rune. d3. fin.

r u n e  K I L G O R E  |  eighteen, district three

i was my first
victim

The key twists in the grungy lock, the door's rusted locking mechanism squeaks as it clicks open. Metal shavings tumble to the concrete ground of the apartment complex hallway as the cheap, basically-falling-apart wooden frame shudders. It's a complete shithole, a run-down place in the run-down part of Three, hiding behind the guise of 'Wheelwind Luxury Apartments'.

Ironic, isn't it?

Plastic and trash piled on the sides of the building, floor-level occupants get their own blinders in the form of flimsy alabaster bags filled with moldy vegetables and scraps of dinner that spoiled because the power was out for a week straight. The smell is its own thing entirely, seeping through the cracks in the walls and somehow becoming the only thing you can smell.

But it's whatever.

Beats living out of some weather-beaten cardboard box that's giving away to the moisture in a dingy alleyway with the rats. And actual rats, too, but at least they won't steal the few things you actually have in the night.

That's how Rune sees it, anyway. The type to shrug off a problem like his mother's hand until it is in his face, staring him down and kissing the tip of his nose. Until he can no longer afford to ignore its existence.

You'd think he would've learned after everything.

Not sure if he's quite capable of that yet. It's only been a few months, and some scars take years of healing to fade.

He shuts the door behind him with a swift kick of his foot, the wood quivering from the slightest bit of force. The air in his apartment is stale and musty, reeking of dirty clothes and cigarette smoke. Rune used to gag at the smell when he was just a kid, but now it doesn't phase him. It's familiar, comforting even, wrapping around his lean frame like a woven blanket.

Warm as a hearth, hot coals still burning in the ash.

Home.

It's been his home since before he could form a word in his throat, since he was just an idea swimming around his parent's brains. These walls used to hold his surprisingly well-detailed crayon drawings of dragons and mushroom forests for a six-year-old. They were eventually scrubbed off to make room for his brothers and sister's imaginative minds, much to Rune's vexation.

There's nothing there now.

Just a concrete wall, grey and dull and boring. He couldn't stand to look at it, even if the colored wax had faded over the years. He didn't want to see it at all. Those memories are locked behind the floodgates in his mind.

He'd prefer to hide from them, the memories.

Prefer to forget the cruel twist of fate the world thought it'd be funny to play on him.

He'd prefer to see his pain, his scars, as a weakness to be purged.

But sometimes the memories trickle through, bypassing all the defenses he erected. They are razor-sharp knives slicing through butter, quick and easy. He comes undone when confronted by his grief.

A family of eight, his family. His mother and father, his brother and sisters.

Eight.

Oh, now there's only one.

Him.

Rune Kilgore, orphan.

When Fane came down with a sickness, his eyes red and nose stuffy, Rune told him to get over it. Thought he was exaggerating to get out of going to school. Said that a measly cold wasn't the end of the world and pushed him out the door. Shrugged it off like all the problems he's ever faced.

He held Fane's cold and limp body in his shaking arms a week later. It wasn't his fault, it wasn't. He isn't a doctor, he couldn't know. He couldn't. His mother got sick the next day, his father after that. Then all of them were coughing, sickly messes with mucus running down their chin. And then they were nothing, just a few more bodies to share a grave because spare land in Three is expensive.

When someone asks how his parents are doing, he forces a smile.

"Oh, they're doing great. They managed to get a travel visa and are in Four now. I'll tell them you asked about them!"

And he could believe it too.

He's never been able to bring himself to their grave.

It doesn't have to be real.