love . two [fin]

pogue Graphics 1,811 POSTS Pronouns: He/Him last seen Apr 16, 2024 18:41:45 GMT -5 Is she trying to interrupt our henna session?	love . two [fin] Nov 16, 2020 12:07:23 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by pogue on Nov 16, 2020 12:07:23 GMT -5 Love Bellisario . Eighteen . Career . Two
	Last Edit: Sept 20, 2021 17:44:39 GMT -5 by [ retro gm ] angel lí ✨

pogue
Graphics

1,811 POSTS

Pronouns: He/Him
last seen Apr 16, 2024 18:41:45 GMT -5

Is she trying to interrupt our henna session?

love . two [fin] Nov 16, 2020 21:15:11 GMT -5

Quote

Post by pogue on Nov 16, 2020 21:15:11 GMT -5

L O V E

"Begin."

The water swallows me whole and the world goes silent, numb, the light scattering in the crystal I'm submerged in and turning the imposing figure of my Father and the medic he's called to watch into nothing more than distorted shapes, dancing and fracturing as I let my body go weightless.

My heartbeat echoes heavy inside a hollow chest, hardened like stoned and chiseled like granite and laced in the deadliest of poisons, a boy born and raised and taught to kill or be killed. It's the only thing I have ever known, flashing in the irises of my Father and caught in the metallic shine of every Peacekeeper badge that now adorns our walls, stoic totems cementing the legacy my Father carried proudly on his shoulders, the legacy he's put onto mine with every single training session he puts me through.

It's a dangerous thing, to idolize someone like that. But District Two is full of dangerous things that only make dangerous things, and I'm one of them.

It's no sob story of my parent's death, no desire for revenge or romanticized love of killing like I've seen in so many past tributes from my home, just a boy and his Father and the expectations that comes with calling oneself a Career. It's youthful hands and a weapon held between them, a bow a knife a spear a sword and growing fingers curling around the edges. It's dissecting past Games tapes and poking holes in every single tributes strategy, in every move they did or did not make.

It's taking what is and what could have been and turning it into what it should be. Kill or be killed, killer or the fallen.

Or, like today, it is a boy and a beating heart and screaming lungs and the will to survive.

And to think, the first time I did this I didn't even make it a minute before slamming my palms into the glass, fear and bubbles and broken screams underneath the water a chorus to my own failure.

Count my heartbeats with every second that passes, my body weightless under the pressure of the water. When I close my eyes, I hear the music.

♥

It was the soft keys of piano music when I learned what a career was, red rose petals leaking from the skin of Achilles Muto in her final fight, sweltering heat swallowing her corpse when her cannon finally sounded. My mother was a romantic, my own name being born out of the only thing she had ever called pure in this world, and on that night she had sat with pale fingers flowing over the white keys spread before her, flowing as smoothly as the waters I drown in, her eyes closed listening to the musical whispers she let spill out into the room.

It all felt wrong.

The way the screams and shouts of pain contrasted against the methodical and soft flow of every note she played, an empty chorus welcoming the deaths of the kids on the screen. And I watched with doe eyes and innocent heart as they fell one-by-one, their screams silenced by their cannons and the glint of silver staining red with every swing.

Note by note, body by body, under the soft glow of the moonlight I finally turned towards my Father, discontent on my face and curiosity laced within every word I spoke.

"Dad, how come we watch this?"

a child,

so innocent.

He pulled me onto his lap, smirk on his face and whiskey still on his breath and an understanding nod worth all of the trust I could ever put into him, one hand motioning towards the screen as the fights blared on the screens, Caesar Flickerman's cheerful voice a sharp contrast to the red screams on the screen, to the soft notes of the piano and my own mother's hums.

"Because, Love, that is how it's always been.

How it always will be.

You'll grow to be better than them. Understand?"

Did I understand? Do I understand? I nodded as if I did, marking my own fate against a backdrop of reds and piano notes. Years later, I learned how to play that same piano, eyes closed and fingertips moving across the keys like water. Against everything that had felt wrong as a child, I see the reds and the roses and the death and the dying with every note I play. It all feels right.

♥

It was the heavy tones of a band I will never know when I broke my first bone at the age of ten, the training center a backdrop for a wrestling match gone wrong in the moment, the sickening sound of a crack and a howl as pain shot from my arm and white splintered up from the surface. With the world dim and the memories of my mother's piano notes giving way to the ringing that scattered between my ears I was carried to the infirmary, my arm wrapped in angelic white and the promise of a full recovery resting on my shoulders.

My mother came into the room with the same grace as the melodies she'd taught me how to play, humming the same tunes to herself that I'd grown up on and the same endearing look scattered across her features, the smile of a hopeless romantic greeting me as she sat on the edge of my bed. Her hums gave way to silence and my heartbeats gave way to fear, the pressure of a career in training pressing down onto my chest, worse than any wave of pain that washed from my arm.

"Mom?"

"Hmm?"

"Is he mad?"

And the crickets chirped and the moonlight danced through the windows and up the walls of my bedroom, and she laughed, laughed and giggled until I could do nothing but smile and laugh along, oblivious to what we were even laughing at. Finally she turned to me, orange hair burning in the night and the whites of her teeth showing in her soft smirk. "Oh Love, if a broken bone were a sign of failure, your father would have never made it as far as he did."

A tap on the nose and a smile on my face and she leaned forward again, cupping my chin in her hand. "When that bone heals, Love, you use that arm to show the boy who did that to you just what you are made of."

She pulled silver laced in her fingertips into the night, twirling it in her hand before unfurling my fingers and wrapping them around it.

"What is it?"

"An old family heirloom, dear."

"What does it do?"

No answer given she guided my finger to the button in the center and pressed it down, the soft crack of the metal long since forgotten echoing out into the night, lost quickly to the crickets. A crackle and static poured from the device laced in my fingertips, like a water filled breath before it gave way to the sounds of everything I had never heard in the blacks and whites of piano keys, a song of breaking chains and watching the sunrise and never loving again.

My mother leaned back, a wink and a grin.

"Life isn't always innocent piano melodies, Love.

Enjoy the music."

I fell asleep to the songs dipped in silver in my palm that night and every night forward, until the tidal waves of pain in my arm became no more than puddles, drying effortlessly in the fiery heat of my own ambitions.

Not long after, I found that boy that had snapped my bone and twisted his arm until I heard that same crack pour out of his limb, whistling the songs from the little metal box while I did so.

♥

I open my eyes and feel the water rush back into them, chlorine stinging against my irises and the sounds of the melodies fading back into my mind. My vision finds the timer in the corner, bright red numbers blurry and distorted under the wall of water I sit in, drown in.

My body fights itself from the inside out, lungs curling and cracking and begging for mercy and fresh air and everything alike, everything my Father says a body built for survival should never need enough of. So I fight it, push out against the walls of my own limitations and forwards towards the path my life has always laid out for me, planned and methodical and expected, as easy as the notes of a melody played at midnight.

After all, that is what is expected of me. I blink and see my childhood self, watching the bloodshed against a backdrop of music and humming, my Father telling me I would be better.

I blink and see myself proving him right, the twist of an arm and a snap of a bone and a little silver box playing the same music I hum to myself while carrying the weight of expectation on my back. My Mother was right, the life of a Career was nothing innocent and everything hardened, bloody red and anything but soft. I accept it without hesitation.

It's only when I hear the buzzer spill out into the training room that I rise to the surface, washing the sins from my body as the water drips from my skin, the sound of waves breaking the silence that had so softly tried to drown me. I gasp for air, lungs finally retreating back into my chest as I grasp the side of the tank, letting the water spill over the edge as I look to my Father.

For expectation.

For approval.

For what I am to be.

"Next time you go longer, Love. Dry yourself off, and meet in the weight room in ten for strength training."

♥

I drown myself in fabric at half past midnight, the sounds of crickets and owls and the moonlight seeping in through cracked window. With the click of a button a little silver box spills out the same songs I grew up on and I close my eyes, letting my childhood innocence and ignorance fall away in bits and pieces, patched up and through with the armor of a Career.

Last Edit: May 5, 2021 9:28:26 GMT -5 by pogue

pogue Graphics 1,811 POSTS Pronouns: He/Him last seen Apr 16, 2024 18:41:45 GMT -5 Is she trying to interrupt our henna session?	love . two [fin] Nov 18, 2020 23:18:14 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by pogue on Nov 18, 2020 23:18:14 GMT -5 Don't mind me just casually over here still obsessed with the brainwashing of children to become Careers in career districts, yuh yuh yuh. ripred_bot

[ retro gm ] angel lí ✨ Advertiser 8,143 POSTS Pronouns: she/her last seen Apr 23, 2024 3:26:29 GMT -5 bloomtodeath	love . two [fin] Nov 18, 2020 23:23:35 GMT -5 via mobile Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by [ retro gm ] angel lí ✨ on Nov 18, 2020 23:23:35 GMT -5 perfection
	“and men said that the blood of the stars flowed in her veins.”