To violence we fall. {pogue}

AVERY

Here's the thing: 

I broke him.

They never taught me about power in the Peacekeeper Academy. They never engrained the feeling of blood laced underneath your fingernails, the sounds of cracking bones and snapping dignities, a man collapsing onto the ground beneath you, spit and blood spilling onto the whites of your boots as he attempts to pull himself up again.

I was never taught to drive boot into gut, to lean down and stare deep into the eyes of a dying, collapsed man. Intertwine fingers into his hair, yank his head back until whimpers escape from his throat, watch the fear flash through his eyes.

"Get up." 

They never told me how many seconds I should stand and watch a man struggle and fail to bring himself together, how many moments I should let my eyes rest on the broken bits of bread that are littered around him, filthy and soggy from the drizzle of rain that's overtaken the district. 

I was never told how to handle the gut-wrenching feeling of my stomach dropping when a man looks deep into your eyes, forcing out every last breath, and throws whispers into the breeze.

"I was just trying to feed my-" 

I wonder what it felt like slipping into darkness, cracked head hitting the pavement. 

Last I heard he was rotting in jail, feeling the forgotten crumbs of a stolen loaf of bread roll between his fingertips. 

---

I can feel the death hanging in the air, blood and sulfur dancing in the breeze, crumbled buildings accompanied by a symphony of crashing waves. I'd read tales of this place when I was younger, reading outside of our home, the scattered light of a falling sun my only guide. I'd read of canals and singing ferryman, of exotic fish and happy citizens, set sails blowing in the wind, ocean waves reflecting the sunlight into a show of rainbow flashes and bursts. 

This was nothing of the sort. 

I stand in the wreckage of what used to be a home, feeling the crunch of splintered wood and rusty pipes beneath my feet. Every step I take I'm reminded of broken homes and shattered dreams, tracing the outlines of a decimated neighborhood, wrapping my hands around a lifeless teddy bear, feeling the sopping fur fall to my touch. 

My first day here I found the body of a boy, laid to rest in the coffin of a toppled brick structure. The left side of his face was completely unrecognizable, bloody and beaten and bruised and lifeless. 

I can still feel the weight of his body in my arms, I can still picture the way his eyes looked like black holes.

His mother collapsed when she saw him, screaming of the injustice. Her tears landed on the ends of my boots, next to the bloody spots of a beaten bread thief. 

It's not the District that's broken, it's the citizens. I brush my fingertips against the cool metal of my holstered pistol, letting the tingling feeling of  cooled flesh wash over me for a brief moment. I was assigned here out of pity for a food supply, not pity for the people. 

Keeping the peace became minuscule when there had been no peace in the first place. 

I hear shouting amidst the shadows of an alleyway, throwing a glance at the side street as I stop, focusing my gaze into the alley. Inside, a kid wanders aimlessly, spouting nonsense into the already chaotic winds in the air.

My hand reaches for my gun.

I swear I feel the cold hands of a lifeless boy instead. 

Every step feels like I'm walking on the broken breaths of a mother who has lost everything she never had, lifeless, weightless. Mental breaks weren't uncommon during this whole thing. I couldn't blame people for giving up.

Wordlessly, I reach for his shoulder.

"Hey, Kid. Snap out of it."