arwen mortuus . district twelve

arwen beauden mortuus ;

district twelve,
male, nine

There's a name etched into the spine of a leather bound book, loose threads hanging from the corners unbound like seaweed, it sways in Arwen's arms. He's always loved reading, but collecting even more so. There's a tea set in the attic and the chips lay out of porcelain, he holds them to his teeth to compare the sizes and dares Ivy to bite them. You see, that's where the book came from. 

One cardboard box, too small for even him to fit in to.

Ivy can't fit either-- they tried. She laid down and Arwen tried to squeeze the flaps over her face before sitting the book ontop, and it slide right back onto the floor with a dusty thud. Raisa came in, probably concerned that rats were coming through the roof shingles again; it happens to normal houses too, y'know. Arwen and Ivy grew up in a hospice home, and other kids grew up in houses, and other kids grew up on the streets. 

Some kids never grow up at all. Ridley says it in a sigh under her breath, much like the croak of the chair in the attic. Arwen hops on the seat and Ivy goes back downstairs, and the chair complains about it's siblings. He tried to remember his uncle's name, the photos are faded since he left. The way his only aunts were the two who lived in the house, and Crimson, who came through when she wanted. 

And Avery, who's name is etched on dry skin parchment.

Bold ink, right under his nose, he squints with the attic light bleeding the ink. Avery Mortuus, married to Theodore Mortuus- okay, boring, he flips a few pages. A boy's hand, slender fingers and he compares it to his own ten, and they're massive compared to the photo. Which is a good sign, of course, chubby hands larger than Beauden Mortuus's and the tattoo on his thumb. 

Arwen rolls his thumb, scratching at the palm trying to visualize the itchiness of ink. Whenever Crimson would come home, she'd place left over train station food on his bedside table and show him whatever tattoo's she would have gotten. The last one was a cat with three eyes, said it was something from her childhood but it looked dope. 

He'd try and convince her to sneak him one - if there's any way possible. Ridley refuses to let him get a tattoo until he's eighteen; Ivy, too, for the matter. They aren't allowed to do half the things Crimson can, or Raisa can, or even Ridley can. No tattoo's, no pets, no friends past eight, no entering the basement and no staying out late; though, they can swear under their breaths if no one else hears. 

Raisa taught them that; if Ridley isn't in the room, then they can mix fuck and damn into their vocabulary homework. If she is in the room, then they can only say it softly to each other and giggle afterwards. 

In a way, he can blame Crimson for teaching him too -- he's been learning more and more about how to get away with things. You see, anything is legal if nobody sees you in time. He's walked in on her dry heaving in bed before, and she convinced him he shouldn't see that either; he was younger then and asked too many questions. If she were dying, depressed, if he should get Ridley or Raisa and she said she didn't need either. 

And that's exciting in a way. 

That one day, Arwen would be good enough that he wouldn't need them either. 

He could leave like the rest, maybe with Ivy like how Uncle Olive left with Aunt Avery. 

Arwen would turn eighteen, and strap his boots so tight they'd turn his ankles white, and he'd grab the flashlight from the basement. Everything would make more sense and there'd be a tattoo on his hand and elbow and neck and lips, he'd have a library in his backpack and a cat's paw in his hand. Ivy would have left in the morning and he'd leave at night on a different train, and he'd keep peace just like Aunt Crimson. 

And like all good things, he'd leave district twelve for damn good.