ℓ . ∂ | ryan . mattio

My mother and father made their sales pitches for their newest designs. They spent hours in our living room, drawing out different engravings for the rings that they wanted to produce for the Capitol. Sketches drew every line to perfection, shreds of erasers still caught on the rug below. Some days they went without rest, without speaking to each other or me. I understood. Their priorities were in other places, as to be expected by them. Breathe their work and breathe the air later, and breathe words to their heir last.

A few weeks ago, I took pen to paper to write them a note. For some reason, a slip of paper draws their detailed eyes out from the abyss of their mind quicker than their own child asking a question. In my best calligraphy, signed with a majestic ‘Addison’ at the end, I asked them for a change. A slight one, but one I felt more comfortable with them handling. A change in a trainer. After all, they were the ones who cared about my learning to fight. Some may call it high maintenance, but I hold my standards high. If I don’t like something, I’ll make sure my parents get it changed.

And so they did. In dark green pants and a lighter shade of green for my shirt, I went to the academy as a new Addison Belmont. And that included a new instructor. Cheyanne. That was his name, surname at the very least. I didn’t know what to expect when I arrived, but I was pleasantly surprised.

His training was different from others. A message of strict discipline, to be strong but also aware. His eyes were everywhere, at all times. His body moved like a lion, unafraid of being challenged. I wasn't as bulky as him, or well built. I am not made to be a Career for the Hunger Games like Mr. Cheyanne, one of the boys who missed his shot at age eighteen no doubt. My movements are elegant, contrasting greatly from him.

The training was more work intensive than any of my past trainers. My best guess is my parents thought it would be a good idea. Elegance like mine is made to shatter like a mirror, to a million pieces, if I let my guard down for even one second. The restroom mirror shows my face red, and a single drop of sweat coming from my forehead. Sweat is the enemy of the soul, especially when your room is filled with roses, the most innocent and enriching scent of them all. Already I felt the glass freezing up, waiting to crack.

I am made to be elegant and swift, not brawny and strong. With each chance it got, my handwriting in the letter I wrote to my parents would curl to a beautiful word that almost appeared never-ending. Did they disapprove of me being too ‘soft’? Did they want my complexion to shatter with this new trainer? My parents decided to open Pandora’s Box with Mr. Cheyanne, and I don’t quite know if I have enough time to run away before I feel the effects.

Stepping out of the restroom, I look to my new instructor.

“Thank you, sir. A new experience, for sure.”

Cheyanne, or Zander, if you go by his first name, has a movement like, how I said earlier, a lion. A lion protects his pride, and I felt that from him with every command he made today.

Will this lion be willing to add a dove to his pride?


Table by Ryan