bloodstains | kieran, 95th

[dars]

tw: death and mourning

amethyst and flowers on the table
is  it  real  or  a  fable ?
and we all know how this will end:
chimney swift that finds me,
be my keeper

He tried for a long time to erase the hate in his heart. It was there for so much of his life that it became the only guiding light for a while: resenting his mother every time he walked into a room and found her speaking to someone who wasn't there, resented his father for daring to live his life even when it was being lived separate from Kieran. He hated Twelve for its winters, Ten for its summers. He hated Saffron for being so close to him in age. He hated the kids in school for the education that was denied to them, but never moreso than when they pointed out his- how had they phrased it- city slicker accent.

At fifteen, Kieran was convinced the only thing for him to do was volunteer for the Games. Maybe then, when he followed in his parents' footsteps and gained the victor title people seemed to care about so dearly- maybe then his existence would matter just as much. But then, just a single summer month short of the reaping, Paige smiled at him from across that campfire in a way she never had before, and he felt the sway of his hands on her hips while they danced under the stars, and he decided that maybe there was another path for him. A chance at real happiness. No killing, no fame, no Hunger Games. Just a nice house in need of tending, and a family of his own to fix all of the things his parents broke.

He scoffs, eyes swollen from tears no one has witnessed fall once. His boy- his oldest boy- lays in a casket before him. At fifteen, Emerson did not get to make the choices Kieran made. He will never get to see sixteen. The sounds of his early morning guitar practice will never fill the now-silent home Kieran had once loved but can now barely stand in. He'll never get to experience a life outside the confines of school, or outside the looming fear of a reaping. He'll never fall in love, or get married, or have children. He'll forever stay as he is now: laying in this expensive box, buried beneath a rock with his name carved into it. Decaying. Rotting before he ever got to grow: a flower dying before it bloomed.

His hands are folded over his chest, his eyes closed in a way that suggests he could be sleeping. Kieran wishes it were that simple. He would love nothing more than to reach down and shake him awake, take him for a walk to Aunt Reggie's for late lunch or let him finally try his first glass of wine with dinner like he was always begging for. But he knows the truth of it. The body before him is only the husk. The soft little ridges are makeup covering scars, wounds that stole him away from this lifetime for good.

There's no happiness for Kieran to feel. There's no silver lining. His son is dead. His son is dead. His son is dead. This boy, this child he'll soon need a shovel to hug: gone. Maybe the hate in his heart was still there all this time, waiting for something so terrible and so tragic before showing itself. Or maybe this hatred is brand new and born of it and ancient by its own right still. But he doesn't deny its existence. Gloved fingers squeeze into a fist despite his knuckles begging for relief. He can feel the scabs reopening with his demand, sticky warm blood trickling down into his palm.

He hasn't slept. He probably should. Elonna feels the same rage, he sees it in her eyes. She would understand if he needs to find something to punch in order to make himself feel better. But Eden is more like Paige, shattered by his own sadness, afraid of any possible next step no matter what, because it means change is coming. Kieran cannot be the thing his child sees when he thinks of fear, or of rage, or of loss. Quietly, he excuses himself to his room where no one can see. A reflection of his hollow self stares back at him and his teeth grit. Monster. He blinks. The image is fractured now, shards of it stabbed into his fist, pieces in piles at his feet.

He doesn't feel any better.

and i long to be near you
but every road leads to an end
your apparition passes through me
i n   t h e   w i l l o w s

song: death with dignity