[92nd] The Reaping - District 3
Sept 26, 2022 14:06:31 GMT -5
Post by D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza] on Sept 26, 2022 14:06:31 GMT -5
I have always kept my own peace.
Whatever that even fucking means. I don't even know, man, it's what my Mom says. She's proud of me for it, so I guess it's a good thing, but damn — she's a weird type of Mom. She worships the ground I walk on even though she doesn't know half of the shit I get up to, and if she did, I'm sure she'd beat my ass.
I don't let her know my business because I know it would ruin her. She's not been the same since Dad died a few years ago, she's sensitive... beyond sensitive. She talks to Dad's urn like he can hear and she decided to start being religious following his death, like all that make-believe is going to bring him back. That's probably why she's so obsessed with me keeping the peace. It's all about karma.
She tells me that Dad told her that he's proud of me, even though I know he wouldn't be.
I think she thinks that I'm just in my own lane: taking every day as it comes and doing what I can with it. She's always finding the positive, but to me, life is just the same shit on a different day. I wake up in the same room, put on the same clothes, eat the same slightly-stale cereal and get on with the day. I come back home at night and Mom is there to give me a hug, kiss my forehead and tell me goodnight.
Every single day, every single night — without fail. Same shit, different day. Same shit, different day.
If she knew what I did, she would hate me. I definitely don't abide by the rules of Ripred. Cruising in the seams, living in the shadows means that people get hurt and I always make sure that person is not me — is it really heartlessness if you're just trying to protect yourself? I don't think so, besides, the people, the lives I damage — they deserve it. As cruel as that sounds, it's true. They are the reason people in Three are as poor as they are, and whilst the world may work in wicked ways, so do I. All this shit I do is just payback.
Making powerful people dependent on me has given me a power I've come to love. People need me and they need what I give them. If I'm not there, they go crazy. Nutso. Fucking batshit. They beg, they borrow, they steal because they are desperate for a high that makes them forget about the affair they are having or the kid they don't want. When you learn how to cut someone's pain with pleasure, they love you for it.
That's a strong power to have. I'm still learning the limits of it, how far I can really push these motherfuckers into doing and getting exactly what I want — but right now, I'm satisfied. They pay more than enough for shit I can get for dirt cheap.
I've always kept my own peace. I've never pushed it. I've kept myself to myself and kept my business clean, or, as clean as can be. I have always kept my own peace.
That was, until last week. Because last week, everything changed.
Bloodshot eyes greeted me at the door. A jittery handshake and a smile beaming with nerves aren't really anything out of the ordinary in this job, but damn, there was something about this guy's demeanour that felt ghostly. It was like he was dead and was just haunting this body for the sake of it. His pupils were wide and dark but the light caught them enough for a snowflake to sit in the centre of each eye — and that's when I started getting scared. He's not just dependent, he's a fucking parasite. He can't live without this shit.
I gave him what he ordered. Hiked the price up a bit... inflation. Didn't think he would notice. Didn't think he'd care when he knows I'm the one who fuels his addiction, and that without me, he's nothing.
He got mad. Wasn't happy with the price and wasn't happy with the stuff. Told me it was cheap. I told him it was my best. He said he wanted stronger. I told him that was the strongest. He said I was lying. I called him an asshole.
I cut his pain with pleasure just like I always have and he fucked me over. He made an anonymous tip to the peacekeepers about some Casimir girl dealing drugs. They turned up at our house. Searched everything and anything. They took my lil' brother's toys away. They turned the house upside down, and in the process, in the process of tearing our shit apart, they knocked over Dad's urn.
And I'll never forget the look on Mom's face when that happened. It all happened in slow-motion. The initial knock of the urn off the mantlepiece, the peacekeeper standing back to let it drop onto the floor, the smash, the plume of dust rising into the air and the ashes falling through the wooden floorboards. Mom's face... she was horrified, and then came the hysteria. Falling to her knees trying to sweep up what was left of him with her hands, trying to collect all the pieces of the smashed urn so that she could try to fix it later, her tears falling through the floorboards just like Dad's ashes.
I know I shouldn't blame myself for that, but there's this pit in my stomach that makes the guilt inescapable. Because if I hadn't called that man an asshole, Mom wouldn't be the shell of a woman that she is today. She wouldn't be crying all the time and she'd be able to take care of her son. If I hadn't tried my luck, Mom wouldn't blame me for tearing this family apart. Mom would kiss me when I come home and tell me that I've always kept my peace and I'd go to sleep in the same bed, wake up, eat that same shitty cereal again and do the whole thing over. If I hadn't been the real asshole, maybe Mom would be able to look me in the eye.
She hasn't looked at me since last week. And you know what? Good, because I don't fucking want her to. Don't need those eyes burning a hole in my skin, don't need her to tell me that I'm heartless when I'm already blaming myself for everything that happened. I don't need her to tell me that I am everything that is wrong with this family when I already know it. She doesn't need to look at me when she tells me that shit every day now. She doesn't need to add salt to the wounds.
Ever since that day, I've heard Mom praying in her room. Three times a day, like clockwork. Once in the morning, once at noon and once in the evening. And I might be wrong, but I'm almost certain that she's praying for my downfall because there's a fury in her tone that is untameable, because she doesn't say my name anymore, she spits it out of her mouth like it's disgusting.
"Terra."
All fast, like it's dirty.
"Terra."
Like she don't want anything to do with it.
"Terra."
Like there's no peace in that name at all, like there's no fucking meaning. She says my name like it is nothing because now that I took Dad away, I am nothing to her. Forget being a daughter to be proud of, forget keeping the peace — I am just some homewrecking drug dealer that needs their ass beat and needs it beat hard.
This morning, I heard her praying for longer than usual, and that's how I know that she's wanting something sinister. I stood by her bedroom door and listened to her speak. My name was in her mouth again and I bet it tasted like venom because she spat it with extra force, like all her fury and anger was finally about to come to a head.
She got what she wanted.
Because at the Reaping, my name got called.
"Terra Casimir,"
And there isn't a doubt in my mind about her prayers anymore. She's been praying for something bad to happen to me because I did something bad to her. She's been praying for it because I disrupted the peace that she was always so proud of me for keeping. And I know that my name got called because of her, I know it, I can feel it in my bones because there's no goddamn way in hell that this would've happened if everything was still the same shit on a different day like it was last week. There's just no way this would've happened before I fucked up. No way.
She willed for this to happen. I guess keeping the peace only matters when it's someone you love, and that sure as hell don't apply to me anymore.
My Mom might want me dead but I don't want to give her the satisfaction. Forget peace, this is war.
[ terra casimir accepts her position as tribute ]
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