.:i'm the last one left~ [hitch/senalia]

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rook
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who needs another thing to be sad about?

.:i'm the last one left~ [hitch/senalia] Jul 24, 2014 10:48:56 GMT -5

Post by rook on Jul 24, 2014 10:48:56 GMT -5

HITCHCOCK

Devil's in the detail. Little things that I didn't quite notice until I became so numb and seperate from the real world. I run in tangent, parallel to reality's vast expanse, never touching but always moving onwards. From here I see all the things I missed before, because my mind was caught in the fallout of an explosion that my siblings caused, again and again, chain explosions. Their deaths burn me like an invisible radiation, eating away at my insides until I can't fight back. I am so weak. I have lost weight, for sure. There were days when I was bulky and tough. I could take on anyone who had a problem with me, but now? Now a strong breeze could knock me over. I have bleached my hair. Impulse, maybe. It shines a bright blond, trying to be radiant like the sun, but instead it verges on a sad white. White like bones.

It's sad that relief is the only emotion running through me. They're dead. I'm nothing like Rubik, who spent three years mourning Pandora, and another two in an almost-coma like state following Hope's death. It eats away at me, drilling into my stomach every time I think of any one of those three, but I'm not dead like them. I'm alive. I have to live my life. That's why I'm out and about, doing things and talking to people, trying to distract my mind from my black past. I run parallel to events, but occasionally I can reach out a hand and dip back into reality. Sometimes.

The night casts a grey shade over District Eight, the moonlight picking out silver edges on the metal cuboid towers that we call buildings. So makeshift and unarchitectured that I wonder how they are held together. From the desaturated shades burst oranges and yellows. Windows into peoples homes, lit up by a fireplace or lamps flickering due to inconsistent electricity. They are patches of color in the grey District Eight skyline. In some, black silhouettes stare down at the streets below, thankful that they are safe up in their makeshift apartments high in the sky, away from the dangers of the slums at night.

I walk through thick, pasty mud, and puddles so filthy and brown that I can't see my reflection in them. My black boots are plastered brown, like they have been for so many years. I never even bother to clean them anymore. With my hands in my pockets and a hood over my spaghetti hair, I trudge towards the market. At night, it's a different place. Floodlights shine on the faces of strangers, whilst also creating shadows for monsters to hide in. Billboards with words written in a forgotten language dominate the overhead, lit up in fantastic neon. Peacekeepers by the numbers patrol through the underpass, their hands resting on their holsters. Dogs bark aggressively at anyone who walks past, not stopping even when their Peacekeeper masters tug harshly at their chain leashes. The buzz is halfway between atmospheric and oppressive. That's the way the black market has always been.

Rain spits down on me, stormclouds overhead more or less invisible apart from the obscure disk of the moon trying to break through. As I enter the market, I lower my hood. We are undercover here, in what is almost an underpass through the gaps in the looming shanty towers. I have gotten to see more of central District Eight since moving in with Uncle Harrison, Aunt Hanna and their kids. I begrudge every one of them, who only made contact with me after hearing about Rubik. Never once tried to get ahold of us after Pandora, or even after Hope. Only when I had no one left did they call me. Only when I had nowhere else to go. I should be thankful, I guess. I'd be on the streets if not for them, and I've been there before - I ain't going there again.

I head to a meat stand. A typical red-faced butcher stares at me with his arms folded across a blood stained apron. I glance down at the meat. Deer, not even skinned. Flies buzz around it's eyes and agape mouth. The stench is awful. I screw up my nose and walk on - I know deer is a rare meat, but that one looks dodgy as they come. I pass incense stalls and fortune tellers, trades that don't interest me in the slightest. I pass the coldhouse, home of the Wolfe family. I wonder how Rajas is doing these days. Been a good year since I've seen the guy. He's lost two siblings to the Games too. He's probably the only guy in District Eight who can relate to me. I walk on towards an electronics dealer, who offers me AA Batteries in exchange for a pint of my blood. I politely decline. Some people here are beyond mad. I'm one of them, then.

an hourglass is just a glass with sand inside

Stare
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and i will hold you tight / like the moon in the arms of the sky

.:i'm the last one left~ [hitch/senalia] Jul 25, 2014 1:29:18 GMT -5

Post by Stare on Jul 25, 2014 1:29:18 GMT -5

These restless nights are killing me.

It's hard for me to understand that even though he is buried and gone somehow he is still everywhere. I can feel him near the mug I left out on the table in the hope that it would bring him back to me. His ghost lingers near the fire, his smile is traced out in the stars. I dread the winter, for I'll see our night in the valley traced out in every set of footprints impressed upon the snow. I hate the summer, because the heat reminds me of the day we met. The loss is a yawning space in my chest, the missed opportunities a constant buzzing in my head. And sometimes, when I manage to drag myself from bed and watch for him out my window until my breath fogs up the glass, I manage to choke out his name.

Rubik.

The day they told me, I broke. I don't remember much of what happened. There were tears and shouts and screams and nails digging into skin. The memory is a blur, hesitant and guarded, and all I can clearly recall is that somehow I ended up in my bed, curled up under the covers with tear-stained cheeks and staring eyes and the endless mantra of my fault couldn't save him gone gone gone running through my mind. It was supposed to be me. I was the one who was going to fix him. Now I draw my knees up to my chest, tangling my sheets in the process. I can't fix a bullet hole.

I think I'm dying. I can't remember the last time I forced myself to shower, and it's been at least a day since I ate. Something's wrong with me - my skin clings too tightly to my bones, there are dark circles painted beneath my eyes, and when I try to move my hands shake. My body has been reduced to something that barely functions and even though it hurts, even though every inhale is a sharp bite into that thing just near my lungs, I know I don't want to die. My legs struggle to swing out over the bed and when I stand the world tilts slightly, but I manage to make my way over to my dresser, where what little money I have saved up rests beneath my socks. Half of it finds its way into my coat pocket (when did I last change? I can't remember).

The road is familiar and the movements all automatic despite how jerky they are, and I'm left to my thoughts. It's such a dangerous thing these days. The memories are blessings and curses, as bittersweet as his name is upon my tongue. It’s not like when Will left. It stings more, deeper, angling itself into my chest so that I feel as if there’s a knife there that I can’t drag out. I want to scream and laugh and cry all at once, but all I am able to produce these days is a silence that feels so much worse. Rubik. I promised I would save him. I tried to reach into him, to give him my light and take some of his darkness. I wanted to shoulder his burdens because I was so tired of my own, and it had been so long since I’d felt something for anyone other than myself. He was mine to care about, mine to understand, mine to hope for.

I guess I didn’t try hard enough.

That's what hurts most of all, a poison that's been leaking into my bloodstream ever since he died. He was mine to take care of and I failed in the worst of ways. I didn't see him balancing on the bitter edge of insanity until it was too late. And sometimes I wonder if maybe I was suffocating him and that's why he left, because I'd intertwined myself too fully just like I always do. It doesn't usually hurt this much when they leave, though. I suppose I thought Rubik was different. I wasn't expecting him to leave me. I thought...

But it doesn't matter what I thought, because it's over now. It's all over.

Only it's not, and I realize that as soon as I enter the busier part of Eight's market. The lights flicker around me. (They've been growing dim lately. I think they're dying, too.) They sense it, a presence that off but not entirely unwelcome on my spectrum of sorrow. My gaze focuses on a flash of blonde hair and familiar movements and I blink, my footsteps stuttering toward him. A few especially eager salesmen reach out to grab my shoulder or arm but for once I ignore they desperate persuading in favor of following the figure in front of me until somehow I'm there, in front of him, my heart pounding in my chest and my breath coming in short gasps as if I've just run a mile. (I'm falling apart. I know I am.) My eyes meet his and I know those eyes. They're Rubik's. Only it's not Rubik's face, but another I know. "Hitch." A pause as I try to remember why it was so important to catch up to him. "I- I need to tell you something."

(Rubik was everything. I would have spent hours, days, weeks trying to fix him. I would have listened to him until he lost his voice. I would have followed him anywhere. I would have endured the worst kinds of pain for him. I would have been his, always, forever. I would have done anything for him.)

"I... I think I loved him. But I can't anymore. Right? Because he's... he's gone."

Ripred, it hurts.

but if you loved me
why'd you leave me?
take my body
take my body

{ all i want }

Last Edit: Jul 26, 2014 23:20:35 GMT -5 by Stare

rook
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who needs another thing to be sad about?

.:i'm the last one left~ [hitch/senalia] Jul 26, 2014 18:33:08 GMT -5

Post by rook on Jul 26, 2014 18:33:08 GMT -5

HITCHCOCK

Eyes meet like an eclipse. People pass through, their bodies blocking her from my sight for a few seconds. For a moment, I panic with the thought that she has vanished, but when the crowd parts, her gaze is still fixed on mine. It's like magnetism. I've seen these eyes before, I'm sure of it. They were so full of life back then. An indestructible optimism burned in her retina, it burned through every doubt that tried to fester in her mind. She wouldn't allow that. She wouldn't accept that. The eyes I see still cling to that, but they are eyes that are lost, searching for something real to cling onto. It just so happens that thing is me.

"Hitch."

Her voice is desperate. I clench my fists as she approaches me, moving a foot back instinctively into a defensive stance. I feel attacked already. Last time we met was right after we lost Hope. She came to offer her condolences, but Rubik didn't want any visitors. He didn't want anything. I have no idea when she saw him last, but it was a long, long time ago. Gotta be at least three years. If that's the case, then I'm glad - She wouldn't have wanted to see how he was in the end. His deterioration was one of the saddest things I have ever seen.

The light spread of rain torrents, and it isn't long before people are running for cover. Most of the black market is underpass, so for the most part we are okay, it is just the occasional drip here and there. In other parts, buildings part into an opening, and this is where the rain falls from, creating columns of water in patches across the market. They are transfixing, hypnotic when you stare too long at the weightless flow of water. Part of me wants to stand under one and take a shower. Been too long since I let the rain wash over me.

Stall owners are unphased by the rain, for the most-part. Some pull covers over their produce, or retreat inside their little windows. Others continue business as usual, not letting the weather get in the way of their sales. The Peacekeepers retreat beneath the underpass too, bringing their restless dogs with them. I can feel the tension rise in the square, and so I start to plan a way out. A way home. Usually I can cut through the alley behind the fibreboard merchant, heading west back towards my old home. Not today. There remains the small obstacle of Senalia.

"I- I need to tell you something." Her lips part, words lost in the tunnel of wind and drizzle.
"I... I think I loved him. But I can't anymore. Right? Because he's... he's gone."

I cough, clearing my throat. I'm a little stunned by it all, and my sentences form with little thought put into them. In the end it all comes out at once.
"Senalia!" I acknowledge, "You look like hell!"
I curse under my breath. Way to be nice to someone you haven't seen in a couple of years, Hitch. I try to process what she said about Rubik, but it's a grey blur. She loved him? Well, that much was always obvious. I grit my teeth, thinking back to her crazy ideas of the Games, and that somehow Hope and Pan are still alive, living in the Capitol. Rubik though. Rubik really is dead to her.

"Yeah, he's gone." I confirm, trying to be heard over the merchants' bartering. Rubik is gone, and so is my little sister, Hope, and my big brother, Pandora. Nothing I can do about it. I'm the last Woodards left. On that branch, anyway. They're gone, but that doesn't mean we stop loving them.

"Jeez, this isn't a great place," I look over my shoulder at a growing conflict between a Peacekeeper and a man carrying a wheelbarrow of bricks. I think about ditching Senalia. If I tell her this isn't a good time, and walk on by, will she forget me? I bite my lower lip, considering the other possibility. Talk to her. This really isn't a good place to talk. It takes less than half a second for my eyes to rest on the local honky tonk.
"Wanna grab a drink?"

Well, I guess it's off to the nineteenth hole.

Last Edit: Jul 26, 2014 18:33:45 GMT -5 by rook

an hourglass is just a glass with sand inside

Stare
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and i will hold you tight / like the moon in the arms of the sky

.:i'm the last one left~ [hitch/senalia] Jul 27, 2014 1:46:50 GMT -5

Post by Stare on Jul 27, 2014 1:46:50 GMT -5

"Yeah, he's gone."

Shouldn't the confirmation hurt more? Shouldn't it sear through my veins and stab through my chest like when the news first reached me? I half expect the world to once again, to end up a sobbing mess beneath my sheets all over again. Instead everything remains steady. His words are an echo, a lesson I've already learned, and the pain is a ghost of what it once was as it washes through me. Rubik Woodards is dead. He forgot to say goodbye.

I think I want to cry, but for whatever reason I can't.

"Jeez, this isn't a great place. Wanna grab a drink?" I blink at him, the rain soaking through my hair and clothes. For a moment all I can think of is Will on our first encounter - "Wanna grab a bite to eat? - but I know what he offers is far less innocent than a warm slice of cinnamon bread from the local bakery. I've seen the factory workers as they stumble out of the local bars. I remember the bottles in their hands as they beat Will within an inch of his life. If Hitch had been older, would he have been among them? No. The answer comes swiftly and with a level of certainty that surprises me, but I don't question it. I'm grateful for it, too. Will meant - means - more to me than anyone could imagine, and for some reason it's a relief to think that Hitch wouldn't have hurt him like those men.

"Sure," I reply, and follow him as he turns on his heel and begins to walk with a sense of purpose toward the local bar. His hands are shoved into his pockets, his gaze lowered to the ground. There was a time when he walked with a sense of purpose. My own steps are heavier than they've ever been and it hurts, in a way, just to trudge beside him like this. The rain seems only appropriate but I hate it nonetheless. There was a time when I loved the rain and I remember telling Rubik as much. The memory is fleeting but warm and I grasp it selfishly, remember the tea and the fire and his troubled expression. Now, all I can imagine is the bullet hole. Maybe it's for the best. I'd probably go mad thinking about him otherwise.

It doesn't take long for the silence to become too much for me. It weighs down on me at home and I used to sing when I wanted to make it go away, but these days I don't really feel like singing anymore. Now it's overwhelming, swelling in the space between us and threatening to swallow me whole. I glance at him again, at the rain dripping off his hair and the angles of his face. "You have his eyes, you know. He told me so."

He doesn't even glance in my direction. "Yeah? Well that's about all we have in common."

Liar. It's a rebellious bite of a word in the back of my mind, something that lingers long after he's spoken. I'm not really sure why I think it. There's something to this last Woodards boy that seems all too familiar, like he's a long lost friend or someone I knew in another lifetime. The only explanation is that I saw it in Rubik, too. It's something I can't quite name, but it's there. I also note that he says "have", not "had", and it aches in the worst of ways. I don't correct him. "I bet you'd have his smile. But it's been a while since you've smiled, hasn't it?"

"Yes." He doesn't hesitate but there's something weighted behind the word, something I can relate to. It makes the lights swarm toward him and brighten slightly, as if his presence gives them life. I don't tell him so, as I would have before. Instead I watch them enviously. They used to leave glowing trails, to dance, to burst like fireworks. Now they've grown dim and their movements are sluggish and almost clumsy. It almost hurts, to watch them move.

I wish it wasn't like this. I wish I hadn't become so attached. But that's a lie, isn't it? Because deep down, I can't force myself to regret having known him. I can't hate myself for loving him, only for not being able to save him. And yet the darkness that's been creeping into my life through extending shadows and a sorrow I can't chase away scares me like nothing else, and I want nothing more for it to leave so that I can live in peace with my lights once more. "That's okay. It's been a while for me, too. Do you think... do you think it'll ever get better again? Like it was before?" I want him to tell me that of course it will, that times heals all wounds so of course it must heal this. I want him to lie. I know he won't.

"Psh, who knows? I doubt it, Sen."

I freeze, one hand at the door of the bar, and stare at him. Sen. For a moment I am gone, feeling large hands wrapping around me and lifting me skyward. I smell lavender perfume and see a delicate smile. Something's sizzling on the stove. The memory is gone just as quickly as it came but it makes me give him a little half smile as I swing the door open. "Sen. I like that. No one's called me that since my parents died."

There is a split second in which I'm sure he'll say nothing at all. Then, "Yours are dead too, huh? I'm sorry to hear that."

The bar is already loud, drunken rambling combating the music, but the stench isn't quite overwhelming and it isn't as greasy as I had always imagined. I take the lead and find us a place at the bar that's isolated for the most part, sliding up onto a stool. My soaked skirt clings to my legs and I readjust it, shoving my jacket off and into my lap. After what feels like a long while I turn toward him, pressing my lips together tightly. He never offered to talk to me, but the words are ones that have been unheard for far too long. "I don't know what to do, Hitch. I need him. I mean... I needed him. And I just - " I glance down at myself, at my skeletal limbs and trembling hands and wrinkled clothes. "I'm so broken without him." After another beat of silence I duck my head. "I shouldn't have said that. I know you don't like to hear about it. About them. I'm sorry."

There's no need to elaborate on who "they" are. I may have lost Rubik but Hitch has lost all three of them, every sibling he ever had. In his mind, he's the only one left. Some distant part of me wants to comfort him, to try and make him realize that they live on even though I know he's convinced himself they're dead and gone, but I keep my silence.

Hitchcock Woodards has suffered enough for one lifetime. There's no need for me to make it worse.

the day between the soil and the sky
an emptiness, a void
a heaviness, a sigh
but I know you will make it through alive
because you never said goodbye

{ between }

Last Edit: Jul 27, 2014 13:04:39 GMT -5 by Stare

rook
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who needs another thing to be sad about?

.:i'm the last one left~ [hitch/senalia] Aug 1, 2014 11:09:02 GMT -5

Post by rook on Aug 1, 2014 11:09:02 GMT -5

HITCHCOCK

"Sure," Senalia follows me through the pasty mud and deep puddles towards the faint neon of the bar. It's not exactly the best place to go at this time of night, and fights break out all the time, but I'm sure we'll be alright. Most people know my face, and my background. They know what I've lost, and so they know it's best to leave me alone. I have lost my mother, father, sister and two brothers in the space of five years. Even the most violent drunk doesn't want to mess with me. We walk past more black market stands, one man cooks some weird meat over a flat pan grill, and as dodgy as that it, my stomach still grumbles at the smell.

"You have his eyes, you know. He told me so." She says, trying to break the uncomfortable silence. I forget that Senalia has lost everything I have. She knew Hope, and cared a lot for Rubik. She probably didn't know Pandora, but she knows what his death did to us. Then she has her own losses on top of that, probably. We all got losses. My eyes are chestnut, just like Pandora and Rubik's. Same shape, same sunken eyebrows too. Sad eyes that could still be full of life on our darkest days. I stare at the dirt, chewing at the inside of my cheek.
"Yeah? Well that's about all we have in common." I snort. Have or had? What does it matter anymore?

There's a silence then, a confirming silence. I did not have a lot in common with Rubik - He was uptight, stern and short-tempered. We did not get a long at all. In the early days, before the 61st, he warned me to stay away from the house, and from Hope. I didn't like that. Hope was my sister as much as his. I know I'm a bastard, but I still have a right to see my own blood. Pandora didn't mind. We had a lot more in common. Pan would go out drinking with me, talk to me about life and love. We'd hook up with a couple of girls and stay the night in town. Then there were all the drugs too - Different herbs we put in our tobacco, pills we'd swallow, serums we'd inject. We didn't care. We were young and reckless. Jeez, if Rubik ever found out about Pan and I's fixing sessions, he would have gone mad.

"I bet you'd have his smile. But it's been a while since you've smiled, hasn't it?" She is almost condescending. Last time I smiled? Ripred, I don't even know. Probably when dad died. The world's a better place with that shit-stain buried six feet under. I gnaw at the scar tissue on the left side, in my mouth. A bad habit.
"Yes." Sounds harsh and condemning, but it's a sad truth. Haven't smiled in a long time. Don't have to smile to be happy. My thoughts trail to alcohol and Pan's collection of baccie weeds.

"That's okay. It's been a while for me, too. Do you think... do you think it'll ever get better again? Like it was before?" She says, optimism lines her tone. Jeez, she's asking the wrong guy. I don't like to look ahead, I just take things a day at a time. That's why I've stayed sane. Rubik was in the mindset that things would never improved. That's why he went and kidnapped a fucking Victor and got shot in the head. I sigh.
"Psh, who knows? I doubt it, Sen." I look up at the bar entrance, still not daring to look her in the eye. Things ain't going back to how they were. I've lost too much and changed too much. I'm a better person now, I think. I hope.

"Sen. I like that. No one's called me that since my parents died." She lets herself smile for a split second. My face drops. I didn't know that. What a cruel world we live in, when kids our age are orphans, forced to turn into adults before we should.
"Yours are dead too, huh? I'm sorry to hear that." I say with as much sincerity as I can muster. I think to dad, that monster hung himself after Hope died, leaving me to look after Rubik on my own. I had a different Mom to Pan, Rubik and Hope - Theirs died in childbirth. Mine died of some weird disease. Don't even know what it was. Doctors didn't even bother examining her. That's how poor and worthless we were.

We enter the bar. My ears take a few seconds to adjust to the booming music, whilst bright lights stab at my eyes. It's an atmosphere I'm used to. People shouting, some screaming - With joy or fear? Probably a bit of both. The floor is sticky from spilled drinks, but my boots are covered in mud, so that counteracts it slightly. We trail towards the bar, I look at the rainbow of solutions on the wall. Pick your poison. Senalia hops up onto a bar stool, whilst I lean against the wooden counter. The barman is serving someone else, to my annoyance. I drum my fingers impatiently. What do I say to Sen? I can hardly console her when I'm struggling to come to terms with it myself.

"I don't know what to do, Hitch. I need him. I mean... I needed him. And I just - " She begins. I sigh again, setting my sights on a nice bourbon.
"I'm so broken without him." She has confidence, I'll give her that. Most people would bottle it up and refuse to speak about it - People like me. She's willing to talk about it so openly and without hesitation. The least I can do is look her in the eye, but when I try, I stare at her shoes.

"I shouldn't have said that. I know you don't like to hear about it. About them. I'm sorry." She rushes to apologize, when she shouldn't. What else is there to talk about? The barman finishes serving and turns to us.
"Glass of bourbon and a vodka energy." I slide the coin over the counter, and in exchange I get two tumblers - One full of translucent brown bourbon, and the other clear as water, with a layer of energy drink floating green on the top. I hand Senalia the vodka energy.
"Drink that, it'll perk you up," I say, staring at her drink and not her face.

I down my bourbon in one, and ask for a second whilst it still burns in my throat.

an hourglass is just a glass with sand inside

Stare
Retired Staff

3,105 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her
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and i will hold you tight / like the moon in the arms of the sky

.:i'm the last one left~ [hitch/senalia] Aug 8, 2014 23:24:44 GMT -5

Post by Stare on Aug 8, 2014 23:24:44 GMT -5

I eye the drink uncertainly, pressing my lips together tightly. All I can think of is Will and shouts and so much blood - (scare the crazy right out of her) - but after a moment of indecision I raise it to my lips and take a sip. The initial sweetness of the energy drink on top is quickly overcome by a taste I don’t care for and I wonder how anyone could learn to enjoy, my nose wrinkling as I swallow. I place it back on the counter with a trembling hand and shrink back a bit into the shadows when I notice a few more rowdy men nearby sneering at me. They aren’t the ones that beat Will but their expressions are similar, watching me and laughing at a joke I don’t quite understand. There was a time when such things wouldn’t have bothered me, but now I duck my head and take comfort in the way the lights circle the column of my wrist like a bracelet, their glow dim but still there.

When I realize how rude I must seem I glance up quickly. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m not allowed to talk to those kinds of men.” Will forbid me. I didn’t protest. “I had a friend before - “ I catch myself, nearly choking on Rubik’s name. “Before. He said they wanted to hurt me. I don’t think they really did, but they played too roughly with him, so I never really minded staying away.” I’m not entirely sure why I tell him that. The only other person I told about Will was Rubik, and that was only a handful of times. Now the two of them swim through my mind, similar in so many ways, both gone from my life. I never needed them but I always wanted them, and it’s the wanting that hurts the most when they’re gone.

Gone. The word is bitter in mind, if only because I’ve used it too many times. Mom. Dad. Will. Pandora. Hope. Rubik. The world is a beautiful place (right? it has to be. of course it is.), but sometimes there is darkness even in beauty, and though I try not to I always manage to surround myself with what little misery exists in this world. I know that someday I’ll see the light once more, that color will swim back into my monochromic existence, but sometimes I wonder if maybe the poison is too strong this time and I’ll never truly be rid of it.

I’ve heard that within the crashing tides of Four there lives a creature that is always smiling regardless of their mood. Beaten by the waves and half starved for the fish stolen from them from the humans, they continue on with their permanent grins. I’ve seen dolls with one eye missing and cracked porcelain faces that keep peace in their expression despite being abused and forgotten when they were once loved so dearly. I think it’s the way of all broken things, that a smile should always grace their lips even when there is nothing left within. Am I broken? I wonder sometimes, and a quiet voice within always answers quite promptly. Soon.

Without thinking I grab the glass and take another sip. It doesn’t taste so bad the second time and I continue to take small sips, occupying myself in order to distract myself from dark and dizzying thoughts. The men make me tense, instincts screaming at me to leave, but where would I go? The idea of returning to my skeleton of a home, with bare bones but no smiles or laughter or company to warm its interior, makes icy dread pool in the pit of my stomach. The valley makes me only think of him, of all that I’ve lost and can never have again. Maybe that’s why I gravitate toward Hitch as if he’s some kind of savior, and even though I know he doesn’t want me (he won’t look me in the eye) I’ll cling to him until he finally decides I’m not worth his pity.

The sad thing is, I won’t blame him.

I hate them for doing this to me. To everyone. What right do they have to leave us, as if we never mattered at all? They’re the strong ones and I know that they were meant for bigger and better things, but sometimes being strong means staying behind to protect those too weak to protect themselves. I like to pretend I’m strong but deep down I know I’m not. Strong is Will protecting me from bad men, Pandora loving someone he could never have, Hope leaving the remnants of her family, Rubik looking after the girl everyone else abandoned. Strong is doing things, hard things, things that hurt.

“I’m a terrible person.” I blurt it out so suddenly that I actually manage to startle myself, but the rest comes pouring out before I can stop it. “I try not to be but I am. I miss them, but… but even more than that, I blame them. You know they don’t even answer my letters? I write to them all the time, but they don't answer a single one. And I know that they're so much better than I'll ever be, but that doesn't mean they have to leave me behind, right? Don't they know that we need them?" A pause, and I force my words to slow down. "It’s not fair of me to be angry about what they’ve done, but I am. I’m angrier than I’ve ever been and I just - Ripred, Rubik, I don’t understand why.”

Broken. So broken.

i know that i am nothing new
there's so much more than me and you
but brother, how we must atone
before we turn to stone

{ turn to stone }

rook
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who needs another thing to be sad about?

.:i'm the last one left~ [hitch/senalia] Aug 13, 2014 5:50:17 GMT -5

Post by rook on Aug 13, 2014 5:50:17 GMT -5

HITCHCOCK

There is a ruckus to our right. A group of men, possibly in their late thirties, jeer at us from across the bar. They see us as young and vulnerable. Anxiety twists in my stomach, and the red hot bourbon washes over that vulnerable nerve, untwisting and rising in my gut. Don't be sick after one drink you fucking idiot. Memories come rushing back to me, a tidal wave of fists and elbows, broken bones and bloody mouths. I was young and reckless, perhaps I still am, but I like to think that I am somewhat less naive than I was before. I scrunch up my nose, locking my eyes on one of the men, and sip slowly at my second drink. I'm not gonna be intimidated out of my right to get drunk.

"I'm sorry. It’s just that I’m not allowed to talk to those kinds of men." Senalia's voice breaks my gaze on the thug, instead it trails back to the floor. I let my wrist rotate, whirlpooling the golden brown liquor in my glass.
"I had a friend before - " She continues. I take a quick sip, frowning at the floor. Before. What an awful word. She doesn't even need to specify what she means, because we both know. Before the Capitol bent us over and fucked us.
"Before. He said they wanted to hurt me." I glare at the group again. Not these men, not likely. There are hundreds like them who pick on the weak and the vulnerable. Senalia, like me, knows what it's like to be a victim to drunken gangs.

"I don't think they really did, but they played too roughly with him, so I never really minded staying away." She finishes, grabbing her glass and drinking the vodka energy concoction. I look at her whilst she is occupied with her alcohol. I take in her damaged hair, once radient but now faded. Her broken cheeks used to smile so much, now deflated and exhausted. The her defeated eyes, drained of hope and promise. My own eyes dance away before hers can look up. I still see an angel. Damned, cursed and fallen, but she is still an angel.

"Played..." I mutter, flashes of fists and kicks to the stomach resurface. Living on the streets, trying to be tough but knowing that really you're everyone's punching bag. I thought it would make me stronger, more independant. I was wrong. You put yourself out there, exposed like an infant, people don't pity you or support you, they target you. The weak and the stupid are punished for that which they can't control. That's the world we live in. Senalia's old friend was probably both. At least he had the mind to tell her they weren't too rough, so she wouldn't worry. I bet my last coin he was beaten within an inch of his life.

"I'm a terrible person." She blurts, almost catching my gaze. It slips back to the dwindling liquid in my glass. My brow furrows as I listen to her words. Let it out, Sen', tell me what you're thinking. Maybe there's something I can do or say to fix your broken wings, but I doubt it. Gotta be worth a try, right?
"I try not to be but I am. I miss them, but… but even more than that, I blame them." She claims, and I screw up my face again. Blame them for what? Sometimes I blame Rubik's dependancy on Pandora for the shit I'm in, but I never blame Rubik as a person. He was just close to his twin, as you'd expect. Other times I blame Hope for recklessly volunteering. That was immature and inconsiderate, but I know that she died knowing her mistake. I don't blame her as a person though. Never blame them for who they are.
"You know they don’t even answer my letters? I write to them all the time, but they don't answer a single one." I glug at my drink, confused for a minute, but then I remember.

I remember when Senalia came to our house, not long after Hope died in the Games. Her tiny coffin had come home that week, bringing with it a storm of grief that ultimately destroyed Rubik.
"Rubik told me that he doesn't want to see you..." I had said to her with such malice in my voice, "What are you doing here? We're grieving for our little sister, show some respect!" Maybe respect was what she was trying to show. I lied to her. Rubik desperately wanted to see Senalia that week. He needed her. I thought that he was looking for a sexual distraction to numb his pain. I lied to Senalia and I lied to him. Maybe that was wrong of me.
"Or have you come to tell him that she's magically still alive, in some safe place in the Capitol?" I had laughed at her, mocked her like the idiot she was, "Yeah, he told me all about that, Senalia Livery..."
Rubik trusted me with Senalia's mindset, and I threw it back in her face. Mocked her with it. How stupid, for someone to think that the Hunger Games were fake, and all the dead Tributes living in luxury, hid away from the world. What a nice alternative. I see it now for what it really is - Not dellusion, but denial. Stone cold denial.

I snap back to here and now, to Senalia and the thugs. The bar. I order another drink with a hand gesture, and point to Senalia too. The barman serves up someone else's drink, before bringing us another bourbon shot and vodka energy.
"And I know that they're so much better than I'll ever be, but that doesn't mean they have to leave me behind, right? Don't they know that we need them?" Her words barely register with me. The guilt of that day now rife in my mind, burning like the alcohol in my belly, like the rage in my heart and the storm in my eyes. I am Hitchcock Woodards, the survivor, but not because he was the best, because he was the worst.

"It’s not fair of me to be angry about what they've done, but I am. I'm angrier than I've ever been and I just - " She looks for an answer that I can't give her. We are so different, so on different wavelengths. I can't bring her to mine, no matter what I say to her.
"Ripred, Rubik, I don’t understand why."
What?

My stomach turns tighter, my breaths become shallow. I slowly look up, inch by inch until my eyes are locked with Senalia Livery's. I look at her then with a sad fury. Rubik. She called me Rubik.
"I am not my brother," I say softly, "...and I never will be."
I down the rest of my second shot and instantly down the third.
"Rubik is dead - Do you know what that means? It means he is no longer alive. You can't avoid this one, Sen', and you're not shifting it onto me. He's dead, just like Hope, just like Pandora, and just like your retard friend."
I call for a fourth.
"Get used to it." I'm the terrible person, Senalia, not you.

an hourglass is just a glass with sand inside

Stare
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and i will hold you tight / like the moon in the arms of the sky

.:i'm the last one left~ [hitch/senalia] Aug 23, 2014 23:59:04 GMT -5

Post by Stare on Aug 23, 2014 23:59:04 GMT -5

why did you go? i had to stay
now i'm reaching for you
will you wait? will you wait?
will i see you again?

I don’t think the lights are real.

It’s the first illusion to shatter. I watch as they fade and die with his words, flickering out one by one until I’m left clinging to my glass and staring at empty air. After years of floating near me, embracing strangers, keeping me company in the vast emptiness of my home, they’ve vanished into nothing, leaving me certain that they will never return. But they were never there in the first place, were they? Somehow the drink is at my lips and I gulp it down like I saw Hitch do despite the way it brings tears to my eyes. The lights were never there. I flash back to dancing with them on the street as Will watched. to helping Rubik catch one in his palm, to smiling at they way they swarmed Hitch in his doorway. Not there. Never there. All that was there was a foolish girl trying to make the world see something that didn’t exist.

I feel their absence like a shot to the chest, ripping through me and leaving me open and raw and bleeding. I can feel myself trembling as my hand reaches for the second glass, desperate to smother my growing panic. (“Say, where's that freak-show? The girl? Where'd she go?”) I swallow as much as I can in one moment without drowning myself. Why does everything suddenly look dark? I want to collapse, to cry as if my tears could right a world that’s suddenly gone crooked. They can’t. Nothing can. Things will never be okay again. (“Yeah. They did hurt me. But at least you're okay.”)

But just because the lights aren’t real doesn’t mean the Games are. I try to meet Hitch’s gaze, to focus on his face. “You’re lying,” I tell him tremulously. “You shouldn’t lie about things like that. Someone might believe you.” But even as I say it I see the honesty in his face and I jerk back, some of the drink sloshing onto me. I hear hundreds of screams, see a thousand deaths. Not real, though. No one would ever do that to a child. (“I don’t think anything’s wrong with me.”) He might believe it, but I don’t have to. The Capitol doesn’t kill children.

(“There isn't anything hurt. I'm not hurt. So I'm alright.”) But then I think of the men huddled next to dumpsters, their bellies as hollow as their eyes. I think of Peacekeepers who blocked my entry to the orphanage. I think of my father who died of a disease they had the cure to, of my mother whose grief tore her in two. (“I know what it's like to be alone.”) And that is when the second illusion shatters, the illusion that there is no cruelty in the world. There is cruelty. There is cruelty and darkness and fear and anger and hate and it’s everywhere. It’s in me. I can feel it now.

My hand is shaking so hard that the liquid in my glass crashes against the sides, drops spilling over onto my hand. I take another deep drink, begging it to take reality away like Will once told me it does.

Will. At the name every muscle in me seizes up and I flinch, trying to push the thought away. It sticks, though. (“I’m not leaving you, Senalia.”) All the letters I sent, all the people I asked, all the answers I never received. Why doesn’t he answer me? I’ve been writing to him for years. My mind flashes to all the times we spent at the bakery or on park benches, watching the people. He worked long hours but he always made time to see me, to spend time with me. I never understood why at the time, but now I think I do. He was protecting me, watching over me. He cared about me. (“I know what you think, but I need you to try to understand for me.”) Someone who cared about me like Will did would answer my letters, no matter what it would take.

Will is dead.

And then there’s no saving me. The world spins once and I feel myself lurch around with it, my free hand slamming against the counter to steady myself. A few heads turn in our direction but I hardly notice them, blinking against the sudden onslaught of emotions and memories and tears. (“I know it’s hard to live without people.”) My father, a man who loved his daughter so much that it didn’t matter that she saw floating lights. My mother, the woman who fell apart after her husband left her. Will, the boy who made a point to protect a girl who couldn’t protect herself. Pan, the tribute who sacrificed himself so others could live on. Hope, the little girl with so much fire in her heart. Rubik, the young man who shouldered the weight of a dying family. Gone. I choke back a sob. (“Yeah, he told me all about that, Senalia Livery.”) “Stop,” I whisper, because despair is a physical thing and it’s choking me and I can’t breathe. “S-stop.”

(“Hey Senalia? What do you - “) Another deep gulp, but it only fuels the fire that seems to be spreading through me. (“ - sing that song… you know, the song your - “) Tears flood into my eyes, making the world blurry. My fingers ache from gripping the glass so hard. (“ - not the one worth saving - “)(“ - I’d guess that something’s botherin’ you if - “) All thought of staying composed for Hitch vanishes. A tear slips down my cheek. (“ - lots of other people who aren’t - “)(“ - you out of your mind? My brother is - “)(“ - like to help you, Rubik. I think it’s time - “)(“ - show some respect!”) It’s too much. Ripred, it’s all too much.

I try to set the empty glass on the counter but my hand falls too heavy and it doesn’t hit quite right and suddenly the sound of shattering glass fills my ears and my palm feels like it’s on fire. I feel all eyes turn toward me as I draw my hand back, staring at the blood and then the broken glass. My eyes lift to meet Hitch’s. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

you took it with you when you left
these scars are just a trace
now it wanders lost and wounded
this heart that i misplaced

Last Edit: Aug 24, 2014 0:02:54 GMT -5 by Stare

rook
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who needs another thing to be sad about?

.:i'm the last one left~ [hitch/senalia] Sept 11, 2014 12:25:38 GMT -5

Post by rook on Sept 11, 2014 12:25:38 GMT -5

HITCHCOCK

My thoughts are on repeat, playing back again and again until I know the words by heart. It's the same cycle of Pandora, Hope, Rubik, regret, pain, loss, and numbness. Round and round we go, lingering on each emotion just long enough for it to hurt, before moving to the next. It all washes around inside of me, eroding at my core. It's been spinning for so long that I don't know how much of the original me is left. Am I now an entity consumed and created by grief? Who was I before all of this? Some cocky teenager living on the streets. I was always Hitchcock Woodards, the feisty, the reckless, the punk. Now? I don't even know what I am now. Maybe someone else can tell me, because I look in a mirror and I don't know what's looking back at me. Same old clichés, but they're true. They are true.

My bitter words were like a venom injected into Senalia's bloodstream. I could see the colour leaving her face. A realization of Ripred knows what - An idea, planted like a seed, growing painfully into a hedge of thorns pressing into her mind and soul. Who will save her from the truth? She built up a world of fantasy and idealism, to hide from the harsh truths that people like me have been carrying around on our backs for most of our lives. Of course when her world came crashing down, it was going to destroy her. I almost smile as she drops the glass and devolves into an emotional wreck. I did this to her. I made her human again. Welcome back to the real world, Senalia.

"I'm sorry," She whispers in a new tone, "I'm so sorry."
"Huh?" I hesitate, holding my drink a few inches from my mouth. I look at what she has become, this unstable, broken girl, and I know that it is all my doing. My drunken, bitter rage. The words I said, those cruel words, they were unwarranted. Senalia didn't deserve any of that. I stare into the whiskey in my glass, and see an amber monster glaring back at me. This is what happens when the fox is left alone with the chicken, with no Rubik, no Hope and no Pandora to keep him in line. He is a monster by nature. Cruel and sly.

It hits me in the chest and leaves me winded. I am as bad as all those scumbags on the streets of Eight who I met over the years. The ones with cruel words and bad intentions. I'm going straight to hell, because what kind of person realizes their life has gone to shit, and decides to drag others down to their level? A worthless, vile excuse for a human being, that's who.

I set my glass down on the table, looking around at all the glaring faces, hearing snide comments but choosing to ignore them. I hesitate again, my hand shaking. Don't be a fucking scrub, Hitch. With more determination I reach out and put a hand on Senalia's shoulder.
"No, I'm not my brother," I repeat, "But it's times like these I wish I was a lot more like him."

What am I? What kind of person am I to force such harsh truths on a girl? More glares and laughs from across the room. I grind my teeth and bite my tongue, not wanting to get in any more trouble than we already are. We need to get out of here. This is no place for someone in such a state as Senalia is. We need someplace quiet.
"I'm sorry," I try to move her away from the bar, "Let's go someplace else."

an hourglass is just a glass with sand inside

Stare
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.:i'm the last one left~ [hitch/senalia] Oct 11, 2014 13:53:13 GMT -5

Post by Stare on Oct 11, 2014 13:53:13 GMT -5

i could not ignore the call of the night
to return to the haunt you would have me deny
no, i could never tell you where i had been
for you could never answer them

Don't apologize. Don't you dare.

It feels like someone is splitting open my chest and taking a knife to everything inside - heart, lungs, soul - but in the end it's what I deserve. It hurts to feel so vividly, to have the cold fingers of all I hid from and denied for years finally wrapping around my throat and claiming me as their own, but when I raise my gaze to meet Hitch's eyes I see the brokenness there and I know that it was despicable of me to pretend that the world was okay when it really wasn't. And that is why I am the terrible person, the one who should be spilling a million apologies. His may be a bitter soul, but better to be bitter than shallow and oblivious.

“Someplace else,” I repeat quietly, slowly, as if not quite comprehending the words. My eyes sweep over the bar, the leering faces and dim lights, and I nod slowly. The air in here is suffocating me and I only just now realize that I’m crying and maybe that’s why everyone is staring. I need to get out, away, into open air where I can think properly. Where I can breathe.

But then I look back at Hitch and my stomach tightens unexpectedly, body automatically cringing away. I thought seeing him again would bring me some kind of peace and understanding, but here I am with my world destroyed all around me because of his words. Because of what he said. And I’m too broken now to believe that he did it unintentionally, to think that his words were said without any comprehension of the consequences. Would he do it again? The very thought has me on my feet and drawing back a step subconsciously, my gaze suddenly wary as I pull my bleeding palm close to my chest.

I always trusted the Woodards children (can they even be called that anymore, after they’ve gone through so much? after they’ve experienced so much pain?), but now I’m beginning to wonder why. All they ever do in the end is leave, just like Will. And sometimes I just feel so stupid when I think about how I had loved Rubik because unlike everyone else he had stayed, and I always thought that maybe I was reason enough for him not to flee. I swipe at my tears with my hand before the sting and smear of liquid warmth over my cheek reminds me that it’s every bit as battered and bleeding as I am.

When I raise my eyes to gaze at Hitch again I realize how foolish I really am. Because he’s hurt me and there’s no doubt in my mind that he’ll leave me just like everyone else did, but I’m about to walk into the trap anyway. It will hurt. Ripred, it will hurt. But where else do I have to go? Who else do I have to turn to that would possibly understand? I sniffle and stare at the source of my agony. “Please don’t make me go home. I… I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

And with that being said I allow my feet to stumble away from the bar and broken glass and sneers toward the door, my heart pounding so hard I’m afraid it might punch right out through my chest. My demons don’t flee in the presence of fresh air - they never did before - but the rain hushes over me and for a moment my father’s old wisdom is surrounding me and things don’t seem so terrible anymore. But then the chill works its way through my clothing and I’m not cleansed or purified. I’m just cold and wet.

I wish I could stop crying.

When I feel his presence again I tilt my head downward, my throat tight as I try to choke back the sobs. My arms wrap around each other, teeth chattering, and I feel so pathetic for a moment that I think I might just fall to pieces then and there. I don’t, though. I can’t. There’ll be no more hiding behind weak facades and silly little fantasies that once I fall apart I’ll be able to piece myself together again and everything will be just like it was before. These kinds of things always leave scars.

Eventually, I pull myself together enough to turn toward him, though I find I can’t look at his face. I stare at his shoes instead. “Hitch? You won’t…” I trail off, words catching in my throat, and draw my lip between my teeth to gnaw at it anxiously. I want my father’s voice and Will’s guiding arm and Rubik’s hesitant smile but instead all I have is the rain and the reality that they’re all gone, leaving behind a ghost standing before me that’s just as damaged as I am. “You won’t do that again, will you? You won’t… you won’t hurt me like that again? Because if you are then I should probably just go.”

and though our coats are all at one with the snow
i could not turn away from all i wish i did not know
all i wish you had not shown