blood is strong but we are stronger | quadrys

My heart beats heavily, and my eyes blink harshly, and somewhere in the world,  a child is dying. On the screen, there is a sea of blood; in the midst of it, stands my brother, and even though as of now he has done no harm, he will have placed his hands on another within the following seconds. There is no peace in the Hunger Games, just as there is no peace here at home. Septys knows this well, but he doesn't seem to remember it- no. There's something off in his eyes, his fist leaps at a blonde-haired career, and no matter how hard he swings his newly acquired glaive, he can't seem to remember the way things used to be. I curse under my breath at his ineptness, a bead of sweat rolls down his cheek- the adrenaline coursing through his veins is toxic, but there is no succumbing to the thrill of the fight when your life is on line.


To his left, I see a girl who I've met eyes with only once in my life. She's pretty, and I'll give her that much, but she's stolen a piece of my brother that was reserved for someone filling, not someone who will tear him down from the ground up. She makes him happy, though- Ruth Foster, makes him happy- and no matter how much I wish that he could have just gone in and come out of the games in his full, entire self, such an event steals things from you that are impossible to get back. A heart is not something that can be made, after all. 


Somewhere across the cornucopia, I spot the two others that have somehow nestled their way into the de-facto family that was born with the reaping of their brethren. Taurus and Neptune- their names but a whisper to me- have replaced the constant argument of 3 smaller Lexigs running around the house. There is nothing pleasuring about the way that one is oddly quiet- a mute, for sure- and how terribly young the other is. Of course, I'm only a year older than the burden that he carries upon taut shoulder, but I am not a child, and he, from the pale chub on his cheek, certainly is one. 


The quiet one stabs district 7 in the eye. 


A cannon fires, and you can tell from the look in everyone's eyes that this is no longer pretending. 


I place a blanket over the screen of the television and lay down on the couch, every inch of me trying to sleep in the golden glow of death. But rest doesn't come easy when the buzz of luminescent screams are the only lullaby to cradle you to sleep, and I find myself frowning, because the house is oddly quiet without the constant drone of Septys' good-night saying. I don't want to admit that I miss him, so I don't. 


I'm stronger than the ground I weep on.


-


The next few days consist of a TV screen, hidden in the shadows of honeydew cloth, and thrown together pancakes, courteous of the smallest inhabitant of the house. They taste like stale bar soap, but I eat them none-the-less because being empty and feeling empty are two different things in their entirety. The poor kid has lost his dad, his oldest brother, and his mother before his 14th birthday has even come to pass, but he hasn't shed a tear since last night's dinner. Father got upset, shattered his plate on the ground, and nothing but sleep even feels safe anymore. It was a show with a brilliance beyond ours, but what can you do when you hear the words of a forgotten soldier ring deep from the confines of your tube-top television. 


"You're too fucking young, too fucking young. Who the fuck do they think they are oh my god...."


"Who the fuck... Who the fuck did this...?"


"Who hurt you, little brother?"


And even I, with my steel-toned chest guard, felt something shatter with the utterance of those words. I stiffle a laugh, even though there's food in my mouth, and without thinking, I nearly run to the tv and throw my fist into the glass. It hurts, and there's blood running down my arm, pooling in the lap of my dress, but I can't stand to know that he's found other people to take my place.  I can't stand to know that he's more of a Lexig than I'll ever be. 


"Burn in  h e l l  ,  Septys Nohve. I never want to see your fucking face again."  


But God, it hurt to say those words.


-


Two days later, and his heart is no longer beating. He's not dead- certainly not dead, as I can make out the vagueness of our resemblance in the glass of Mohs' TV. But he's lost the one he loves- the one who carries his unborn child without his knowledge- and I know then that he's not going to be the same when he comes back, whether he's dead or alive. His humanity has been stripped from him by the creators of this cruel game, but there is no alibi for those who are dying, or those who are weakened, and to this, both him and I raise our chin. Collectively, he is nothing- but together, the infinite is something that can be achieved by closing your eyes and hoping that your ultimate downfall is pushed forward just another day- just another day.


I can feel it on the tip of my tongue, his final words, when the wound in her thigh and the wrinkled scar from the flame are lifted in to the hovercraft with the rest of her. I want to punch the screen again, not because of my anger, but because of his sadness; I don't, though, because this is not my house, and my fist is still scabbed and bruised and broken from the last time I tried that. If only for a moment, I weigh my options and outcomes if I use my other hand to take the damage. 


That certainty is a leisure I have over Septys because I'm pretty sure that using a three-fingered hand to inflict damage onto another isn't exactly the ideal situation. 


I take a deep breath when he begins to walk off and I tell myself, that maybe- possibly- he'll be able to find his way home in the meantime.


But six more stand in the way, and that brings him grief. 


-


I watch him as he tries to run away from the eternal darkness that he's instilled on others, but he's flooded by the silver of parachute, and I'm not quite sure if he knows how to swim in all of that mess. Some tar and a med kit- certainly things that could help him in his victory- are bestowed upon him, and I feel my muscles tightening as I see him lather the blackish liquid onto the blade of his scythe. He's dead serious by now and if being alone affects him in anyway like it does to me, he's unhappy with the way things are turning out. 


He's the type of guy who thinks that all 24 deserve to win.


I'm the type of guy who thinks that only one. doesn't really know anymore.


I can feel it through static of the program how close he is; the Games don't usually last much longer than this, and he's certainly proven his last name much further than I ever have. But there's three enclosing on him, two of which tear into his flesh without a single thought, and the light in the house seems to grow dimmer by the second. Somewhere in the district, Mohs has wandered off, and I've been left in charge over the two who share my semblance to the sides of me. When I wiggle my toes in the hopes of distracting myself, I feel Pentys burying his face into the side of my chest, a single tear glistening in the ducts of his left eye. Normally, his weakness would have pissed me off, but there's nothing normal when it's come down to the wire, and it's do or die for your brother to come home.


"Do you think that he's gonna come home?"


And for the first time in a long time, I'm not sure if I can answer the kid. There's something nagging at me to give him hope, but I can feel my doubt tugging at my arms harder than the former altogether. I feel like there's a weight on my chest and all of the times that I've been rude to them, or hateful, or pretended like I was a God, have come to drown me in my own tears. I choke when I try to speak, and my stomach no longer feels like it belongs with the rest of my organs. I'm turning into our father, but God forbid that I leave them to the pits of Hell like he did.


"I don't-"


Sometimes, sacrifices have to be made.


"Yes. He will, Pentys. I can feel it."


Even if it means giving up yourself.