whispers traded in the dark {Cait}

[k!ah]

c l i o .

Darker times will come and go
Times you need to see her smile
And mothers' hands are warm and mild

"Margret! We have to go! Now!" My mother lips brush against my forehead, my father's eyes refusing to meet wide curious ones. Where were they going? Why did Pa refuse to look at me? What was happening? I move to take a step towards him, his name on my lips, my hand reach into the abyss between us. "Margret, Now!" His words are sharp, harsh against the quiet of the night.

"Lorenzo, I need a moment, I have to say goodbye-"

"Now!" He growls, picking up their bags. Ma takes one last look into the dark room behind me, eyes tracing the lines of my face, fingers slipping from my shoulder, leaving an icy imprint.

"Ma? Ma!" I call as she runs down the steps, roughly grabbing her bags from Pa. "Whats happening? When will you be home?" My voice is a cry, my barefoot carrying onto the amp lawn as they disappear into the night. "Ma! Ma!"

Why were they leaving? Why were they leaving us? Me-?

"Clio?" My heart raced in my chest, my hair clinging to my forehead, saturated with sweat. "Clio, are you okay? Are- are you crying?" Jasper climbs into my bed, sitting cross legged he watches me with concern eyes. "I couldn't sleep and I thought I heard you- were you sleeping? A nightmare?" Taking a deep breath I try to control the rapid beating of my heart, wiping my forehead as I shift into a seating position.

"I'm okay, J," I say with a small smile, trying to shake off the remounts of the dream- no, memory. "Do you need me to get you some milk?" They didn't have much, the shelving of their fridge bare as I struggled to find enough work to the pay the bills. I had taken tesserae from the previous games, but with three hungry mouths to feed, it never seemed to last very long.

Jasper shakes his head, crawling up the bed to rest his head on my chest, he closes his eyes as he asks he he could stay here for a little while. With a smile on my lips I begin to carefully run my fingers through his dark hair. It doesn't take long for him to drift off, his gentle snores filling the room as he slips into the depths of slumber.

As my fingers his hair, my mind travels. For the last year I had done everything in my power to push my parents to the side. I refused to believe they would leave for something as trivial as wealth. For money. I refused to believe that their love for me, for Charlie and Jasper, could me measured by something material such as cash. Pa had always said that he loved me to the moon and back, that nothing could ever change that. He had told me one day as we were on the garden that I was the best thing to ever happen to him and Ma. That it didn't matter that they had no money, that they struggled day in and day out to keep us feed. That he would love me forever.

Things had started to change, my father more irritable. Ma and Pa argued a lot more, but Pa would still kiss me on the forehead each night my whisper goodnight responded with a "love you to the moon and back." He didn't come in on the nights leading up to their disappearance. In fact he barely looked at me, his eyes constantly turned towards the ground with my approach.

It was because of last night, Jasper sleeping on my chest, that I found myself tucked into the hood of my jumper, casting uneasy glances around me. I had got her details from a friend who had heard whispers about a girl who uncovered mystery's, who uncovered hard truths even if their left the receiver burnt and broken.

I had told the girl that I was interested in purchasing some of her illicit drugs, unsure how to approach the question- not that she had any expense in the underground world of drug dealing. She wasn't even quite sure the name of the recreation drug she was supposed to pick up was. One of the many reasons as to why her shoulders were tense, her trembling hands stuffed into pockets.

[Cait]

olete bene

I’m an expert in secrets.

They’ve lived around the corner from my bedroom all my life, eventually infiltrating their way into my bones, my blood, my heart. I’ve swallowed down echoes in the hallway of last hopes and broken souls with nowhere to turn except the blank white canvas that is a psychiatrist’s lair. Mum and dad always tried so hard to keep the brokenness behind locked doors. What they never realised is that I crave the mess.

There’s not a single spot of dust in my room, but my head and my home couldn’t be any more different. Where my carpet has been vacuumed clean, the floor of my closet is a mess of scattered pieces of paper. They resemble the drawers upon drawers locked away inside my skull, home to lost secrets and tear-stained pages. In them lies a quiet understanding that the world will never be perfect. That even when things may seem put together, beneath it all, they’re already collapsing.

My parents always knew that, insisted on passing those lessons down to me as soon as I could speak. And so we hid away in a castle of perfection as they held me up on a pedestal with no room for error. Even still, I’m just a mistake in waiting. A porcelain doll they’ve spent years carving out of moonstone –

– even still, crystals break.

I wonder just how disappointed they would be if they saw me now: Olete After Dark. Underneath the stars, I feel all the parts of myself come together, but they would never see it that way. Things couldn’t be so simple, and even being your true self isn’t as easy as I wish it was.

My heart sits in my throat, thudding in time with the weight of contraband slamming against my thigh, tucked safely into a too-big pocket of my too-big jacket. Too heavy. My lungs exhale, but I don’t feel any lighter. Too cold.

This wasn’t what I meant when I said I wanted to see more of the world.

This doesn’t feel like me; I remind myself, time and time again, I’ve never known what being me even means. If it’s not solitude and smoking mirrors, and it’s not secrets and selling snow, then what is it?

I’m just a fool with words for weapons – a collector. I know more than I should, yet somehow it’s still ¬not enough. When I search the hidden faces around me for tonight’s companion, all I see are drawn hoods and sealed lips. I can’t see their eyes. In the madness and beauty of it all, I tell myself every time –

– there has to be more of the world to uncover.

All of those secrets, walking right by me and only existing in noisy heads, never to be freed. All of the world nobody gets to see.

What a waste.

Instinctively, my footsteps start to slow, whilst the night swirls around me in hyperdrive. There’s an intersection at the back of District Nine with two crossed streetlights I’ve made my meeting ground. Intertwined, the spotlights form an ominous yellow “X” on the sidewalk; I feel the warm glow hit my face immediately, burning brightly on my retinae. It feels like home, upside-down and sleeping in an unmade bed.

Through the amber mist, beneath the bent metal poles, I see a small figure with nervousness crawling through her veins, tiny hands stuffed into a cardigan to fight the cold that’s surely creeping up her spine; I feel it too.

She lifts her head – a sudden jerking motion – and finds my face with searching, hopeful eyes.

They shouldn’t stop me in my tracks, but they do.

Don’t judge a book by its cover. Isn’t it true, the most broken souls and tragic backstories are often the most innocent looking, put together humans? I’ve seen enough ordinary misfits walk through the back garden door to know this better than most.

This feels different, though.

She’s not broken all the way – not yet, at least. There’s still a third of a girl who believes in the world settled beneath the surface of her skin. Funny, how we couldn’t be more different, yet I feel the dampness of her palms like they’re my own. As if our minds are linked and we’re breathing the same frozen air down our lungs.

And that’s my problem – I see too much of myself in all the people I meet. My heart’s too soft; I’m too fickle. Things like that don’t fit with cruelty and injustice. I’m certain my parents knew this from the very first moment they saw me, and so they hid me away from everyone. Even themselves.

Is that what happened to her, too? I can’t help but be fascinated by the ambiguity of a new face, a new night, a new mystery.

I want to ask her: Why are you here?

What’s your cross to bear?

But I can’t save the world – that’s not my job to claim. So instead, I settle on business.

“What’s the password?”