Domitia Drusilla // D2

There are only three moments in life that I can recall feeling free. The first was a blurred culmination of faded days protruded with filtered skylines of smog and sunshine. Everything is weathered in District 2. You may not expect so from the capitol’s lapdog, but there are seedy cracks that perforate any structure. Ours is through the labored aches, the slumbered dirt roads of my mountainside town, of bleak chipped bricks and poorly insulated windows that leave me shivering in winters time. My dad and I didn’t have much but our raggedy townhouse, but we at least had each other. I wasn’t fostered out of a romantic affair, or one particularly memorable either. Dominic Drusilla and Antoinette Adams were strangers at a bar sixteen years ago until they weren’t after one blackened night together. They would remain acquaintances for nine months, yet strangers once more, after Antoinette snuck out of the hospital in the middle of the night. I never knew much of my supposed mother, but dad said I have the same enchanting, full-lipped, mischievous smile and playful cats-eye eyes that drew him in. There are no pictures to reminisce over, just a memory of a foreign name once told, but I’m okay with that. All I have left anymore are of my memories and that is all I need. I don’t need to spend the little time I have worrying for someone who ran away from me. Because if Antoinette Adams stayed, I would have more than these three memories.

Maybe if Antoinette never left her hospital bed that day, she and dad could have had a shot for something more. They could have fallen in love and loved me in return. Antoinette would have been by my side for the days my dad and I would race down our crumbled road, past the light post, and round our row homes to the other side. She would have laughed at how I stretched my arms and head back as if cockily finishing the last lap of a relay race. Antoinette would have seen my dad pretend to fall down on his back, beat from his light jog and him dramatically pouting that he could never beat a top career in the making like I. With her by my side, I maybe wouldn’t have been so late to school either. My dad always kept his hair short and buzzed so he wouldn’t have to bother with it, but mine is the opposite. It is an unruly lion’s mane of punchy, dark, springy coils that bounce droplets of sweat while training. I kept it at shoulder length and never let it grow further, solely because my dad can’t braid for shit. Maybe with Antoinette, my hair could have been pretty and long like hers. Being a mother means more than just cheering on while running or bonding over hair though. To be a mother, you are to be there for not just the good memories.

At ten years old, my childhood collapsed from under me. My youth fractured after my dad’s mineshaft collapsed in the summer. Poor wooden frames were to blame with some left dead. Onlookers scolded to be grateful that all dad was left with was a bad back; like all spirals, you can't see how deep the whirlpool is from afar. The first time I saw my dad for the man he was, was when I had to rub the dirt and blood off his scratches. It hurt to stand, so I had to fill up the metal wash bin for him to lie in. Seeing the water cloud with contamination, hiding cuts, and blooming indigo patches over his tawny skin that I adored and mirrored. It was the first day my dad looked broken, and it wouldn’t be the last. Defeat would be a face I grew accustomed to seeing. No longer did his shadow hover over mine outside on our runs. He said the sidelines were just fine, but eventually, no guardian angel was left for me. Haven’t you heard? There are no angels for us in the districts. Here angels are corrupted with poison injected in veins instead. Poison said to help ease, but what if your pain is unbearable? A pain great enough to lose your job over, and a void so large not even local clinics will help. They stripped my angel of his wings and cast him aside when he became mortal. And as mortals do, my dad made a deal with a demon to provide. Everything comes with a cost; mine would be of my autonomy and of the only person I’ve ever loved.

In Thrax’s eyes, angels can still be found. They can be shackled, trained to become angelic harpies. Harpies of chaos and order, a combination of any academy’s wildest dreams for a tribute and one that will certainly bring us glory once more. To Thrax, I am his angel and for he my devil. Although my father was a modest 5’8ft, I grew to stand two inches taller by sixteen but Thrax towered over I by five more. Tattoos of ornate symbols and of creatures of hellscape arenas littered his arms, with snake bite indentures staring from his pale collarbone. Waxy blond, tousled and pushed back chin-length hair, dense brown eyebrows, and charming hazel eyes, Thrax had the dangerous aura they teach all careers to have, charismatic, charming, yet lethal. Once the clinic turned my father down, stating his need was too great for their state, Thrax came knocking on heaven’s door. Vulnerable and feeble, dad told me it was only temporary. That these were growing pains that I would soon learn from twelve and onward. At ten, I should have had at least two years; I would have done anything for two more years. But Thrax tells me in Panem, all marvelous things are hollow. Happiness is fleeting and often propped up on a mirage. It is the natural order for it to dissipate, and my dad’s death four months later was a predetermined fate.

By then, even I knew peacekeepers weren’t all kind. In a district such as ours, they were littered everywhere like ants to syrup. It was an ungodly hour, and yet the town hall doors opened before me. Two peacekeepers stood by in a dimly lit, sleepy entryway. I rushed over, clinging to whitened armor, burying my fears into hips I never thought I’d cling to. Word vomit garnered concern, as they scooped me up and let down on benches discarded to the side of the room. The peacekeeper who dealt with me leaned down onto a knee, removing their mask. Eyes resembling our depressive skies met mine, as brown hair done up in a ponytail slithered around her freckled neck freely. Concern knitted its way across her forehead and cinched crow’s feet. “Is there anyone we can ring for you? You can’t stay here.” I hesitated, before the distant name held out on a faint memory spattered down my tongue and out my mouth “Antoinette Adams. Please, find my mom.” That was the only day I ever asked for my mom. While on that bench as the peacekeepers convened, I swung my feet as I stared at the marble below, anxious to lift my head to see who would open that door. It would soon swing open, allowing the tension in my shoulders to deplete. A savior had arrived for me finally, but it wasn’t the one I had in mind. The same woman returned to my side, placing a hand on your shoulder as she murmured in my ear. “I’m sorry hun, I couldn’t contact your mother, but we were able to find an uncle. Would you like to see him?” Would my uncle look like me just as my mother? Were there other family members who would readily greet me too? I would’ve gotten these answers, had it not been for the oiled snake standing at the doorway.

The once slow shift I had intruded upon became riled and disjointed. I tried hiding my elongated frame behind the woman, while her partner negotiated with Thrax. I could see Thrax watching me with a wicked bemusement, smiling coyly while speaking smoothly to the keepers. “You know how kids are, they lie constantly. She’s just running away again because she’s at that bratty age. Coming up on twelve, so of course, they gotta raise a little hell first before training gets tough.” Frantically, my eyes peered up at the woman towering over me who now held me in place by my shoulders. Her mouth contorted with skepticism, a mask covering the other who appeared stoic and unreadable. “How do we know you’re even related, you both hardly look-alike” the woman readily shot back. The partner leaned backward, shooting a look masked behind a blackened veil. “Chasca, this isn’t our problem. You know how girls like her are. They’re drama queens.” I felt Chasca’s grip tighten, with my hand wrapping around her wrist. Tears threatened once more to spill yet I held on as hard as I did her wrist. “Don’t leave me with him, please. Don’t leave me alone.” I thought I had her; that maybe someone would listen to me. Instead, her grip loosened to the words of her partner, “if you cause this scene, you’ll be the one to answer to this. It’s not my head on the chopping block.” Thrax had looked over at Chasca in agreeance, declaring with virtuous intentions, "I don’t bite.” After placing his hands on his low hanging hips, he briefly leaned back, stretching in a way that shrugged his opened button-down shirt further to reveal the serpentine marking on his collarbone before continuing. “When I do, I promise it won’t hurt.”

If I weren’t ten then, I would have torn all their heads off. Maybe it would have felt good, like the rush of combat the older trainees describe that I would soon learn all too well. Being an adolescent in Panem is a humorous thing. Oh please, sacrifice your life for our pleasure, but do so on our terms. Nothing is or was on yours to decide aside from your weapon. Kids are supposed to have their entire lives ahead of them, at least that’s what my dad said whenever I would worry for him. My life stopped when my father had met Thrax. I can thank Thrax for teaching me one thing though as we walked out of those city hall doors that night. I can’t thank him for taking me in after as his own. Although a noble deed for a street rat, what is loyalty when defined on a relationship between a killer and an adolescent drug peddler. If Thrax heard me say that, he’d just retort that I was just as guilty of killing my dad as he, that we were both killers in a way. Sorry Thrax, you’ll have to find stronger material than that. We’re all raised killers here. What I can thank that man for is, for giving me the comfort of hate.

Five years onward did I live with Thrax. Five years of doing his bidding, putting up with his sharp tongue, and dealing with the quick licks of palms opened or closed whenever I did him wrong. My attendance and performance at the academy were faltering, borderline worthy of being expelled. The only reason I still attended at times was due to Thrax’s perception that me being taught self-defense helped in our line of industry. Clients became grabby and sometimes lackeys too. Thrax told me it’s my fault for being so statuesque and confident in posture, that a woman with my power should use it. After all, the only reason he keeps me enrolled in the academy is so I can put my agility to good use when needed. Stealing off pigs is easy, doing as Thrax did to my father is painful, yet being pressed against an alley wall with his hands around my throat as he whispers sweet nothings of my intended doom really gets a girl going. Sure, roughing up a client is allowed but backhanding a man for grabbing the back of my ass as I pass by when the sun barely shined? Not allowed. I don’t have an ass, what the hell is there to grab you may ask. Control, a virtue Thrax could sense I threatened. “We both know what role you play so why don’t you just stay silent for five fucking minutes” His rasp flicked spit onto my cheek close enough for me to smell the nicotine on his breath from his morning cigarette. After pausing, he continued in a still hum, fingers entrapping me further; this would be sure to leave a mark. “Listen to me D.D., you’re my property; my little fucking doll to use as I see fit. I allowed you a home to live after you stole from me. I raised you as my own and I rewarded you with a job. You are not allowed to breathe without my permission, do you understand me?” With movement restricted, my amber eyes met his and nodded stiffly as he shoved me further against the cement before releasing me. Naturally, I spat at his face and shoved him back. “Go to hell Thrax, touch me like that again and I’ll kill you.”

I brushed past the middle-aged man, grabbing the metal handle of a heavy framed black door nearby. Flinging it open, I could only make it three steps into the makeshift lounge area as I felt strong fingers laced their way into my curls, thrusting my head into the brick wall. I mentally chuckled to myself when coming to later; yeah, I deserved that all right. My hazy vision blinked to clarity sometime later. It’s hard to tell the passage of time when in a room with no windows, but based on the caked blood that connected my elongated nose to lips and the few darkened speckles on my white t-shirt, it has been a bit. My neck felt tender as I instinctively reached up to rub it. He had propped me up in a wooden chair, facing Thrax who sat on the opposing side. Discarded cards, various half-filled bottles of alcohol, and a knife placed by his side littered the table along with a muddied overfilled ashtray. Thrax leaned back lazily counting cash, upon seeing me he kicked my shin and jutted his chin towards the kitchenette nearby. “Grab me another one sweetheart.” His voice slurred with smugness as I pressed backward and made my way to the fridge. Body next to an iron shelving with supplies, Thrax continued further as I opened another bottle. “Clean yourself up, you look terrible.” I couldn’t help but snicker dryly, clicking my tongue as I pushed back my hair with frustration, leaving the bottle on the counter. As I wetted a rag under the sink faucet, I wondered if this was how my dad felt when I washed the blood off him years ago. Would he be ashamed to know his little girl grew to be like this?

I glided across the room once my embarrassment was wiped clean, handing the chilled brew to the now thinning blond. My hand retreated to the table side, lightly stroking the cheap grain as I reared from behind. My delicate yet tentative finger pads slipped up the hair of Thrax’s arm, which he shrugged off, making me grin. I leaned forward, head to his side and arms half hugging him. He hated to admit it, but I could tell he liked it when I was sweet on him. I think it made him feel less guilty for hurting me afterward too. “Someone counting their chicks before they hatch?” The congested room and hideout had been empty aside from us for now. Usually during early spring afternoons, everyone is out pedaling while they can. More people came out of their homes as the weather warmed, and on a cloudless day like today, the markets would crowd by now. “Let a pig roll in the mud for a little.” Thrax shot me a bemused look as he reached over, bringing a fading cigarette to his mouth, then mine. I inhaled then blew politely, my mouth feeling soiled by the taste. He spoke in a tone dripping of fondness, yet his words to follow were anything but. “You see how I take care of you, don’t you?” The man calmed the cigarette into the mound full of dejected others. His hand slid up my right forearm, thumbing my skin affectionately in a manner rare for him. “We have our moments, but you’ll always be a daughter to me.” Hearing these words, my body stiffened against his, my smile faltering away as his grip tightened. Thrax continued on, “like all parents, I brought you into this world and I’ll take you out of it too. Don’t go making empty threats around me.” With a halfhearted pat, his arm dropped as he resumed counting cash. His eyes had not sought for mine, knowing with confidence he had my gaze. “We both know you won’t do it, you don’t have the guts to. But it’s okay, I love you no matter how useless you are.” My arms uncrossed around each other as I straightened numbly. My mind became distant, yet I heard his words faintly “what’s wrong my little doll?”

Rage is a familiar, comforting beast to me. One who rattles my heart and peppers my thoughts. Yet I’ve never given into it in a way unlike then. Bending forward, Thrax probably thought I would hug him once more for being so forthcoming; he has never said those words to me before. I haven’t heard those words in five year’s time and I never wanted to hear them again, not from his tongue. “You don’t fucking love me.” My hand and body lurched forward, hand quickly wrapping around the thick handle and bringing it to his neck. My left hand had tugged his skull back, his eyes facing up at me. “Make me proud, my protégée,” he challenged cooly. I smiled, and so I did, pressing inward and slicing outward. At least, I thought I did. At the academy they prepare you for this, they teach you how to murder. To do so with callous and indifference if the time is to come. I felt nothing carving into his neck but satisfaction that I wanted to drink up. But being inexperienced, I didn’t realize I hadn’t pressed hard enough. Scarlet beads trickled down his allergy inflamed blotchy neck. As I dropped the knife from shock, I swore I saw a wave of euphoria wash over Thrax. With both feet placed firmly on the ground, he leaned forward once I released his hair, shoving his body backward and sending us crashing. I cried out, feeling his body weight and chair pin me underneath as he sluggishly rolled off the chair. I kicked the furniture off, and once more we faced each other like fives years passed. His expression dropped, eyes hardening to a ferality I’ve never seen directed towards me. Blood pooled off his tongue and traced the hollow of his cheek. “Now you’ve done it.”

Not awaiting what was to come, I rolled onto my knees and feet, raising my hips and propelling myself off the ground as if a starting pistol had fired. I was racing against the clock as Thrax gained his footing too. Making it to the door ahead of me, my right hand latched onto the handle and for the first time, the door truly felt weightless. I felt weightless as I took flight down a new dirt road. Anxiety slid down my neck, and this time, instead of sobbing, I laughed. I laughed as my feet took me past the entryway, and I smiled seeing Thrax collapse not far past the first light post. Was I as bad as he for celebrating his pain, had my wings been plucked too? If so, I will willingly cut them off anyway. As of that day onward, I reclaim myself. If it means sacrificing my livelihood to be free, I’ll grab the blade and hack into my back every time. Sweat had dampened my baggy shirt, spindling down my spine by the time I arrived at my destination. I stared at the academy ahead of me momentarily, hesitant to grab the doors as realization dawned on me. I went from taking refuge at one slaughterhouse to another, but at least here I can choose my weapon. At least here I can decide whether I am an angel or a demon, but one thing is for certain; I’m no one’s doll. And while here, I’ll grab my whip and choke the life out of anyone who says otherwise.