★ {NOX SULLIVAN} ★ D3 [FIN]

★ { n a m e } nox maurus sullivan
★ { a g e } eighteen
★ { g e n d e r } male
★ { l o c a t i o n } district three
★ { s e x u a l i t y } who even knows heterosexual

What I fear and what I try,
The words I say and what I hide
All the pain, I want it to end
But I want it again

★ { a p p e a r a n c e }

“How old are you, honey?”

The boy blinks up at the woman - big, startlingly blue eyes round with something like confusion, and maybe a little panic. How old is he? Not even he knows, just as he doesn’t know the difference between thirty-two and twenty-three, or what number comes after five, or what someone means when they say “see you tomorrow”. It almost makes him angry, not knowing, but shhh, it’s a secret, Nox. No one can know how stupid you really are, so he shrugs his shoulders, clenches his tiny fists at his sides, and mumbles, “A couple years.” The woman smiles and laughs, pinches his rosy-hued cheeks between her bony fingers, and tells the boy’s father that he’s got a little joker. The father laughs, too.

The clock tick-tocks on the wall above my dresser, the hands pointing out the hours and the minutes as though to say “look, boy, this is what time it is. Don’t you understand?”, but I don’t. I can’t, even as I try to keep track of each second – one, two, three – in my head, focusing on the sound of it, each tick of the hand as it circles the clock – four, five, six – and telling myself that maybe I’ll get further this time, maybe I’ll be able to claw the numbers out from where they’re trapped in some deep, hidden corner of my mind, but – six, seven, seven…nine, twelve, five – it doesn’t work, it never does. I can never seem to make it past-

“Seven. You’re seven, Nox. Why is that so hard to remember?” His father’s grip is almost painfully tight around his hand as he pulls him away from the school and toward home, away from the woman who his father said was going to be his teacher. The boy hurries to keep up with the man’s brisk pace, feeling dumb and useless and utterly confused. “But which number is seven, Daddy?” he asks, and his father frowns down at him, frustrated and concerned. Almost like reflections of each other, they are – young and old – a man with dark hair and sharp features just like his son. Daddy’s is different though – he’s not as dumb.

With an exasperated sigh, I push myself up off the bed and sit on the edge, rubbing at the migraine forming between my temples. I want to snatch the clock off the wall and hurl it across the room, if only to make the ticking stop, but Cleo says having one around might help me with my problem. It’s not, it’s only making it worse, sis, it only reminds me that I’m a fucking idiot who can’t tell the damn time. But Cleo insists, and sometimes I think that reminding me that I’ll never be normal like her is exactly what she wants.

I stand and pad over to the dresser, reaching up and pulling the clock down off the wall. The time is 2-4, or 4-2, something like that. The ticking is almost unbearable now, this close, the hands twitching in circles behind the hazy reflection of my face behind the glass. I can make out the strong line of my jaw, the furrow of my brow and scruffy mop of dark hair atop my head, but I can’t tell if I look like an eighteen year old or an eighty-one year old. I’m not even sure which of the two numbers comes first. My eyes are sharp, piercing even, the eyes of someone far more intelligent than I am, eyes for someone that’s not so much of a complete and utter fool.

At least, that's what Cleo says.

Still the same, pursuing pain
Is it worth all that I've gained?
We both know how it will end,
But I'd do it again

★ { p e r s o n a l i t y }

“He has dyscalculia.” The boy’s father squeezes his son’s shoulders with both hands, his mother blinks at the doctor as though she doesn’t quite comprehend what he means, but knows it’s not good. The boy simply stares at doctor’s watch, watching the tiny hands tick by – four…five, ten? - as he goes on to elaborate. “It’s a rare learning disability, rather ambiguous in meaning – not much is known about it, just that it inhibits a child’s ability to understand mathematical concepts. That includes getting numbers confused, not being able to tell time, getting months and days of the week mixed up. Not to worry, though, Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan. He'll be fine. The symptoms usually clear up significantly after puberty.”

They never did.

Cleo paces in front of me while I slouch into my father’s desk chair, clicking the pen repeatedly – tick, click, tick, click, clock – and trying to convince myself that I need to be here, if I want to get better. My parents never got me a special teacher, like the doctor told them to do, because word spreads, they said, and this family can’t be known for having a special child. I’d always thought it was funny, how they always seemed to dodge around the words stupid and slow and ignorant, as if I don’t already know. Cleo’s the only one that’s ever been honest with me about it. I mean, she’s a cruel and manipulative bitch, but at least she doesn’t sugarcoat anything.

She stops suddenly, halting in front of the desk – dark eyes roaming the polished wooden surface before her hand suddenly flashes out and snatches up the mini-calendar propped up against the pen holder, flipping to a random page before showing it to me. June, it reads. Big bold letters across the top of the page. I scoff, one brow creeping upward toward my hairline. “I can read, Cleo,” I grumble, abandoning the pen and leaning further back into the chair, crossing my arms over my chest. “It says June. So what?”

“Tsk. Always so testy, Nox,” she sighs dramatically, rolling her eyes upward before running her slender fingers across the page, pointing to each of the little boxes and the numbers hovering in the corners of them. “How many days are in June?”

My eyes slide from the smirk stretched across Cleo’s face and down to the calendar in her hands, the letters J-U-N-E glaringly bright and obvious among the jumble of numbers scattered haphazardly across the page, or so they seem. Everyone else can make sense of them, remember what they mean and which comes first and how to add and subtract and do everything I can’t. I try focusing on them – one, two, three - try to pull the patterns from the depths of my mind that I’ve never quite been able to reach – four, five, six, seven…seven…fucking seven - but it remains a jumbled mess of squiggles and slopes that I just can’t comprehend.

“Screw it! I give up!” The boy, eleven now and possessing a new, fierce light flickering behind his bottle-blue eyes, hurls the pencil across the room and plops back down in his chair with a huff. The whole class has fallen silent, the teacher included (she was writing out the multiplication tables, and oh, how much fun that had been for him), all eyes fixed on him and wide with shock. They can stare as much as they want, though, it won’t change anything. He doesn’t fucking care, and when the teacher asks, that’s exactly what he tells her. It’s the first of many times he is sent to the office for his outbursts.

“I don’t know.” I close my eyes with a frustrated groan and pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger, shaking my head slowly as I try to push down the mixed-up storm of anger and shame swirling in the pit of my stomach. “I don’t know, sis. I can’t think…” Cleo smirks as she flips the calendar closed and sits on the desk in front of me, running her fingers through my hair as though to comfort me. I resist the urge to scowl and swat her hand away like I would to any other person – it seems as though I make a habit of pushing people away, even when they’re just trying to help. But as much as I really want to slap her sometimes, I don’t know what I’d do if she ever abandoned me…

“Thirty days. Thur-tee. A three and then a zero, Nox, or have you forgotten which numbers those are, too?” She says it sweetly, absolutely laced with condescension, but I know better than to think that she takes the time to help me out of the goodness of her heart. I may not be able to figure out what two plus two is, but I’m not completely oblivious. She’s using me, I know, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I depend on her, just like I always have. I need her. She’s the only one that knows, the one that can help me. I’m trapped. She's got me in a cage.

I nod slowly, defeated, clenching my jaw tight. "Yeah, I have."

And I don’t think I’ll ever break free.

And it finds me
The fight inside is coursing through my veins
And it's raging
The fight inside is hurting me again

★ { h i s t o r y }

“You wanna race?”

The boy looks up from where he’s sitting on the steps of his father’s business, startled by the sight of the little blonde boy that has suddenly appeared in front of him – all bruised shins and friendly smiles, around his size (he doesn’t know if they’re the same age, though, and he won’t ask). The boy doesn’t see very many kids like him outside of school, his parents keep him cooped up in the house so much. His father told him to stay outside, though, he’d be just a minute, just picking up some paperwork, but a race sounds fun and he can’t help but saying, “Okay. To the end of the sidewalk and back?” He doesn’t have many friends besides his sister, and having one would be nice, he thinks.

“Yeah, that’s what I was gonna say.” The blonde kid shrugs, then hurries over to the sidewalk, crouching down and ready to run. The boy scrambles to his feet and trots after him, doing his best to mimic the other boy’s stance. “On the count of three. One, two-“

“Can you say ‘ready, set, go’ instead?” He bites his lip, anxiety rising up in his chest for fear of the boy calling him a weirdo like a lot of other kids call him sometimes. But he only nods, like it doesn’t bother him, not a problem.

“Sure. Ready, set-“

“Go away!” The picture frame slams into the wall by Cassander’s head, shattering on impact and causing tiny shards of glass to fly out in all directions and scatter the floor. My brother flinches, one hand on the door handle and one foot in the room, hurt flickering behind his red-rimmed gaze. There are tear tracks down his cheeks, a heavy sadness in his eyes and a shakiness in his posture, like he might fall apart at any moment. I feel it, too, and it’s weighing me down and gnawing me to the bone and searing my insides like a wildfire. It hurts, and I just want to be left alone. “I don’t want to talk to anybody right now. Leave.”

But of course, he doesn’t. He takes another uncertain step into the room, and I shoot him a scowl so menacing it stops him in his tracks. He looks betrayed, sniffling once, but doesn’t move. “Nox…He was my father, too-”

“Don’t try to comfort me, Caz.” I flop back down on the bed, pulling the covers up over my shoulders and squeezing my eyes shut tight against the burning, painful thing rising up in the back of my throat and behind my eyes. Face half-buried into the pillow, I mumble, “You can’t always be everyone’s knight in shining armor. I don’t want you here, so just turn around and leave. Just go. Away.”

It’s silent for a moment, the only sounds being the ever-ticking clock (on the wall? In my head?) and Cassander’s shaky, uneven breaths from the other side of the room. Eventually, though, I hear the door creak slowly closed, the soft click, and then the slow, heavy footsteps of my brother’s retreat down the hall. After a few moments, it’s just me and the clock. Just like it always has been.

Just like it always will be.

“Does your daddy work at the company, too?” the boy says between labored breaths, his lungs still aching from the physical toll their race had on him. He’s not used to exercise, but the other boy seems to be. There’s not a drop of sweat on his blonde head, and he’s not fighting for oxygen like the dark-haired child is. He must play a lot, he thinks, wiping the layer of perspiration from his forehead. No wonder he beat me.

“Uh-huh. He owns it.” The blonde boy’s chest swells proudly, while the other child’s brow furrows in confusion.

“But my daddy owns the company,” he says, cocking his head. “How can your daddy own the company if mine does, too?” He doesn’t understand, doesn’t get it, but the other boy doesn’t seem too perplexed. He shrugs, beaming widely.

“Maybe they share it. Daddy says it’s good to share things, like with friends. Maybe they’re friends.”

“Are we friends?” the boy asks, uncertain, his tone a little nervous. Most kids at school stay away from him, call him stupid because he doesn’t understand the things that have to do with numbers, and a lot of things have to do with numbers. This kid seems nice though, so maybe he won’t make fun of him. He has a nice smile, too.

He nods, still grinning a mega-watt smile. “Yeah, we’re friends.” He sticks out his hand, and the boy takes it almost immediately. His fingers are sticky and there’s dirt beneath his nails, but he doesn’t mind. He’s just happy to have a friend.

“Okay, good. My name’s Nox.”

“Cool name, but mine’s better. I’m Lux.”

The glass frame lies in broken fragments on the ground by the door, the milky golden sunlight filtering in from between the shades reflecting off of the pieces and forming tiny specks of light on the floor. I stare at the picture lying facedown among the sparkles, taking deep, shuddering breaths into the pillow and trying to pull myself together enough to sit up. My head swims when I do, an odd sense of vertigo washing over me and threatening to pull me back down onto the bed and into despair, but I find the will to stand and pad slowly across the room, careful not to cut the bottoms of my feet on the shards. I reach down, carefully pull it out from under a large sheet of glass, and smooth it between my hands.

It’s a family picture, taken just a few months ago when the nine of us went on a camping trip to the woods on the outskirts of the District. It’s a happy photo, not like the posed one where we’re all arranged neatly in matching suits and dresses in front of a gray backdrop, like the one my father keeps (kept, now) on his desk in the study. In this one, he and my mother are smiling into the camera, fingers laced together and my mother’s head resting on his shoulder. Alice stands beside them with Arsen in a headlock, just the top of his dark head visible between his flailing limbs, Vivien grinning at the both of them as though she were enjoying her brother’s predicament. Cassander hangs comically from my shoulder while I laugh and struggle to support his weight, one of my arms snaked around Cleo’s waist as she smirks at the two of us. Little Ava sits at our feet, one of her favorite dolls resting on her knee as she smiles sweetly into the camera. My family, all together, happy and laughing and grinning together in a moment forever frozen in time.

There will never be another moment like this again, I think, the picture shaking between my trembling hands. My father’s dead, my mother broken beyond repair. Our whole family has shattered like the frame that held this picture, this moment, safe behind a sheet of glass on my bedside table. It will never happen again, this happiness, we won’t ever be able to feel like that again. Because of the Dewitts. They did this. Lux did this.

And he will pay.

I grip the top corners of the picture in my hands, clench my jaw tight, and tear it in half.

The clock is ticking for Lux Dewitt, and sooner or later his time will run out.

I’ll make sure of it.

“That is a pretty cool name. Lux and Nox. They sound kinda the same, don’t they?”

“Yeah, I guess. Maybe that means we’re supposed to be friends, or something. Hey, you wanna race again?”

“Sure! Back to the company?”

“Uh-huh. First one to get to the top of the steps is the winner. I’m gonna beat you again, just watch.”

“We’ll see.”

And it finds me
The war within me pulls me under
And without You
The fight inside is breaking me again

★ { o t h e r }

★ { f a c e } nicolas bemberg
★ { p l o t s } my/tristen/dars' chess plot
★ { s o n g } nothing and everything by red
★ { c o d e } oDair