it's only the death of me ; cal rose [reaping]

[maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]]

cal rose.

I don’t remember the before, only the after. The indiscriminate chaos that descends, born of somebody else’s grief. No one gets to mourn for me and I try not to wonder if anyone would have. Keepers descend like crows to carrion, their fingers locked in a bruising grip around my bicep. My steps are not my own as they force me out of the crowd and toward the stage. It’s not hard, the other boys had formed a pretty little path the minute they recognized my name. The keepers are probably scared I’ll run, too, or maybe they’re just grateful for the excuse. Pain and punishment are wonderful treasures and I am a boy so lovely to hurt. I don’t blame them. I don’t blame them. I swear, I don’t blame them. There’s this thing I learned to do when I want to cry. When there’s too much humanity in the ragged breaths I’m struggling to take, when I’m too much like Cal and not enough my father’s son. I’m limp under their grasp, mumbling the same thought again and again (don’tblamethemdon’tblamethemdon’tblamethem) until I can’t even remember if that’s a lie or not. There’s nothing left, anyway, so it might as well be true. It’s the only way I can manage a smile when I raise my head, so soft and pathetic that I think I maybe shouldn’t have attempted one at all. It’s a strange view from the center of the universe, listening to the beginnings of legends that are not mine. Somewhere in the distance my father wails, he’s on his knees with a hand clawed over his chest. He curls outward - not in - agony on display as he sobs without tears. It doesn’t hurt, I know it doesn’t. That same heart beats in my chest and it feels fucking nothing. He reaches for the hands extended in sympathy, not for me. Blue is, at least, a little interesting. It’s more fun to wonder about her than let my eyes drift to where my mother cries quietly beside Dad because I’ve never seen her do that before. Perhaps this is yet another performance or maybe she really does believe she’ll make it to the fences. Petey always had that stupid optimism about them when we spoke of stealing into the night and great escapes every time our bruises looked a little too much like gruesome mirrors. I hope not, though, I hope it’s just bitter resignation. That Blue fights only because it’s something to do. I don’t think I could stand a whole train ride with someone that reminds me of them. “Cal!” With the keepers occupied they’ve wriggled their way to the front of the crowd. Small to the point of fragility, with light brown skin and inky ringlets coiled close to their skull, Petey has always had a knack for sneaking into places they weren’t supposed to be. My chest gives a painful twinge when my smile goes longer at the sight of them. I’ve always been offered the kindness granted by my father’s name, but Petey is the only person I’ve ever been inclined to return the favor to. My only friend, so the best by default. There’s nothing to say but goodbye, so I say nothing at all. They didn’t expect much else, looking back over their shoulder where my father now has his arms thrown around a complete stranger and heaves into their shoulder. Someone calls out from the fray, surely noticing a twelve year old was out of place, “You don’t owe him anything. No one’s gonna make you try to come home.” Are they recording this? I wonder what they see. “You don’t have to come home,” That’s the last time I ever see Petey.