we could live near the beach. willem
Nov 30, 2022 22:27:45 GMT -5
Post by fox on Nov 30, 2022 22:27:45 GMT -5
When he was nine, he let a boy break his wrist.
Will remembers pinning him down while they grappled. He waited for him to concede. He was supposed to give in, a light double-tap on his forearm to signify forfeit.
Except he didn't. His hands were gripped around Will's arm, clawing at the chokehold, feet still kicking, and four seconds passed but he still didn't. Then five seconds, then six.
Then let him pass out, his trainer said to him.
He felt himself recoil. He loosened his hold.
He remembers being thrown off and pushed against the wall. He remembers the sound of bone snapping and picking himself off the training room floor – and how it felt like a daze walking to the nurse, arm dripping and head spinning, and when he looked back down the hallway he saw a trail of blood behind him. His trainer told his parents he didn't have the Victor mentality. He remembers the boy never speaking to him again.
He's changed since then, but not enough. Or maybe he's changed, but in a different way than he thought he would. He feels a little different. He knows the depth of his own cruelty now. He knows where it ends too.
And he can't.
He has always picked losing. He would do it again and again.
He hopes Kaatje forgives him for this.
He lets go of his sword. It lands and clangs and glints as lightning flashes into the mouth of the cave. And it's funny. He feels lighter, a little shaky, trembling when he takes a step without it, so used to the weight now.
Maybe it's like falling asleep. Maybe if he closes his eyes, it would be like he was back home, rain in the garden, his sister laughing in another room, the sound of voices and wind chimes. He's so tired right now. He staggers forward and meets the bone blade.
The sword enters his chest.
Storm's hands are clenched around the hilt. They stare at it in the dark.
He reaches towards the wound, Vincent's compass in his hand. Slowly, he closes his fingers around Storm's, pressing the the cool metal against his palm, meets his eyes, and holds them both there. "Take it."
Blood spills onto stone when he speaks. His lungs spasm. The ground falls out beneath him, but he grasps onto Storm's hands and doesn't let go. The world seems more raw than before, but the sweet things stick to him like honey, the taste of the air after rain, the scent of magnolias, the sea, the spring.
He holds onto them more tenderly now.
"You should see the ocean one day."
The words just come out. But they feel right.
He was raised with the tide. He knows the ocean and all the grief it carries. He grew up with hurricane seasons. He grew up with funerals lit on the water. He knows its softness too. It's what he means when he says it. "I think you'd like it." The words taste like salt.
He squeezes Storm's hand, and the compass is still pressed between their palms. "Just don't fall in." The blade is stuck between the rise and fall of his chest when he laughs weakly, piercing every breath. He feels very numb right now. "Maybe stay away from water."
"Why?"
He says something stupid.
"Because you're the worst swimmer I've ever met."
Storm is crying. His face looks hazy and Will's not sure if it's because of the tears or because he feels himself losing the ability to breathe. He reaches towards him, presses a palm to his cheek briefly, struggling against gravity. "It's okay."
There's another boom of thunder in the clouds. The branches of light shake their bones. He's sorry Storm has to be the one that kills him. He's sorry he has to live with that.
But he'll live. And one day, he'll heal too.
"It's not your fault."
He isn't sure if he's talking about the swimming or the sword in his chest.
There is no sea in District Nine, just as there is no way for them both to live. Storm has his own house of dead people, his own parents made of venom and glass – he sees it, as he sees his own family. And those aren't things he can change.
He couldn't have learned to swim. He couldn't be blamed for this either.
It's okay, it really is.
It is and it is, but Will is crying now. He turns despite the sword, buries his face into Storm because he can't cry now, not after all this time. He wants to be someone his family might be proud of. He wants to be strong until the end.
But sixteen isn't that much older than fourteen. He's a kid too. He's a little scared to die. He's not as brave as he thought, and he thinks of Vincent, his quiet plea in the Justice Building for him to stay because he hadn't been ready for this.
His heart is stopping and starting, stopping and starting. The cave shakes, but maybe that's him. The sky gets dimmer, but maybe that's him too.
He thinks of his flowers, the sky and sea. He thinks of Lux in the river and Inta's ship burning in the deep indigo of night. And life comes to him, like the waves in the morning, soft and steady. His flowers, birdsong, muted sunlight on the sill, they slip through his fingers one last time.
He's not ready either. He never was.
It ebbs. The sky is pink and yellow in the late afternoon, gulls and the sound of the waves in his ears. He stands waist deep in the water, about four years old, scooping shells from beneath the seaweeds, his father there guiding him in the depths. And there are his sisters over his shoulder, drawing shapes in the sand, the sunlight turning the shore gold beneath their hands.
In the distance, he hears his name being called. Willem. The ocean echoes it.
His mother's voice is gentle. It rushes towards him in the tide.
Willem.
It's so quiet.
Willem.
He turns towards it.
Will remembers pinning him down while they grappled. He waited for him to concede. He was supposed to give in, a light double-tap on his forearm to signify forfeit.
Except he didn't. His hands were gripped around Will's arm, clawing at the chokehold, feet still kicking, and four seconds passed but he still didn't. Then five seconds, then six.
Then let him pass out, his trainer said to him.
He felt himself recoil. He loosened his hold.
He remembers being thrown off and pushed against the wall. He remembers the sound of bone snapping and picking himself off the training room floor – and how it felt like a daze walking to the nurse, arm dripping and head spinning, and when he looked back down the hallway he saw a trail of blood behind him. His trainer told his parents he didn't have the Victor mentality. He remembers the boy never speaking to him again.
He's changed since then, but not enough. Or maybe he's changed, but in a different way than he thought he would. He feels a little different. He knows the depth of his own cruelty now. He knows where it ends too.
And he can't.
He has always picked losing. He would do it again and again.
He hopes Kaatje forgives him for this.
He lets go of his sword. It lands and clangs and glints as lightning flashes into the mouth of the cave. And it's funny. He feels lighter, a little shaky, trembling when he takes a step without it, so used to the weight now.
Maybe it's like falling asleep. Maybe if he closes his eyes, it would be like he was back home, rain in the garden, his sister laughing in another room, the sound of voices and wind chimes. He's so tired right now. He staggers forward and meets the bone blade.
The sword enters his chest.
Storm's hands are clenched around the hilt. They stare at it in the dark.
He reaches towards the wound, Vincent's compass in his hand. Slowly, he closes his fingers around Storm's, pressing the the cool metal against his palm, meets his eyes, and holds them both there. "Take it."
Blood spills onto stone when he speaks. His lungs spasm. The ground falls out beneath him, but he grasps onto Storm's hands and doesn't let go. The world seems more raw than before, but the sweet things stick to him like honey, the taste of the air after rain, the scent of magnolias, the sea, the spring.
He holds onto them more tenderly now.
"You should see the ocean one day."
The words just come out. But they feel right.
He was raised with the tide. He knows the ocean and all the grief it carries. He grew up with hurricane seasons. He grew up with funerals lit on the water. He knows its softness too. It's what he means when he says it. "I think you'd like it." The words taste like salt.
He squeezes Storm's hand, and the compass is still pressed between their palms. "Just don't fall in." The blade is stuck between the rise and fall of his chest when he laughs weakly, piercing every breath. He feels very numb right now. "Maybe stay away from water."
"Why?"
He says something stupid.
"Because you're the worst swimmer I've ever met."
Storm is crying. His face looks hazy and Will's not sure if it's because of the tears or because he feels himself losing the ability to breathe. He reaches towards him, presses a palm to his cheek briefly, struggling against gravity. "It's okay."
There's another boom of thunder in the clouds. The branches of light shake their bones. He's sorry Storm has to be the one that kills him. He's sorry he has to live with that.
But he'll live. And one day, he'll heal too.
"It's not your fault."
He isn't sure if he's talking about the swimming or the sword in his chest.
There is no sea in District Nine, just as there is no way for them both to live. Storm has his own house of dead people, his own parents made of venom and glass – he sees it, as he sees his own family. And those aren't things he can change.
He couldn't have learned to swim. He couldn't be blamed for this either.
It's okay, it really is.
It is and it is, but Will is crying now. He turns despite the sword, buries his face into Storm because he can't cry now, not after all this time. He wants to be someone his family might be proud of. He wants to be strong until the end.
But sixteen isn't that much older than fourteen. He's a kid too. He's a little scared to die. He's not as brave as he thought, and he thinks of Vincent, his quiet plea in the Justice Building for him to stay because he hadn't been ready for this.
His heart is stopping and starting, stopping and starting. The cave shakes, but maybe that's him. The sky gets dimmer, but maybe that's him too.
He thinks of his flowers, the sky and sea. He thinks of Lux in the river and Inta's ship burning in the deep indigo of night. And life comes to him, like the waves in the morning, soft and steady. His flowers, birdsong, muted sunlight on the sill, they slip through his fingers one last time.
He's not ready either. He never was.
It ebbs. The sky is pink and yellow in the late afternoon, gulls and the sound of the waves in his ears. He stands waist deep in the water, about four years old, scooping shells from beneath the seaweeds, his father there guiding him in the depths. And there are his sisters over his shoulder, drawing shapes in the sand, the sunlight turning the shore gold beneath their hands.
In the distance, he hears his name being called. Willem. The ocean echoes it.
His mother's voice is gentle. It rushes towards him in the tide.
Willem.
It's so quiet.
Willem.
He turns towards it.
