if love was like a child [HANNAH] // blitz!

Clint's friend's house was warm and inviting. The mother greeted us at the door with open arms and a bright smile, and I knew that Clint would be happier here anyway. He'd be happier here in general. I've thought about leaving him with her too many times. Not because I don't want him, but because he'd have a better life. Albeit this family was just as poor as me, their house always seemed more inviting then ours. Almost filled with warm and light, and the house appeared clean and well-kept. Not even the dusty layer of inevitable coal dust that covered everything and everyone could detract from the love that sprouted from the very roots of this home. I think that if I left him here, though, that I would sink deeper than I already had. I would have nobody to wake up to, no belly to feed, no bruises to kiss and no face to clean. My house would be completely void of light and love, because Clint was like my shining beacon in the midst of a storm. The goodness in this District (or whatever remained of it) clung to him and followed him around. He would become something, I hope. He would learn to survive and thrive, and hopefully he could find someone else who loved him just as much as I do.

I find myself looking at Callen as I departed from my brother, my eyes trained on the strain of his face and the curve of his chin. I could still feel his warm hand pressed around mine, his fingers rubbing circles across my fingers and inching down toward my wrists. It felt right, normal, and rather expected. The wind blew through my hair and pierced straight through the fabric of my clothes, and my whole body shook in the face of the breeze. His question was kicked up in the sounds of the wind, mixing in with the swirls of snow and ever-present dust that billowed around us. "How was your weekend?" He asked softly, and I had to laugh at his tone, as if he half-expected me to have had anything other than a poor one. "Yeah, it was okay," I answered, more to reassure myself than him. "Yours?"

We talked for a while, idle chit-chat like usual, until we arrived at the front step of his home. Even though it was nothing spectacular (no home in this District was), it was infinitely more appealing and beautiful than mine. The house was so utterly familiar, and even if I hadn't been there in the longest time, memories and emotions began to flood back into my mind at every touch and image. I swiped my hand across a small dent in the wall that I had made as a young girl, when Callen had pushed me and I had tumbled backward, underestimating my weakness and frailty. I walked past a closet that Callen and I had hid in together while playing hide-and-seek with his brothers, and nobody was able to find us and we sat there for hours, giggling and telling jokes and stories; it was more likely than not that they left us in there so that we would be out of their hair for a while. As I opened the door, I half expected the younger versions of ourselves to come tumbling out, screaming with our hands and legs entangled.

As I continued down the hall, I stopped and stared at the dusty mirror that hung on the wall. Each corner was cracked or had a chunk of glass missing entirely, and certain portions were scratched. A picture of Clint and I was stuck in the small space between the wall and the mirror, and I picked it up in my hands, wondering why he had kept it after all these years. The soft, pale face of my brother was angelic compared to the darker, more damaged version of mine. I could see the resemblance between us, in the eyes and the shape of the mouth. It was during the summer, possibly five or six years ago, at a time when all was right in the world and nothing seemed impossible. The picture was yellowing in places and seemed ready to tear at any second. I could hear Callen come up behind me, and as he closed the front door I watched the last of the light escape back outside into the dust and snow. I placed the picture back in its place, asking "Why did you keep this picture?" I hated to look at it, really. It reminded me that the good times that I had once had were no more, and would no longer be.

I reached for my arms instinctively, feeling the urge again. The scabs had ripped off from earlier and the bleeding and pain had ceased, and I needed it there again. I needed it to ground me, to keep me from floating off into the distance. I would love that oh so much, but right now there were so many things to keep me here, too. Maybe once Clint was old enough to live on his own, I could let myself do it, I could let myself go. Callen could take care of him, Callen could bring him what he needed, Callen could be there for him like I couldn't. Callen could do anything. He could do anything he wanted to, could be anything he wanted to be, go anywhere he wanted to go. He could do it, he would do it. I knew that about him our whole lives, that he would always be the one to succeed and do well, and I would remain behind in the remainder of his limelight, with the biggest smile on my face because I knew that he had finally done it, finally done whatever it was he was meant to do. And I would be perfectly content with being left behind, because the world wouldn't need me that much longer afterward. Nobody would miss me. Everyone would move on. 'Everyone' being the two boys that ran my show, the ones that kept me in the here and now. Clint would be angry with me, but he would soon move on and realize that it was what I was meant to do. I was placed here to take care of him until he could take care of himself. Callen would be harder to let go, harder to lose. He'd sink, sink, sink down, until he hit rock bottom. And then he would climb back out of the trench again, back out into the sunlight and he would learn to move on, to walk along without me. Callen doesn't need me like I need him. He could do it, he could thrive even with me six feet under the ground. Callen, Callen, Callen...

I reached for his arm in the darkness, to have him pull me into him so I could feel his fingers on my back and in my hair, his familiar smell in my nose and eyes and nothing but he and I. I don't think he really got what he did to me; how he could turn my world from an ambiance of exhaustion and anger to one of peace and composure. I don't think he really got that if there was one thing I needed in my life, it was him. I don't think he really got that some things so insignificantly mundane to someone else, like his smile or the way his hands went to my hair as he looked at me, were my entire world, my entire being, my entire self. "I miss you. Where have you been?"

I don't think he really got that I loved him.

“I kept it because it’s the only picture I have of you where you’re smiling. And you look beautiful.”

My breath lodged in my throat, unable to escape from my lips. I could not see the picture any more, but within the few seconds that I had looked at it, it had burned itself into my vision. I was not beautiful. Beauty requires balance and harmony, with oneself and their own surroundings. It requires self-esteem, a little bit of vanity, and a whole lot of pride. Confidence was key, and by the way that I had fallen right into his arms as I thought of their lives without me, I had never been beautiful. And he must have sensed my hesitation with his comment, because I soon felt his arms tighten around me, one sliding down to grip my side.

Bliss. It can come in different shapes and sizes, like the taste of ice cream on a hot day (something that I have only read about in old children's books), or like getting a good grade on a test you were sure you had failed. Or like the sensation of someone's arms around you, holding you together like they were the only thing on the planet strong enough to ensure that you stayed in one piece. His voice floated around my head as he spoke to me, breath in my hair and hand at my side. My skin tingled where he held on and I felt myself start to float around the floor, being guided into a dance. His breath was in my hair and in my ears as he hummed, and I could hear him begin to sing. I haven't heard him sing in a long time. He used to a long time ago, when we were little; he would sing me songs when I felt bad, and even though he was never really that good, I still thought that he was good enough for me.

I didn’t know when we had stopped dancing. When we were moving, I let myself succumb to the warmth of his arms and the complete familiarity of his being. There was nobody that I knew so well, nobody that knew me so intently and intimately. The sudden halt of movement didn’t stir me, and even though we stood at a completely standstill I didn’t let go. I gripped his shirt and let him hold me together, like I was an art project and he was the glue. I breathed him in (he smelled like cold snow and coal dust and the musky smell of clothing). I wanted to blend into him. I wanted to be strong and sturdy and capable like he was. I was tired of feeling weak and pathetic and worthless to everyone that entered my life. I never gave anybody anything worthwhile or useful; just anger and regret. I felt completely irrelevant to everyone and everything, except Callen. I don’t know what he saw in me, but whatever he seemed to have found he must enjoy. My skin felt like it was on fire where he brushed his fingers, even though his hands were still ice cold from our snowy walk outside.

“It’s a good picture, don’t you find?” His words swirled through my brain as I tried to comprehend what he said. I was so lost in his arms that I didn’t think anything could ever bring me back up to the surface again. I wish I could have stayed there in that moment for an eternity, because it’s where I felt whole and wanted. I could have framed it and looked at it for the rest of my life, every time I felt sad or tired. Chances were that Callen would not be around for much longer. We were both getting older and he wasn’t getting any less attractive, and I was sure that soon he would find someone who made him feel like how he made me feel. I hoped he wouldn’t get up and leave quite so quickly, though; I hoped it would take a while before he found someone. “Yeah…”

I let go eventually, I think. Maybe from the sudden thought of his absence in my life, or maybe just because I felt that if I didn’t remove myself from him in that moment that I would have stayed there forever. I twisted around and looked through the darkness into his home, small and dark but still infinitely more a home than mine would ever be. I could see the faint silhouette of his couch against the light escaping from the window behind, and I stumbled around corners and things on the floor toward it. I wanted to sit; I didn’t think I could stay on my feet anymore. I half sunk, half collapsed onto the floor. I heard Callen’s footsteps echo after mine, and I felt him sink down next to me, pressing himself into me. I curled into him slightly and let myself soak him up.

I really needed to do it now. I had been a good girl and hadn’t done it for a while. I wanted to do it, wanted to feel it slip across my skin and endure the bittersweet feeling. It was always a mixture of pain and pleasure, but after a while one learns to simply accept it as it is. You get over it eventually, learn to treat both sensations as one and the same. And when you learn to truly enjoy it, that’s when you’re stuck.

(ooc ; going to switch persons here. i want to see what happens if i do)

The wooden flooring began to dig into her backside, bringing discomfort and causing her to re-position her weight. She adjusted herself so she could place more weight on the curve of her back than on her bottom, and the couch provided a bit more support anyway. She leaned her head back against the fabric of the couch, swearing that if the house could get any more dark that she would be able to see the shimmer of the stars and the glow of the moon. Of course, it had been a while since she'd taken a moment to appreciate those ornaments in the sky. She had often ran down the dusty streets at night as a child to meet Callen, plans of adventure and bliss overlapping and flitting through their minds. She could remember those nights, where the moonlight would paint everything in an eerie white glow, and the stars would act as beacons for the direction of home when they would get lost.

She looked at him now, unable to see how the boy from her past—the one with bright eyes and an even brighter smile—had morphed into the man that sat before her. The energy, the light, everything that was Callen had dissipated and disappeared into a crevice of his former self. There was no more Callen, and there hadn't been one for a long while; just an empty shell, the hollow space filled with exhaustion and regret. She supposed that she had seen it coming, had even seen it happening. She had watched him transform into a ghost, a walking enigma of his own past, present, and future; she had watched in despair as he spiraled deeper and deeper into his medicine. But wasn't medicine supposed to help, wasn't it supposed to make someone feel better? Audriana hadn't seen any sign or indication of his progress. She only saw him delve deeper into an oblivion of dullness and apathy. And it was painful to see this boy, so cleverly crafted by his Maker, not reap from the world what he had planted on it.

"Hey Audri? I haven't told you something that's been a big part of my life for a while now. Please don't be mad," His jumble of words interrupted her thoughts, and even though it was unmistakably dark she felt embarrassed that she had been staring at his shadow, as if he had seen where her eyes had wandered. She shook her head almost habitually, trying to remove herself from the haven of her nostalgia. She raked her fingers through her tangle of hair, a desperate attempt at removing it from her face. She locked her eyes on his figure again, sturdy and stable against the soft gleam that protruded from the window behind him. "Yeah, Callen?"

He began to tell a story that she later realized she had tuned out right from the start. She absorbed his words, his tone and his emotion, but didn't let them sink into her bones and her heart. She was tired, oh so tired, and the soft fabric of the couch combined with his warmth pulled her into a type of light trance; she did not fall asleep, but she was somewhere in the middle of it all, stuck between his words and her thoughts. Something about his medication, and how he did not like what it made him, and the rumble of his voice was so soothing and familiar, and his rhythmic inhale, exhale began to coincide with her own, and "I love you, Audriana Gresham. I love you more than you have ever known."

She felt her eyes spring open against her own will, her body starting suddenly against the sturdiness of the couch. She felt her hip dig into the floor as she turned and she sucked in an exhalation of pain, and she sat up straight as she attempted to face herself directly in front of him. Love me? Who loves me? Nobody has loved me. Nobody does. Tsunamis of thoughts and cries of anger leapt out into her mouth, the only floodgate possible of holding them back the chapped barrier of her lips. She tasted the familiar tang of blood in her mouth as she realized that she was trapping her tongue between her teeth; the taste of blood was much different than the sensation of it flooding down her arms. The taste was savoury, metallic and slightly intriguing. It almost felt better than the razor patterning her skin with lines and criss-crosses.

Audriana found herself gripping the curtain from across the room before she even felt the floor beneath her feet. She yanked it across the window, allowing the afternoon light to illuminate the darkness of Callen's home. She saw him clearer now, and the expression on his face made her heart race. So delicate and exposed, like he had just ultimately destroyed all of his self-esteem and pride in order to get to this point. He watched her intently, a look of confusion in his eyes, and suddenly she felt bad for having gotten up so hastily. She floated back over to his sad, tired eyes, placing herself directly in front of him again. With the light filtering into the room, she could see everything from the exhausted bend of his body to the questions running through his eyes. His eyes didn't leave her for a moment, and for the first time in her life, his presence and his gaze made her uncomfortable. He was waiting for her to say something, anything, to break the silence that was slowly building an unbreakable wall between them. The longer she waited, she could see the exasperation and panic begin to rise in him as he thought that maybe he had made the incorrect choice by telling her. She wanted to say something, her mouth opening and closing with the effort, but all that came out were short, ragged breaths and the slight wheeze that came with constantly inhaling coal dust.

How could he love her? How could someone like him love someone like her? Her whole life, she realized that they did not deserve each other. She knew that she did not deserve his sturdiness, his support in everything she did, his love. She also knew that he did not deserve the stress, problems, and resent that she placed on his shoulders. She could do so much worse, and he could always do infinitely better. He had been nothing but the ground on which she stood on, the one that held up her entire world. She had once heard an old story, about a god that held up the entire world as a punishment. She supposed that Callen and this god could be connected, but Callen was not being punished for a crime. He was being condemned because he had decided to place his heart and trust into her, not knowing that she would eventually decide to break it. Somebody loved her, and the only way that she could repay back everything that he had done for her was to transfer all her problems onto him.

She looked down at her arms, inconspicuously covered by her dusty red jacket. How could he not know that they were there, so crudely covered with nothing but a shabby piece of fabric? Did he never see her wince or grimace any time he came into contact with her arms? Was her endless rubbing and pulling and picking and scratching at her arms not obvious? She had done it ever since Mama passed, and she had had to flee with Clint to the shabby shack that they lived in now. It was a way to escape, a way to feel weightless and at the same time know that she was grounded. Was he that oblivious to something so obvious? Or was it his medication that blinded his judgment, the same medication that was supposed to bring him back to her? She really did miss him. It had been a long time since she had talked to Callen, not the phantom that he had metamorphosed into. And she supposed that what she had said to him back at the mirror, that she had missed him, had meant a lot more than just missing him in the moment. She had missed him since the first moment that he had left, had become something entirely different than what she had always known.

She looked back up at him again, and although only about ten or fifteen seconds had passed, she knew that she had let too much time go by. She tugged at her arms, nervous and anticipant. It was not fair for him to love someone so broken, someone who could never give him their whole heart because it was never completely, one-hundred percent whole to begin with. It had been broken, shattered and damaged to the point of no return or repair, and not even the love of this boy could mend it back together.

"Don't love me," she suddenly blurted, and her voice sounded foreign and distant, like it had not come from her lips. "Don't love me. I'm already broken. I'm already cut up and damaged," her voice faltered on the last word, and she stood up quickly, towering over him. This was something she always did to intimidate her enemy, to make herself appear bigger and powerful. He was her enemy, he had her heart in his hands. One wrong move and he would completely destroy her, send her into a world of oblivion and pain that she could not ever escape from. She gripped her jacket sleeve and yanked it up to her elbow, revealing the scar tissue that was her skin. The light illuminated the pink tissue, making it look worse than it actually was. I can take care of it. I know how to take care of myself, she thought, hoping that Callen would understand that through her expressions. "You see, Callen, this is why you can't love me. Because I have no love to give back to you. I can't give back to you what you've given me my whole life."

At this point, her words were intermingled with trails of tears down her dusty cheeks and a wavering voice. She felt so completely betrayed. He had given her everything that she needed her entire life, but he had placed this on her and expected her to deal with it? That wasn't fair, wasn't fair of him to suddenly expect her to reciprocate, that they would go skipping off into a golden sunset with flowers in their hair. She knew that what she had done to him wasn't fair either, but he couldn't just tell her something like that and think that she would understand that it was a justifiable trade for what she had put him through. She looked at him through the shimmering filter of her tears, but she was too upset to focus on his expression. She didn't really want to see it, either; she didn't know if she could handle it if his face showed any kind of pain or disappointment. She had already disappointed him too many times.

She sat down on the small table in front of the couch. He was still sitting on the floor before her, and she was elevated and looking down on him. "Do you see now, Callen? Why you can't?" She crossed her legs and covered her mouth with her hand, the hot, salty tears still pouring freely down into her hair and onto her hand and jacket. Her breathing was ragged and she struggled to keep herself calm. If she had one of her moments now, she could never speak to Callen again. He would truly see who she was, and she couldn't let him see her in that way.

It wouldn't be fair to him.