kang nightburn || district 1 || done

This silver spoon goes tarnished under my tongue. Father makes it no secret his legacy was meant for a better man. Lavish lifestyles are earned by purest blood, after all, like my brothers who have sunken into his footsteps as though it were second nature.

It's a poison. An infection. It ate away at the kindness I once found in Raven's eyes until those pools of emerald went as hard and unforgiving as father's. I was loved, once, but never more than he was feared.

I could have played along, pretended I was just like them, but I'm not sure it would have helped. Every holy war needs its Azrael. And who better to make into a black sheep than this scrawny little lamb? No, I never stood a chance.

I've never bothered feeling bitter about it all. Things just are. It's like trying to keep raindrops from hitting the pavement or pushing stormclouds away from the sun. The most you can ever manage is a couple hours of reprieve before the inevitable. I'd say I'm at peace with it, but that's not entirely true either.

"You're always just letting him!" I'm used to the violence that simmers behind Sebastian's words, the only way my old friend knows how to express concern. His touches are too rough, alcohol-soaked cotton pad digging into my split lip with vigor. The acrid scent burns my nose, the sharp taste of chemicals a stark contrast to blood.

This has become something of a ritual for us. Though I'd probably be better off cleaning up the evidence of my father's ire myself, it's stopped Bast from threatening to leak pictures to the press every other week. People like him always have to feel like they're doing something, you know? They see a problem and want to believe it's fixable.

I detest that he looks at me like I'm some kind of project in need of improvement, but the company is nice. "Hmm." I've never liked mincing words. Candid, they call me. Brutally honest, I'd prefer. I can't tell Bast why I don't fight back, it's woven up in politics and prestige.

My father has a business, but more than that he has a brand. He's got that humble smile down to an art, I've read more articles than I can count about a middle-class family man pulling himself up by his bootstraps. That and the Capitolite bootlicking keeps food in our bellies and a roof over our heads. Three brothers and a mother I love is worth so much more than petty revenge.

But Bast always gets pissy when I talk about rich-people shit, so I know better than to try to explain any of that. Instead he wraps up my bruised ribs and we run off into the slums, raising as much hell as I can afford.

The Nightburns are careers because we're expected to be, I think. It looks real good in the papers and all.

Zen's twenty-four and Raven's coming up on nineteen sooner than he'd like. Seizing glory with bloody fists has never been an appealing prospect but someone's gotta show up in paparazzi photos. Pip's two years off training so the burden falls to me. Everyone is thrilled about that, I'm sure you've guessed.

Like I'm fooling anyone with lanky limbs and terrible coordination, but maybe that's why dad has been extra irritable lately. On the bright side he can't complain that I'm wearing makeup if it's covering a bruise or two.

All my smiles taste bitter these days, like blood and rubbing alcohol. Don't think I've cried for the better part of a decade but the tears linger. A constant pressure behind my eyes all but impossible to blink away. It's unfortunate that I'm still so lonely, surrounded by all these beating hearts. We share the blood he spills, but only that.

It's a good thing I prefer my own company.

KANG NIGHTBURN