esra | district two | cbd 1

We're not supposed to think. Soaring on adrenaline, riding the high until our heels catch on the slickness of mud soaked with morning dew. My lungs burn but the pain feels good, just like watching their eyes flash molten with fear and there's this look they get when they know they've been caught. Their faces are always gaunt, shoulders sagging under the weight of forgotten freedom - too sickly to keep from collapsing beneath it.

We're definitely not supposed to think about them. About what happens after we've turned them over to the peacekeepers and feel a little stronger for it. Like we've accomplished something good as our parents set another stolen treasure on the mantel. I don't watch that part, I go back to my room and bury myself in a textbook I'm not reading until my brother comes to check in on me.

We're best friends, August and me. I know we're not supposed to be. More bitter than Cain and Abel, hatred meant to make us stronger because there's only one crown to be taken at the end of the day. I'm meant to be bruised and bloody and broken and stronger for it all. There's no glory without hellfire. Bright memories and unbroken promises don't go along with that.

But I couldn't hate him if I tried. There's too much of him I know, like reading an open book everyone else thinks is bound shut. Crooked lips, pressed too tight and when he's in pain he seems human. Not like the targets. Who are broken and weak and so, so sad.

Sometimes I wonder about them, but I know better than to ask Mom and Dad.

If they've taught me anything it's that wagging tongues are severed.

"was i supposed to let you win?"