weston st. amor | eight; cb fin

A storm swallowed the whole of District Eight on that 13th Night of August, painting the skies gray and black long before the sun was slated to set.

There were no stars; millions of raindrops took their place. And their mother washed the blood from her swollen mouth one last time before silently retreating to her bed for sleep; their father passed out drunk on the couch one last time. Weston and his older brother and sister had a plan, you see, to take care of the situation better than any peacekeeper ever would: to make it stop.

He remembered kissing his mother on the forehead, mere seconds before his sister appeared in her doorway. It was time; they both knew it, they both made eye contact and so it was true.

Together they crept down the ancient steps, storm water pelting the roof with no remorse. They came to a stop just behind him, snoring, blissfully unaware, bottle of vodka still shoved between his legs. Weston and Wiley held the rope meant to hold him down, Waverly held a pillow to stop his breathing.

The thunder hid his screams that night, and when the sun rose and the skies were clear, he was gone and they told the people that he must've left during the night. They never spoke of it again, not ever to their mother, and not even to each other.