flinch at the past left behind [grim]

Light swallowed by darkness, promises drowned by lies; it's no surprise really, my moral compass has always been damaged beyond repair.

Violent - my fists are aching.

Selfish - it hurts to remember her name, so I just forget.

Evil - I come from a rotten tree.

Two years surrounded by the dregs pushed to the outskirts of society; I've lost track of when I let myself fall to such a level. Freezing, fumbling, chattering - it hurts to try and recall. Nothing to do with my fingers quickly turning numb at my side, or the imprint of the drop of blood on the tips of my toes. I can't quite put my finger on the reason; it just hurts. Hands shoved deep into my pockets, freezeburn biting a pale face, human bodily instinct tells me to raise a white flag and scuttle back to the comfort of my own home.

I suppose it's a good thing I learned a hard lesson to follow logic driven by the brain, not instinct driven by the heart.

Tall waves, tidal waves, riptides - the tsunami. I was sent there armed with an axe and a steady hand, but I left with a trembling palm and the ruins of an empty battle ground. I almost had a father, almost -

No, no, no, I always had a father, I almost had someone to call dad. Almost.

Show me the word Keyser Summit and the cold becomes negligible. Fire fueled adrenaline floods my veins while rationale quickly shatters in an instant. There is nothing crueler than a concept once considered dead to the world making itself known to the world, only to have it slit its own throat in order to defy the idea of a single ray of sunlight in an environment of complete darkness. Some candles were just made to be snuffed out.

I hate Keyser Summit, but I somehow miss him at the same damn time.

No bottle against my lips, no pills to pop and no needles to form dirt tracks across pale flesh. Late nights with fists and broken teeth; someone as rotten as me doesn't have the right to complain about candles snuffed out. I suppose the frequent fights with nameless faces without taking a moment to appreciate the star studded sky is my way of recuperation. Broken bones are my needle and a fist painted black and blue is my own substitute for a needle trace along my veins. Better than pills, needles and the bottle I suppose. Sixteen years, I can't let memories of District Four and a candle that burned for less than a split second be the reason I bite the apple of temptation and succumb to the poison.

I was told there was always a massive problem with keeping feelings behind closed cages. Not once have I cried since I turned and left the carnage ridden District Four at my back and my inheritance in my head; the ruins of two former lover's battlegrounds should draw salted tears down my cheeks but it just can't.

Maybe this is the result of not being able to cry; sin under the star studded night sky.

Hurt cuts two ways I suppose, the secondary end result that came with going to the coastal district is eclipsed by the primary. My head hurts just to remember her name so I just do not even try. I focus on the freezeburn nipping at the tip of my nose and my hollow footsteps against the grass. Tall trees slowly drifting by like the fabrics of eternity itself, slower than a snails pace but I am in no rush. The dregs of society are never needed anywhere other than the outskirts. Besides, freezing in a thin jacket under the star-studded sky is better than remembering a candle snuffed out after a half a second and a promise broken to someone who's name I've buried for almost a year and counting. I can't even cry for the opportunity cost.

Countless slow steps away from perihelion, trees are replaced by a clear field and a window to the past I tried to forget. Even through the darkness, features remain unmistakable. Female figure, chestnut hair, smoke in her lungs... eyes like an unpainted canvas. I instinctively raise a hand to my jaw and the dull ache long healed by time and a tint of perfection comes flooding back to the forefront of the present.

My eyes widen when a face attaches itself to a name willingly forgotten and I swear, a part of me prays she doesn't notice me. But the sounds leaves the tip of my tongue automatically.

"Ester?"

Embraced by the wickedness that comes with falling from a rotten tree, I cannot pinpoint when I was drawn to the dregs of society for the life of me - I suppose the consequences had to catch up to me sooner or later.