You're born second, and you spend your entire life trying to convince yourself that's something you can live with.
Those minutes, few and precious and not even far between, they eat away at you, claw at your throat until you stare yourself down in the mirror, and wonder if you're ever going to recover from them. Between one breath and the next, you were the life that tipped the balance, the screaming crying thing taking the place of your world-weary mother. She died, right there on the table, blood pooling all around her as you shrieked and screamed and cried and cried and cried until, finally, they put you in the same little carrier as your twin sister.
Even then, you refused to face the world without her right by your side.
Sometimes, on your very worst days, and when you say the worst you mean the ones where you're throwing things at the walls of your bedroom, a blind rage simmering in your chest as you scream into your pillow. The days where you put a fist through a wall, or worse still, the ones where you went out looking for a face to put your fist through, a set of teeth for you to knock out or a nose for you to break.
One time, you hit a guy so hard you'd actually thought that you knocked his nose right up into his brain and killed him.
That'd been a bad day.
It's not that Trinity ever made you feel like that, ever tried to make you feel small, ever tried to make you feel less, like you were responsible for taking away your mother's life. Even your father was kind, in the way that a former Peacekeeper knew how to be, battle-weary and world-weary as your mother had been, and even more, exhausted from the death of his wife.
But in your first minutes of life, you'd already taken a life.
You were a wielded weapon the day you were born, so trouble you became.
You and Trinity were mirror images of each other in all the strangest of ways, similar in all the ways that don't matter and different in the ones that do. It wasn't exactly like you were pairs of a whole—the pair of you refused to be anything as cliche as something like that, but no one could look at the two of you together and not see that you are not at all the same.
As children, it was less obvious which of you was which, which of you would grow into the kind of girls that you did; you used to drag each other into the other's schemes, a push and a pull of more or less equal proportions. You were the kid in school that everyone knew was too smart for the place, but would never put in the work, refused to do the readings or listen to lectures unless they were about something you thought was fascinating. Trinity was the one built for that kind of life, the girl who could collect information and makes decisions and choices that were thought out logically and rationally. You were always too antsy, wanting to move and be moved, a storm to Trinity's calm. Back then, switching places was something that you did all the time, even simple little things like you were better at doing dishes and Trinity was better at putting them away, but your Dad wanted you both to be good at both things and so you would pretend to do your task and instead you'd do Trinity's.
Harmless schemes. Doing a presentation for the other in school, going on a date in the other's place so that you could let them down easy. But slowly, as the two of you got older, it grew into you pushing for schemes and fun and chaos, wanting to sneak into the black market and sneak back out with a trinket from every booth, sneaking into the Peacekeepers offices and stealing a shiny new glock to play with. And where you wanted chaos, Trinity did what she always did best—she reigned you in.
Not in a way that judged you, or made you feel stupid or small or reckless in the bad kind of way.
She was always willing to go along, but hey—should you maybe think it through fully first before diving into the scheme headlong?
And that's how it was when Townsend four the pair of you, one more cautious to the other's calm, and together you created something fantastic, something powerful, something deadly. You alone would have been a liability, a loose cannon, but Haven alone would have been unwilling to take the risks an angel needs to take in order to succeed.
You're a girl grown into a wild card, but you're willing to burn down every bridge between you and the Capitol, and you think that's all that matters in the end. Because where Haven is intent, you Grim are a reaction, an explosion contained in a set of bones, a skeleton bursting with energy and life and an endless want for something exciting, something greater than anything you've ever known.
The Capitol left your father with a set of battle-weary bones and told him to find his own way.
For that, you'll make them burn.
GIRLHOOD IS GROWING FRUIT AROUND CYANIDE.
Brenna Twohy, from Swallowtail
Last Edit: May 23, 2020 22:02:48 GMT -5 by ᴋᴀɪᴛʟɪɴ