mack livewell // d4 // fin.
Oct 22, 2023 3:36:38 GMT -5
Post by rosymarvels on Oct 22, 2023 3:36:38 GMT -5
Mack Livewell
17 YEARS OLD · DISTRICT 4 · ISFP
Our legacy is the trawler.
Our legacy is my great grandfather's old, dingy fishing boat, rust on her hull and Second Wind painted on her stern. She was built before the Rebellion, and my grandfather was born in her cabin, anchored in the waters close enough to the mainland that they could hear the bombs being dropped.
Our legacy is cages thrown into the sea; it's snapping claws and dark, sleek shells; it's a market stall; the smell of brine; a glass tank filled with crabs.
Father was the first to choose something different for himself.
Before I even walk through the gate to the yard, I can hear the piercing shrieks and trilling laughter of children.
At the academy, we go on break for two weeks for the Games. I almost chose to stay in the dorms instead of returning, but even though I dread seeing my father again, it's the one chance I have to get away from my classmates. At least at home I've had a room to myself since Finn left.
The gate shuts behind me with a metallic clang; the children's heads turn, but I don't recognize their faces. But they seem to recognize me — their mouths gape in surprise, and one drops the ball she'd been holding, sending it tumbling past me down the hill until it rolls into the fence.
"Mack's back!" She shouts, turning on her heel to run towards the house, loamy dirt and grass being kicked up behind her. "Mack's back!"
The other continues to stare at me, seeming petrified. I manage to muster a smile to him as I clamber up the hill, though I know it must look stiff. Artificial. I'm not in the mood to be social, though I rarely am.
Since neither of us want to talk, I walk past him without a word.
The girl who ran to the house reaches it long before I do, and by the time that I'm approaching it, my mother has come out onto the porch to greet me, my father's sister at her side. She wrings her apron in her hands, and her expression is both relieved and sorrowful.
She's always so sad.
"Your father wants to talk to you," she tells me.
Of course that's the first thing she says. Her second child has come home for the first time in almost a year, and of course, father's wishes come first. But in her mind, her wishes come last.
"You should go and see—"
I cut her off with a hug, wrapping my arms around her waist and pulling her close to me, tucking her head under my chin. She goes rigid at first, surprised, but after a moment, she softens. Relaxes.
"I missed you," I tell her.
I hear her sniffle, and though she doesn't return the sentiment, I don't need her to. She squeezes me, and I let myself hold her a moment longer. It's only once the door opens, hinges squeaking, that I take a step back.
"Mack," father greets. His expression is impassive. "You didn't volunteer."
And with that, I'm no longer a son; I'm a legacy. His legacy.
"I didn't," I affirm.
The argument that follows is explosive.
Our legacy is my great grandfather's old, dingy fishing boat, rust on her hull and Second Wind painted on her stern. She was built before the Rebellion, and my grandfather was born in her cabin, anchored in the waters close enough to the mainland that they could hear the bombs being dropped.
Our legacy is cages thrown into the sea; it's snapping claws and dark, sleek shells; it's a market stall; the smell of brine; a glass tank filled with crabs.
Father was the first to choose something different for himself.
Before I even walk through the gate to the yard, I can hear the piercing shrieks and trilling laughter of children.
At the academy, we go on break for two weeks for the Games. I almost chose to stay in the dorms instead of returning, but even though I dread seeing my father again, it's the one chance I have to get away from my classmates. At least at home I've had a room to myself since Finn left.
The gate shuts behind me with a metallic clang; the children's heads turn, but I don't recognize their faces. But they seem to recognize me — their mouths gape in surprise, and one drops the ball she'd been holding, sending it tumbling past me down the hill until it rolls into the fence.
"Mack's back!" She shouts, turning on her heel to run towards the house, loamy dirt and grass being kicked up behind her. "Mack's back!"
The other continues to stare at me, seeming petrified. I manage to muster a smile to him as I clamber up the hill, though I know it must look stiff. Artificial. I'm not in the mood to be social, though I rarely am.
Since neither of us want to talk, I walk past him without a word.
The girl who ran to the house reaches it long before I do, and by the time that I'm approaching it, my mother has come out onto the porch to greet me, my father's sister at her side. She wrings her apron in her hands, and her expression is both relieved and sorrowful.
She's always so sad.
"Your father wants to talk to you," she tells me.
Of course that's the first thing she says. Her second child has come home for the first time in almost a year, and of course, father's wishes come first. But in her mind, her wishes come last.
"You should go and see—"
I cut her off with a hug, wrapping my arms around her waist and pulling her close to me, tucking her head under my chin. She goes rigid at first, surprised, but after a moment, she softens. Relaxes.
"I missed you," I tell her.
I hear her sniffle, and though she doesn't return the sentiment, I don't need her to. She squeezes me, and I let myself hold her a moment longer. It's only once the door opens, hinges squeaking, that I take a step back.
"Mack," father greets. His expression is impassive. "You didn't volunteer."
And with that, I'm no longer a son; I'm a legacy. His legacy.
"I didn't," I affirm.
The argument that follows is explosive.
