what's {written} in braille :: jörge [jb blitz]

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[bg=222222][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,500,true][atrb=style,width: 500px;] she was tracing the years with her fingers on her skin saying why don't i begin again with turpentine and patches with cold, cold campbell's from the can after all, i'm still a jerk playing with matches it's just that he's not around to play along No one is coming for me. The Justice Building is just a well-decorated waiting room for Death, every child in the District knows that. There is sorrow ground into the wood, tears invisibly staining the carpet – my own fell on the floor of this very room a thousand lifetimes ago, when it was Fledger sitting on this posh velvet couch and me wondering what on earth I was going to do without him. The childish, romanticized part of me that has hardened to iron over time had whispered that I might die in a world where he didn’t exist. Little did I know that for once, the childish, romanticized part of me was right. I don’t cry now, though. Some blend of shock and stubborn defiance dried the tears from my eyes after that initial bout of hysteria, a few seconds of a breakdown that left everyone around me looking falsely sympathetic and Brooke confusedly frightened. I had fallen to my knees when Fledger’s name rang out over the crowds. I had fallen to my knees when the doors closed behind me, cutting me off forever from the world of the living. No more. I won’t give the Capitol the satisfaction of bringing me to my knees ever again. No delusions of victory allow me a spark of hope. I am not and have never been a Career; my rough-and-tumble past of schoolyard fistfights and the old salts out on the whalers teaching me how to throw a knife for sport will be nothing in comparison to the deadly finesse of One and Two. I can’t win, but I will fight. The squirming bundle of red curls and frightened eyes in my lap gives me no choice but to fight. I know the fate that awaits her if I don’t come home; know the guilt that will haunt me all the way to the afterlife if I don’t at least try. No one is coming for me, and that’s all right. While the Ripley boy is drowned under the sea of his brothers’ tears, lost in the swarm of friends and well-wishers, I can have these last few golden moments of peace with Brooke, my eyes raking frantically over her face as I try to memorize each freckle and curl. She hasn’t asked questions, which is odd for her. I suppose I should be thankful – I wouldn’t know what to tell her if she did ask. We sit in rare silence for the longest time, the two of us, only broken when I wrap my arms around her and bury my face in her hair, breathing in the smell of baby powder and sea wind that will get me through the days to come. “Mama loves you, Brookie. So much.” The door creaks open, and panic shoves an icy blade into my chest. This is it, it’s time to go, they’ve come to take Brooke away and I’ll never see her again and oh god no please no not my baby please – My breath hitches in my chest, arms locking around my little girl in a steel embrace. They’ll take her, I know they will, but I’ll fight like a tiger, I’ll claw and kick and scream until they knock me out and toss me on the train to Hell. The least I can do is make a few of them bleed for what they’ve done do us, what they’ve done to Brooke. I scramble up from the couch, ready to make a run for it, to barge right out the door past – “Jörge?” Was it only a few hours ago that the Libertine boy wished me luck as I pawned off a bag of old clothes like I’ve done on countless other days? Was it only days ago that he knelt down to give Brooke a piece of candy when we passed on the street, only weeks ago that he’d offered to babysit if I had to take an extra shift, only a year ago when I’d walked in the shop for the first time and he’d told me that my daughter was cute and asked if he could help me with anything? All of that seems entire infinities away, the world outside the Justice Building a bygone era. He looks sorry for me. I hate it. I’m not the one people should feel sorry for. Brooke will grow up with no parents, an orphan thrown in with other orphans in a creaky old building that has never known the meaning of love or warmth. Something about that thought only seems more hateful as I remember Jörge and his candy, Mrs. Libertine’s smile as I traded old clothes for new, how despite losing two sisters they’re still a family. Brooke Rells will never know what a family is. Something. A spark. A preposterous, outlandish, horrible thought. The sign out front of Libertine’s Pawn Shop says it all. We take anything. No questions asked. “Just the man I wanted to see,” I offer Jörge a sad almost-smile, folding myself back onto the couch. “I need to pawn something before I go.” i'm still an asshole playing with candles blowing out wishes, blowing out dreams just sitting here and trying to decipher what's written in braille upon my skin oh yeah, on this skin

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[Wonder]

do you want to go to the seaside? i'm not trying to say that everybody wants to go

i fell in love at the seaside i handled my charm with time and slight of hand

I fell in love with a boy from the sea, and suddenly the world rippled the waters and changed everything I'd come to known.

Each ripple twisting out along delicate waters and violently shaking the calm - the acceptance of what had slowly become reality. Reaping day was a ritual in itself now, the gentle whispers of crowds that were ultimately hushed by the extreme overwhelming feeling of fear. The sweat dribbling down every teenagers forehead as they itched about in their suits and dresses, worn only once a year. The shaking and jitters that came the second one walked up to the table and signed in - I'm here, I'm here to be killed, pick me, pick me. Every single person wore a burden on their sleeve, wore some sort of past they couldn't leave behind and prayed to whatever was up there, out there in the world that it would not be their name pulled from the ballot. There were families and jobs and children and and and the excuses never ended, did they? But someone had to die, had to go.

"Good luck." I whisper to a girl who dances away swiftly, not even paying attention. If nothing it was common courtesy to wish someone good favor - but not from a Libertine, no. All we love turns to waste, trickles away and drowns in the sea. All a Libertine loves turns to stone, and dies in the shadows of their sister. All a Libertine loves goes to war - and never returns, never comes back from battle alive, but with a missing eye, or hand, and a soul that no camera could collect. No matter how much Nessie tried to snap at it. There were certain deals with the devil that couldn't be made, or had their consequences, as we'd learned. May the odds be ever in your favor, unless you come into contact with a Libertine, and then you're screwed. Left for dead. Sent to war, for a cause you don't support.

As the escort went over to the girl's bowl, I waited, I waited for a name to be called - that I knew. Ursula, Nessie "River Destin." No, not the girl's who I called sisters, not another Libertine, not another Libertine. The ginger haired girl walked up to the stage, with a baby by her side and a face that showed she was already dead - a girl dead by war, without having even attended. But I know her - I do, a girl who comes in to the shop, who came into the shop today, a girl I wished good luck to and she met her fate. When you know a Libertine, death is sure to grasp at you. The little girl's hand is in her mother's and I watch her silent tears fall, a strong faced girl gone to waste. I'm so so sorry for what I've done, River. The escort walks strongly over to the boy's bowl, and I waited for another curse, another break in the small fabric of my world. Edwin, Harper, Edwin, Kraken, Kipling, Edwin. "Noah Ripley." Another boy sent to war from the Ripley four, who were no longer four brothers, three brothers and Klaus, and now two brother, Klaus, and whoever the bracelet wraps around next. How sweet, how solemn that a boy who plays with bodies is sent to be one. How disturbing. When you love a Libertine, death will come for you soon.

- -

There's a force, a thought that pulls me towards the doors of the justice building - a need to know how a curse could affect a girl so. I'm so sorry River Destin, I didn't mean to send you to death, I didn't mean it. The looming building seems even worse the second I step through the doors for the third year in a row. Goodbye Penelope. Goodbye Learna. Goodbye River. Led by the men in armor to her death room, I walk step, by step to the coffin of a girl who had a daughter, the girl who I wished luck, the girl who probably wouldn't come home. The track record isn't so good these days. The door creaks open, a screech of death - welcome to a grave Jorge, hope you enjoy your stay. "Jorge?" River sits by her girl and seems to brighten up the second I enter the room, does she not know I sent her to her doom? Do you not know girl? “Just the man I wanted to see, I need to pawn something before I go.”

A dying wish from a girl who'd shopped around the Libertine store for years, I wasn't usually the one to strike deals. It wasn't my strong suit to deal with the people, take their belongings for as little money as possible like Ursula did. I couldn't judge the value of anything like Kipling could on sight. I was the boy who looked out the window - watched, and listened, but never did, never. I was the boy who lost two sisters and now had to deal with a girl's dying wish, a final pawn, one last exchange. "Let's make a deal." I smile towards the girl, a grin that could make Ursula proud. If I can curse a girl, I can bless her possessions. Hopefully.

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[Deleted]

[bg=222222][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,500,true][atrb=style,width: 500px;] cold is the water it freezes your already cold mind, already cold, cold mind and death is at your doorstep and it will steal your innocence but it will not steal your substance “Let’s make a deal.” My entire body sings with relief. Most people would be afraid to get so close to an outgoing tribute, apprehensive of being sucked into the maelstrom of impending doom that warps around us, but the Libertines have touched Death so much that they’re practically counting coins for the Ferryman now. I remember Penelope and Learna to an extent, all fire-kissed hair and an odd aura of not-quite-there that defined them. Death has visited the Libertine household twice in as many years, and now the Libertines are paying a visit to it instead. Brooke clambers down off my lap as the two of us stare at each other, a million unspoken words weighing down the space between us while she toddles off into a corner to play with something shiny. I don’t know how to ask this. As someone who’s spent my whole life swearing to never burden anyone else, I can’t formulate the proper words to do so now. Jörge works in a pawnshop, so it would be best to operate in the practiced ways that both of us know, proprietor and customer. “What’ll you give me for Brooke?” Every mother’s instinct I’ve ever had screams at me from the deepest recesses of my soul, shrieks in outrage because how could you, River, how could you sell your baby girl? But they don’t understand; my instincts still can’t process the fate that awaits her otherwise even if my brain can. I watch the Libertine boy’s face carefully, letting the effort of trying to gauge his reaction attempt to drown the weakest parts of me that want to break down sobbing and take it all back. “They’ll send her to the community home.” My voice is dull, hollow, a statement of fact that leaves no room for argument. “Fledger’s dead. Both of our families are dead. I’ll be dead. There’s nowhere for her to go, Jörge, and I can’t… I can’t let them send her to that place. You know what happens there. If by some miracle I make it back, I swear your family will get half my Victor money for as long as I’m alive, but let’s be honest with ourselves.” I can’t tell if the room feels colder, or if it’s just the Reaper breathing down my neck. “I’m not coming back.” There’s a sort of finality to the statement, a book of fairytales-turned-nightmares snapping shut for the last time. I grew up living for my family. I spent a year living for Fledger. Every second after he died, I was living for Brooke. There’s a morbid, selfish comfort in the knowledge that at least when I die, I’ll be doing it for myself. But I can’t let myself be selfish yet, not when I would march into the Arena knowing that my little girl would be growing up with an empty stomach and stinging slaps and a home that was anything but a home. That last, visceral urge to keep her safe drives me forward with more power than I thought I had left in me, both my hands locking around one of Jörge Libertine’s in a vice grip. I have never begged anyone for anything in my entire life, but I will beg him for this. “She’s a sweet little girl, and so smart. In a few years she’ll be old enough to help around the shop. Your mother will have the chance to raise another daughter. She could grow up thinking she’s a Libertine, Jörge, look at her, she’s got the red hair and everything. Just please, please don’t let them send her to the community home.” Along with my words comes a tide of almost-visions: Brooke growing up with new clothes and plenty of food, Brooke surrounded by brothers and sisters, Brooke having the life I never could have given her on my own. In dying, I may have saved her after all. “Your sign says you take anything, no questions asked. Don’t tell me now that it’s false advertising.” How could you sell your baby girl?! my mother’s instinct shrieks again, and against all the odds, a watery, uncertain smile settles over my lips. I’m not selling her. I’m pawning her. and you are the mother, the mother of your baby child the one to whom you gave life and you have your choices and these are what make man great his ladder to the stars

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