addiction. What's worse is the scent that never seemed to wash off of them, it would make my stomach churn anytime I worked with one. 

Ki-tae was well on his way of following suit, and I am still confused on why the director saved him of all people; perhaps it was a case of wasted potential. Regardless, I was assigned to him, so I would make do with what they wanted of myself and him both. "No sir, he is from four. I was surprised myself to learn so, but I guess everyone has their struggles, regardless of where in Panem they originate." More insightful than I truly care for, I take another sip of coffee as I try to relax myself more. 

Disappointing as it may be, Flynn remains good company. I enjoy his outbursts as well, it intrigues me so. "Good blend," I say, catching the drip on the side of the mug with the flat of my thumb before kissing it clean. Flynn talks of the hospital and I grow bored for a moment, sinking behind my eyes as I look at him blankly. He offers assistance with my major change, and it perks something inside of me - how could I ever say no? I wouldn't dream of it; this is exactly what I wanted from Flynn Garner. Not only will it help me, but he would return to the hospital as well. 

My name under his, the director would know of our connection then. 

I will be known as an acquaintance of Flynn, which is much more appealing than simply being known by him alone. There is much more in it for me than him, I am shocked he offered on his own accord, the surprise surely showing on my face the more he talks. "That would be incredible, Mr. Garner-"

"You don’t have to call me sir by the way or even Mr Garner," he says, and I busy myself with another sip. "Just call me Flynn, I am just Flynn."

"Are you sure?" Why pretend to be humble? I cannot tell if he is irritated by me, but from the expression alone I can see he is certain. Oh, Flynn, how wrong you must be. I cannot imagine having such a reputation that demands respect, and continuing to lower yourself so casually. It's as if he could care less for it, as if he wants not the acknowledgment for his status. It confuses me dearly, "just Flynn it is," I say before continuing, "if you could do so - talking to the director on my behalf - I would be very grateful. Why is it you are so hesitant to return to the Hospital?" I ask, allowing myself to pry once more. If he snaps once more, I would be nothing but bewildered.

"Saving lives is your passion, is it not?"