the ghost of winters passed {ollie one!shot}

"Oliver, sit up." I don't look up from the striated oak, allowing lemon scented polish to further burn the hairs from my nose. I don't have to look to know that voice. The kind that reminds me of that one fucking pebble that sneaks into the sole of your shoe and that can never be found no matter how many times you shake out your shoe. It burns and it stings and you know it's there but in the end you're left looking like a madman with your shoe in your hand and sweat on your brow. All because of a little fucking pebble. That's what his voice reminds me of. "Elbow's off the table, fuck's sake boy look presentable." 

It seems my feet have somehow slipped from under me, leaving my spine curved at an even harsher angle and dragging my elbows across the greasy surface. Imperfection carving imperfections into this thousand dollar table. His foot has begun to tap. A thick thump thump thump across the tile. (Oh, I'm in for it.) I've gotten to know my father well enough these fifteen years to see such a tell from miles away. The constant thrumming that soon fills the room is something much worse than an omen of death.

It is that of suffering.

(I should start running like, now.) 

My feet are glued to the concrete, like quick sand slowly eating me whole. Further and further it takes me into the earth and perhaps I will disappear before father has the time to tear me to pieces. "Pathetic." It's his hand that pulls the back of my collar taught against my throat (and I can't breathe. Shit I can't fucking breathe.) "Oliver Zhang I raised you better than this. Sit up or I'll make sure you can never stand again." 

The threat is an empty one. Empty as the eyes I meet as I straighten my back against the chair and fold my palms across my lap. He releases me, smug smile sewn onto his lips in the sliest of ways. (I wouldn't be able to see it had he not looked at me like this every time I give in.) "Reaping day today." I mutter into the breakfast that I have not touched. (Steaming yellow piled upon meat that I refuse to touch despite its smell.) I won't give him the satisfaction, let him think for one instance I need him. "Maybe they'll pull my name and you'll finally be rid of me." 

"Wouldn't that be a dream." 

He doesn't mean that. 

My father is as childish as I, the son he is supposed to be raising to be something wiser. Something better. (He's doing a piss poor job, given what a piece of shit I am.) He aims to hurt me with words that simply feel empty against an ego that I suppose doesn't exist. I don't expect something I've never received. I doubt I'd realize what love felt like if it threw a brick at me. Knocked my teeth to the floor and drove its heel into my rib cage. 

Mother doesn't wake up on reaping days. I like to think it's because she's worried about losing her only son. (Her precious little troublemaker that gets sent home from school every other week because he doesn't know how to keep his fucking mouth shut.) But it's probably just to have an excuse as to why she didn't say goodbye, god forbid they pull my name. 

I'd like to think she'd miss me but she probably wouldn't. 

I most definitely have a Sunday Best. The spawn of Zhang Enterprises can most definitely afford something more than this oversized shirt tucked into the waist of jeans only held up by this thick brown belt that still falls to my hips on the last notch. (I can wrap it nearly two times around myself.)

(Skipping breakfast won't solve this problem but I do it anyway.) 

The homeless-chic garb I adorn today is to spite the father that threatens to kick my ass if I take one step outside looking like that. But they've taken my blood and separated me from the adults before he's caught up. (I'm a skilled coward.)

There's something in the back of my head, a kind of stirring as I'm ushered along a crowd of children my own age. I should be scared. They could call my name and I could die. I should be scared and I'm sure I'd piss myself if my name was actually called. At least no one would miss me. I could take solace in the fact that not one asshole would care that I was off dying. Who would remember such a forgettable boy on such a forgettable day. No one would admit it, but they were happy it was me and not them or their brother or sister or boyfriend. 

No one would miss me. I am the type of face that blends into he crowd. The type that lets others stand out. Neither the hero, nor the villain of this tale. I'm not given a name in the million pages of the epic currently being scrawled on toilet paper. Perhaps they would describe me as a plain looking boy with dark hair and dark eyes. Perhaps they wouldn't even mention me. I'm not important enough, anyway.

On the bright side, it's not my name that's called. The boy's name is something vaguely familiar, I don't pay much attention to it, I barely have time to process that the reaping has begun and ended before sorrow stains the crowds. There's a commotion in the herd meant to be a year above my own. 

He volunteers. Not a rare occurrence for Four, I suppose, but his voice is not that of hunger and greed. It is desperation, that of a kind of love I doubted existed before these long moments. (I'm unsure whether this is some kind of anomaly or I'm really just that stupid.) He is willing to die for this boy who has already sealed his fate, standing upon the stage as this boy cries and screams beneath him. We are all beneath him in this moment and we are all glad.

Except for that crying boy, I guess.

I shouldn't envy him, soon to be sent into an arena and quite probably his death. I know I shouldn't but I do. As we are ushered away and that sobbing thing is dealt with I can't help but wonder what it would be like to be loved so purely and so completely. 

I'll never know.

(My heart shouldn't feel so empty at this realization) 

(I've always known it.)

And that hurts so bad.

if i should die tonight
may i first just say i'm sorry
for I never felt like anybody
i am man of many hats
although i never mastered anything

(Just kind of a weird flashback i wrote yoo)