66th Reaping [D5]

[Lulu]

The escort of the district stepped out onto the stage, a smile plastered across his face as he stared into the cameras that surrounded it. It was time once again to choose two children to compete in the Hunger Games, and it was his job to do so.

"It is time," he said as he stood over the impatient people of the district, "To once again send two of our own children to the Capitol to compete in the Hunger Games. Let us begin the Reaping!"

He did not look to see the reaction of his district before reaching into the glass ball that held the names of the female children. "Ladies first," he announced, pulling out a slip of paper. He unfolded it and read out to the crowd, "Laila Sycamore!" He then reached into the other ball. "Claude Aeger!"

OOC- RPing is allowed. If you wish to volunteer, let the tribute post first either accepting or stepping down from their place for volunteers, and then post. If the tribute doesn't reply by Tuesday, February 4th, a staff member will post saying that volunteering is open. Please do not post until you see this staff message. FIRST COME, FIRST SERVE.

Tributes, please do not make your acceptance or denial of your spot in character; instead, please leave an ooc note at the end of your post stating whether they accept or are stepping down for volunteers.

Also, and this is really important: If you have been selected as a tribute and plan on going into the arena, we HIGHLY SUGGEST you take some RP Tutoring lessons ASAP. It doesn't matter what level RPer you are; everyone can use a little help. RPing a tribute is a privilege; if you're not going to put the time and effort into making your posts the best they can be then you can count yourself among the dead.. It's not a requirement, but please please please just consider the lessons. They'll help even the most advanced RPer.

[Python]

What will you do when our kingdom falls?

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L A I L A S Y C A M O R E
DISTRICT5 | THIRTEEN| FEMALE

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Knot, knot, knot. Her scalp itched as the bristles struggled to tame the lion’s mane splayed across her blouse. So many knots. She began initially with a brush from her collection with rough bristles to unravel the tangles. Once her scalp was sore from the treatment she switched to softer bristles until her reflection promised her the straightest, softest strands possible reaching past her lower back. It felt as strange as it did last year dressing up to attend the Reaping, trying to make herself look pretty and presentable for an event so morbid. Dressing up for death, she liked to call it, though the death didn’t have to be her own. When she finished she smoothed the fabric of her long skirt and stared at her reflection imagining a princess instead of an orphan girl until she heard her summoning from downstairs. It was time to be an obedient little girl for the second time in her life.

Something cold brushed her throat and she remembered the trinket she had stolen from the “Lost & Found” box of the greedy daycare center – an acorn-shaped charm colored with patterns of reds, oranges and yellows like microscopic flames alive and writing within glass coating, reminding her of who she was: a fireball of a thirteen year old, the orphan not to be underestimated when she was angered. But all the tantrums she could throw, what use would they be here in the Town Square? As she shuffled into a crowd larger than last year’s and joined the children in her age group she realized just how powerless she was here. The place was riddled in Peacekeepers in their white uniforms easily spotted on the gloomiest of days and the darkest of nights. Her rage would be of no use her. Her words could never be heard. She couldn’t steal, she couldn’t bite. Worst of all, she couldn’t run.

The Quell Reaping had been her very first. Only ages twelve to fourteen could be Reaped, making my odds greater. She remembered the way her limbs had quivered when the hand had reached into the glass jar of paper slips. Cassie Radke, not her. Shadow Bison, not Septimus. And then after they were doomed to a terrible fate Laila had decided to watch that Games in completion. She had wanted to because she had never been allowed to watch an entire Games before, only bits and pieces and bloody fragments. She wasn’t sure if it was her worst or best mistake. She just knew that witnessing those terrors had taught her to dread the Reaping even more and fear it with every fiber of her being, but she couldn’t. Not completely. Her odds were different this time, significantly smaller. How could she possibly be reaped with all of these older kids? No, it was the other Sycamores she had to worry about. Even then, she felt only ounces of anxiety. There was no fear.

The escort’s words meant nothing to her. She let every word soar above her scalp. I don’t care. I don’t care. Last year she had hung on every last word. Now she didn’t care. Just let him pick a name, just let her go home. This was a waste of time. Let me go home.

“Laila Sycamore!”

She remembered the wave of nausea that had struck her after the fire. Inhaling the silver smoke and the black ash had twisted her stomach until she was certain there had been flames brewing inside of her. She had wanted to collapse to her knees and vomit, stomach churning as it was now. She could feel ice in her core and fire racing to light her cheeks aflame as she tried to believe her ears. Laila. Sycamore. Laila of the Sycamore house, that’s me, but Laila Sycamore? I’m Laila, but is that my last name? I don’t have a last name. The escort was silent and expectant and she wanted to break his nose for it. He was patient when she wanted to run and save herself before her heart leapt into her throat and she swallowed it as it thumped hard enough to make her chest ache.

She heard sighs of relief and saw eyes wandering and searching. She stood like solid stone until the men in white stirred to pluck her from her hiding place. Then she took one daring step out of the crowd and out into the open space, and suddenly every beady eye was on her. She swallowed and listened to her heart, looking at the stage void of life (that clown of an escort didn’t count). As she began to march she felt tears stinging her eyes. No, you can’t cry. You don’t cry, Laila, you don’t cry. She wanted to be as collected as a princess and as brave as the knights in the stories. She didn’t want to be afraid, but all the images of the 65th’s terrible fates returned to her. Shadow having his tongue cut out, Hope burning alive, Iago gouging her eyes out. She tried to banish the memories and blink the tears away. They could touch her eyes but they could not fall, ever. Instead she let the anger flare inside of her.

I’m only thirteen. They said it wouldn’t be me. They said it. They lied. Edgar, Lilith, all of them, they lied. These were supposed to be her best chances and they ended up being her worst. She walked onto the stage with her eyes glued on her disheveled shoes, and then heard the screams. “That’s my kid! You can’t do this, that’s my kid!” It was Lilith, no doubt, screaming her worthless screams and crying worthless cries. Laila was too furious to bring her eyes up. She didn’t want to see masks of pity and relief and fear and indifference or any of those stupid emotions. She only wanted to focus on anger, because anger wouldn’t make her cry. Anger would make her stronger.

”Claude Aeger!”

She wondered if it would make him stronger too.

ooc - position accepted

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template by chelsey

[Kire]

◘ C l a u d e ◘ A e g e r ◘

Does, Says, Thinks

No one said that this would be easy
I think we're past the point of achieving
Any common ground in believing
We can work this out

The day had come on faster than I had anticipated. Months had closed to weeks, weeks to days, days to hours; until I was left with only a few scant moments before it would begin. Now I was left standing among nearly innumerable amounts of people, surrounded on all sides and feeling as though I might drown in the sea of heads that spread out from where I was. Shade stood at my side, a hand gripped tight on my elbow. "I'm getting a bad feeling from this." His voice shook me some, and I looked around at everyone else. Each face was drawn tight, worried eyes staring openly at the stage before us. I could barely make out the escort, his clothes so outlandish compared to ours. Gray sniggered at the thought of those clothes and I scowled. The younger shadow was always a pain in my ass, and more than once before he had tried to cause trouble for me on reaping days.

Just this morning he had attempted to drown me in the bath, a game of holding my head underwater that he had found enjoyable. Thankfully, Shade and Black had come in in time to drive him off while I spluttered water from my throat and lungs. I kept from punching the annoying shadow now if only for the fact I would probably hit someone I didn't intend. As well, Black - standing attentive at my shoulder - hissed that the actual reaping was starting. The cold dread that always curled icy fingers around my spine now got to work, freezing me from the inside out as the escort reached a careless hand into the reaping ball. He started with the girls, always with the girls, fingers delicately pinching the paper and drawing it out with a relish. Shade's hand on my elbow tightened, and his feeling of fear crawled through me from where we touched. "Laila Sycamore!"

I used to look to you for direction
That was before I saw the deception
That was hidden behind your eyes
That was just your empty pride

I knew it wouldn't be anyone I recognized - I only had Shade, Black, and Gray as my companions and didn't strive to meet other people, if only for the fact that it might be their name coming out of the reaping ball. "Claude Aeger!" Or it could be mine. My gut dropped from it's place in my middle, hitting the ground with a splat as blood sprayed everywhere. I gasped and reached down to retrieve it, scared that I was dead or dying. My hands met with dry stone and the image of my intestines disappeared. I turned to look at Gray, fury in my eyes. "Stop it Gray. It's not funny anymore. I'm not falling for that trick again." The people around me stared, shocked and confused as I began to yell. "They're going to say the real name, and you better keep your mouth shut." The boy beyond Gray stared at me like I was some sort of monster. For an eighteen year old, he looked rather small.

Gray stared at me too, shock on his face at first then slowly it morphed into anger. "I didn't say anything. Not one thing, you idiot!" The hand on my elbow, Shade's - the one person aside from Gray and Black that hadn't stepped back in horror from me - gripped harder. "It wasn't him, it wasn't anyone here." Black how had a hand on my shoulder, "This is the real thing." I could feel my heart beating in my throat, a hand's touch showed me that my throat was swollen and pulsing with each beat. I tried to swallow, hoping to dislodge the mass, but to no avail. Instead, I stood there gawping up at the huge screen showing me and only me. There was no Shade, no Black, no Gray; my throat looked normal, and there was no trace of blood on the ground. All there was was a scared boy with big eyes. Me.

If you gain the world by trading your soul
Remember you'll reap just what you sow
There's no one left to save you now
You'll get what you deserve your own place in hell

I made a noise like a strangled animal, I refused to move. Shade's hand on my arm grew more insistent but I fought him. For once in my life I did not agree with Shade. "You have to go up, they won't wait for you. It's either go up of your own volition, or be tossed up there by the Peacekeepers." As if he had summoned them, there were suddenly two Peacekeepers coming at me from behind. I was lifted off of my feet and swept forward as the two large men grabbed me by the arms and hauled. Each step they took, I battled to get footing. They held me too far off the ground for me to reach, no chance of traction and no means of escape. Just as Shade had said, I was going to be thrown onto the stage. We reached the front of the quartered off area, the distance being much shorter than I had thought. I was dragged up to the stairs where they dropped me. A forceful hand gave me balance before shoving me up the stairs. I scrabbled to keep my footing.

Standing on the stage, a head above everyone, I saw how small of a group I had been in. There was no great ocean of bodies, in truth there was only about half of the people I had thought there to be. My hands shook so I gripped the hem of my shirt, crinkling it irreparably as I twisted it around my fingers. My fellow tribute was a young girl, but I didn't look at her much - my eyes were on the three figures that I knew so well. Shade was solemn, his face a mask of stone though I saw his eyes were over-bright. Black was openly upset, fists clenched and eyes down. Even Gray showed his feelings, feelings I hadn't expected. The pain in his face astounded me, I had thought he would be celebrating if I was actually reaped. Maybe he wasn't as bad as I thought. The crowd that had been standing around me had continued to give the place I had stood a wide birth - as though it were cursed, and it might well have been. A flicker of splattered blood reached my eyes as I stared at that spot, once again the image of my scattered intestines lay sprawled on the ground in a heap - oozing terribly.

Lost your way it made you change it made you dark
But once upon a time you spoke from the heart

It felt like an omen, a warning of what was to come and I would not be surprised if it came true. I was not a fighter, sure I had punched Gray a few times for things he had done and said but that was nothing compared to where I was going. A new voice whispered in my ear, a different melodical tone to it that told me it was someone else. "Let me help you. I was in your shoes once, let me guide you." I looked over, to see who was at my elbow. A boy's face met my gaze, horribly innocent. The boy was younger than him, maybe fifteen. His starling eyes were grey, short brown hair tracing soft tips over his forehead. I had the oddest feeling when I looked at him, like I had seen him before. "What's your name?" I whispered as quietly as I could, praying that no one else would hear me. I didn't care about them, my only concern at the moment was this boy. "Claine."

Suddenly everything was set in stone, Claine stood by my side as the world dropped from beneath my feet and my old life ended. I was to be a tribute in the 66th Hunger Games, I was to fight and kill in order to try and keep my life. Claine was my only hope here, and I just hoped he would help me like he said. Turning my face to the crowd, I donned my most stony face and stared at a building far across the town square. There was never a way to turn back, no way to change time and save myself. If I was to go into the arena and become a shadow too, then so be it.

There's no one left to save you now
You'll get what you deserve your own place in hell

Your own place in hell.

[Claude Aeger accepts his position as tribute.]

OTHER
Words: 1345
Lyrics: Reap by Red Jumpsuit Apparatus

[arx!!]

`   District 5 - Fifteen - Sycamore House

` Blaire

Dressing up for impending doom seems to be a recurring theme all of a sudden. Dress up for the party, dress up for the Reaping - apparently you have to look good when you die. But because the Capitol requires it, we all conform by dressing in our best clothes and crowding into a square, just as we have been doing for decades now. Every kid between the ages of 12 and 18 makes the walk to the square, slowly and quietly, trying to hold back tears or rage or some other non-compliant behavior that threatens to burst through the thin barrier of sanity that our young minds manage to keep intact. Every child has a sibling to cling to. A friend to pray for. Parents who can barely manage to keep composed as the escort reaches into the glass bowls for a name.

All except for the orphans that is. Except for us.

We may be walking together in our little group, and maybe a few of us have a memory of a parent, but for the most part, we are alone. I walk ahead of the rest with Ruth at my side, but neither of us says a word. (What is there to be said? What could possibly make this better?) This year was only worse than the last now that there were more of us to worry about, the ages unrestricted once again. Now we were all at risk. Now we were all going to die. At least that is always what I imagine will be waiting when we got there. I picture the Peacekeepers forcing us into a flaming house and making sure that this time we didn't escape and that our last breaths were spent in pure terror as flame scorches our skin and black smoke fills our lungs.

But when we reach the square, there are only sullen looking children lined up by age and bowls filled with names - no fire, no death, at least not for the Sycamore children. Not yet. That's when our little group breaks into pieces and we truly are alone, fending for ourselves like the worthless orphans that we are. I stand with the 15 year olds, directly across from Ruth. My hands are shoved in my pockets, my head toward the ground, my eyes shut. I dream of Hell home going back to Sycamore in a few minutes, the eight of us returning and retreating back into our rooms and not seeing one another until Lilith put supper on the table or Arwen burnt the house down ... whichever came first.

I try to send luck to Lilith as the escort's voice ("Ladies first!") rings through the square. She only has to stick it out through this year, only one last drawing, only this once and then she is done with the Reaping and she can die of old age in her sleep or something nice like that. She deserves at least that much from her life. The rest of the female half of us I expect to be safe. Even Arwen is a trillion times safer than Lilith is with her name in there so often. Ruth is on 15, and Laila is still in her first years of even doing this - no way any of them will be Reaped. Not today at least.

My heart is pounding in my chest and I can feel my pulse in my neck. (What the hell am I so afraid of? None of has been Reaped yet, so why should this one be any different?) The muscles in my jaw relax when I think about how stupid I am being. All this anxiety and fear is going to add up to nothing, just as it always does, and I will be left feeling like I care way too much about these people that I barely know. And what's worse, one of them might actually figure out that I care. A lot. I can't afford to take any heat for that. I can't get caught up in this crazy delusion that they are all worrying about me, too. Because they aren't, and I know that the less I care, the less likely I am to get hurt. That's the orphans mantra; I need to live by it.

I let my breath out through my nose and raise my eyes to the podium up front.

Hurry up! Let's get this bullshit over with - just read the name ...

"Laila Sycamore!"

"What!?" The single word slips from my mouth, loudly in the relatively silent square. But that's only for a few moments as the shock hits each of us hard in the chest and in the knees, making each of us weak all over. My jaw is set again, my pulse pumping in all the muscles in my face. My head begins to ache as as I hear the screaming. I can't even make out the words, I just know that there is screaming, and that this is really happening. Laila Sycamore. That's the name of the walking corpse that I see. But I know that name. I know that name. I'm not supposed to know the damn name!! I'm supposed to be happy that they called a name that I didn't recognize, a name that meant nothing to me.

This name screams and throws tantrums endlessly when she doesn't get her way. This name can sometimes keep me up at night. This name rarely says a word to anyone but Edgar, and even then I don't think she says much. This name has hair that resembles a lion's mane, and a scowl that could kill anyone who looked for too long. This name eats at the same place and the same time as me. This name represents youth at its highest peak in my mind. This name is only 13 years old. I gave my piece of cake to this name at the birthday party Lilith threw for all of us. I wrote a rhyme, lyrics, for this name.

I was going to miss this name.

I didn't even here the name of the boy that got called. I didn't notice a single thing until everyone around me was shifting and beginning to file out of the square. "Small but fierce, a lioness trapped within a bunny’s hide." I whisper to myself, my fists clenched my feet glued to the ground. I can't make myself move. I've run away so often, so many times, from my problems, but when a real problem finally arises, I can't move anything but my lips. I'm too short to see over much of the crowd. I only catch glimpses of the girl on stage, disappearing into the Justice Building.

I finish the lyric, waiting for Ruth to find me, to snap me out of this impending rage that threatens to boil over. I feel tears of pure rage on my cheeks.

"Not a princess, but a warrior – no damsel, just a knight in shining armor."

underneath the sycamore
we were both broken in our own ways
sifting through the rubble for the wrong things
and this is where we find our peace

[chelsey]

[presto]

_______________________
"STAY A CHILD,
CHILD RIGHT NOW
AND WONDERS WHY
WE EVER HAVE TO DIE."
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[/presto]
E D G A R
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I'M GONNA KILL HIM. I'm gonna pierce through the skin on his chest with my bare nails and crack open his ribcage. My fingers will wrap around the veins of his heart until the flesh punctures and the blood runs down my knuckles like the leaking faucet in our kitchen. I'm gonna make his idiotic, Capitol corpse dance like a goddamn puppet, and then I'll wear his bones around my neck like a fucking necklace. I'm gonna make him pay for this, I'm gonna make him regret pulling out her name from the bowl, I'm gonna kill him, I'm gonna -

Laila walks up the stage. No matter how fierce she is, her body is still fragile and I can see potruding bones poking from beneath the material of her dress. Somewhere to my left, I hear Lilith scream.

I'm gonna make that filthy, son of a bitch escort scream - I'm gonna make him feel as alone and as abandoned and as outcasted as all of us has felt for our entire lives. I'm gonna break him, just like how he broke us; I'm gonna make him realize his mistake from the moment he curled his bony little fingers around Laila's name, I'm gonna -

Maybe that's why I should've been picked instead of her. I would kill - could kill - without a second thought. Merciless. I'm no better than the rest of them, because the only thing I value more than my integrity is my life.

When the boy tribute is reaped, the words "I volunteer!" scratch at my throat until I have to swallow it down. Lilith is still screaming and I can hear the sobs in her own voice; so, I bite my tongue to keep my own tears at bay. A part of our little, broken family was on that stage, walking undauntingly toward a premature grave. But, if I joined her, the rest would surely crumble to ashes behind us.

The fire I was so sure I stamped out so long ago now feels like it's shooting through my veins, again. What little decency I had left in my dampened mind became charred from the flames running rampage in my body. "I'm sorry, Laila," I want to say. "I know you won't understand, but, God, am I sorry anyway."

There are too many things I want to say. "I would kill for you -" No, that's not right - "I would die for you. I'm sorry, princess, I'm sorry."

I'm sorry I saved you from the fire, and I'm sorry I can't save you from this one. I'm sorry that it was you instead of me, and I'm sorry that we won't even know what last name to put on your tombstone. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry -

That goddamned escort's clipped accent echoes into the microphone as he speaks; he talks like every word is a dagger and I'm his target board. When I look down at myself, I'm surprised I'm not bleeding. It sure as hell feels like someone ripped my heart out of my chest and laughed at the pathetic, beating thing.

The thing about Laila is that we had a mutual understanding on how it felt to be abandoned. The both of us being doorstep babies was like having some inside joke no one else but us would understand - only, it's a bit less funny than it sounds. We cupped this secret in the palm of our hands and let it burn through our knuckles so none of the others would be burdened with it. Over time, my fists numbed to the pain, and I watched as Laila struggled with her secret. But, she had all the time in the world to control it. She had.

Orphans only get one chance. Take it from the doorstep baby, the outcasted kid, the little boy running through fires - take it from me. We get only one chance, and one chance only. So, when you miss your chance, you're fucking screwed.

By the time I realize Laila is no longer on the stage, she was already gone to begin with.


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OOC: this sucks so much and is super messy but I was feeling too emotional to put off this Edgar post

[✨ zozo.]

S I L A S S Y C A M O R E How foolish of me to think that perhaps I had finally escaped death. The flames had tried to snatch us, but they didn't. We rebuilt. Arwen had broken me more times than one, but she pieced me together again. (She breaks me every day but here I am, standing whole and alive and stitched together again.) We all fight, and quarrel, and get angry about the silliest things, but we're all still a family. In another life could say things like 'If one of us were going to win' and let us cling to hope - but we're orphans. We're realists. If one of us were going to win it wouldn't be a 13 year old girl. If one of us were going to win, we wouldn't be orphans who's home burnt down to the ground. If one of us were going to win, the world might stop spinning altogether. I wish it would. Death chases me with each tick of the clock, counting down the minutes. I brought the flames to our home, I drove Arwen to the brink of emptiness when I thought I was saving her. And now it seems I've plunged us all into the worst type of terror imaginable. Every reaping I feel Death dance around us all, cackle at our trembling and taunt us with little slips of paper. I hold my breath every year and hope to god if someone's name is going to be called, it's mine. (Selfishly, I exhale at the thought of Arwen. Not Arwen, not Arwen, not Arwen-) "Laila Sycamore!" Lilith screams. It's the beginning of a cacophonous orchestra of grief we shall all sing for the rest of our lives. I want to yell out, to continue our song of grief, but selfishly turn to look at Edgar instead. He swallows down his words and in a second I hate him for being so cowardly - but so have I. (If it were Arwen, I'd yell and scream and shout until the end of the Earth. But only her, because I am selfish.) It's not Arwen - it's Laila. And Laila is Edgar's person, perhaps mores o than Lilith, but I wonder if he's chosen her instead. If it were Lilith, would he scream too? Blaire would for Ruth. I would for Arwen. Death laughs above Edgar's head and I can't look at him anymore. Instead, I find the pavement with bloodstains in the cracks from criminals and those who were brave enough to step up and speak. I should spill my own to join them, right this very moment. They've called a boy's name but I'm not listening, I'm not speaking, I'm not hearing anything except Death chant through my mind and float through my bloodstream. When I close my eyes, I think I hear him whisper. You're next. template by chelsey

[Stare]

When you catch the light
There's a flash of wild creatures,
Before the Stone Age of the preachers,
And the husbands, and the wives

"That's my kid! You can't do this, that's my kid!"

(When I was little my mother used to listen to be go on and on about how I wanted to be a dancer when I got older. She'd hold me tight against her chest and I'd tell her about all the things I was going to be as she rocked back and forth, back and forth in her rickety old rocking chair. "I'm going to be beautiful, Mama," I'd tell her, and she'd smile.

"I know, baby girl. I know.")

Mama never knew that I'd be the death of her. That I'd be the one to blame for the execution of her and her only love. I still remember that day. I don't think about it often. I don't like to. They didn't let me talk to them before they put bullets into their heads, but I remember the look in her eyes. She saw me, sandwiched between the Keepers. She held my gaze.

She still loved me.

(I watched her grow up. I helped her when she scraped her knees. I made dinner for her every single night. When she was sick I was there, laying blankets over her to keep her warm and making deals with the salespeople so I could afford the medicine she needed. I listened to her tantrums. I allowed myself a smile when I heard her laughter. She was - she is - my little girl.)

They took away my mother. They can't have her, too. I lurch forward to pull her back, to wrap her in my arms and never let her go. She is mine to love, mine to take care of, and they have no right to take her away now for their stupid game. Hands pull me back, though, hissing in my ear of all the things they will do to me should I cause trouble. Meanwhile cameras turn gleefully in our direction, all too eager to catch the distress of the orphan girl's family.

There's one thing I can do. One way I can save her.

"I - I - "

I can't.

I can't because if I go, they all crumble. No one else will volunteer for my baby girl, no one else will die for her. I'd call out to save her in an instant if there weren't other lives already piled onto my shoulders. In order to save Sycamore, I must sacrifice its heart. And I will stand strong while I watch our thirteen year old girl fight for her life on live television, if only because I don't want anyone else to have to hold back their tears. This is not a burden I will let my children share. This is not an agony I will allow Edgar to bear. Not when a part of him has just been ripped away.

I go limp in their arms, swallowing my tears, and try to meet her gaze through the crowd.

"I'm sorry, baby girl. I'm so sorry."

When you catch the light
The flood changes direction,
And darkens the lens
That projects my disguise

[florentine, d4b ❁]

[presto]

arwen sycamore
seventeen
district five

[/presto]

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THESE ARE THE THINGS, THE THINGS WE LOST

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here we go again this is all i can think as i look at the dress on my bed (it's not a bed, it's a torn and tattered mattress on the floorboards without a sheet even though lilith offered to make it for me) i refused because i know i will only bleed on it nobody else needs to share the marks left from the scars on my arms, the scabs on my knees once the linen has been through the wash at breakfast everyone is playing pretend i count fake smiles on my fingers one, two, three fucking liars, all of them lying about good and bad who are they to say that's it's going to be alright it never is and maybe i am the only one calling out in the middle of the night from nightmares screaming maybe they've all forgotten that bad things they come in threes first was the winding trail that brought us here each of us living through our own tragedy edgar and laila, they began with nothing and lost nothing and fell into the care of sycamore house before they could utter a single protest they didn't know anything to miss the rest of us have our secrets pasts charred with death, mostly lilith doesn't speak of it we all saw blaire's bruises the day he arrived but those blue and black welts had the final say on whatever came before each of us is unwanted, a walking calamity and until the day we find our coffin we will spread misfortune around us like wildfire the second terrible thing, after the ember was the blaze itself  we didn't see it coming, we didn't know it came anyway my fingertips bleeding liquid ash painting murderous portraits of innocent victims nobody ever said they deserved what they got and i told them many times 'i'm sorry' but forgiveness comes at a price and the fee is far more than we can afford (we have empty pockets, here) finally, the last bad thing in the trio that surely will follow lurks unannounced whispering pretenses demanding us to continue on our lives are though the world won't collapse below our feet again from the closet i choose the dress with the least patches and only two tears and flatten my tangles with my hands not bothering to find the brush "no" i want to say when it is time to leave we are walking into their trap and we flock like sheep to the slaughter willingly is it suicide or is it daring the world to test us once more? go on, we say, take from us something more try it - after all, we have nothing left we might think we speak the truth but we're bluffing, really because we have one another and reaping day threatens this like nothing else we split up lilith is eighteen, a girl, alone edgar, eighteen, boy, alone silas, seventeen, boy, alone me, the same age, girl, alone blaire and ruth are both fifteen years old, split up septimus is fourteen now laila, the smallest, is thirteen the baby sits with miss aggie in safety, but she too will take her turn in ten short years i stand still very still, as though perhaps if i do not move and i hold my breath they will think i have died and not feel the need to snatch me away to fight for a life already lost it works the name they call is not my own but still, my theory is confirmed not okay never okay not for a second, a moment, an hour and yet they had the audacity to consider that things might be alright for an entire lifetime fools "laila sycamore" a scream, a shout fools "i'm sorry, baby girl, i'm so sorry" why are they shocked? why do their eyes blink wide as though they were entitled to anything better than this don't you cry don't you dare cry, lilith, laila, ruth, edgar, silas septimus, blaire - don't give them the satisfaction i erupt into flames i shout words that are not made from letters kicking, hitting, wailing i shake as though there is an earthquake in my lungs it takes hold of me i roar "no! no!" it's too much, and the entire world is crimson and scarlet dark, black, bruised i lash out at monsters that are not there "don't take her away, don't take her away from us!" she's a little bitch, laila  but she doesn't deserve this my throat aches from the anger that flows out of my lips in loud echoes and streams down my cheeks in cursed tears "you've got it wrong, you've all got it wrong! fucking cowards! taking away a little girl! who do you think you are? who do you think you are?" i cannot be contained, not today i have flown into rages before, many times but nothing like this before, silas could calm me down utter promises into my ears kiss my forehead, lie to me and i would calm ever so slowly becoming me again not now, for i am more than simply alight i am burning, smoldering, collapsing in on myself becoming the hollow remains of a building we once knew it was never our home, was it was it? don't lie to me! don't! "take me instead! look at you, thinking taking away a little girl makes you strong! it doesn't, it doesn't, it doesn't!" i cannot breathe i cannot think i cannot see the peacekeeper's hand is coming toward my head i scream the dirt tastes like defeat and wishes left ungranted one, two three here we go again

THE THINGS WE LOST IN THE FIRE

[Cait]

ruth. Throughout my life, I have broken 12 times. Break 1 came when I was two and I realised there was only one adult in the house. There was meant to be two. That much I knew. Unable to speak, unable to question, nothing became of this oddity, yet that night I cried myself to sleep wondering why I was the only girl in the family (genders, I understood.) By the time I was able to speak, I already knew the story. I found out not in the way I had planned. Break 2 came when I was seven and finally learned of my mother’s fate. Somehow, Blaire and my father had kept the truth from me, leaving me defenceless and vulnerable on my first day of school. I arrived at my classroom to a swarm of children clinging to their parent’s hands. I was alone – the only one. ‘Where’s your father?’ ‘He’s working!’ My proud reply came quick and shy. ‘Where’s your mother?’ ‘I – I don’t know.’ ‘Miss, where’s Ruth’s mother?’ ‘Oh, she’s not here. She’s in Heaven, sweetie.’ There were no more school days after that. Break 3 came when I was eight. It was the year Blaire began running away from home. Each day that he left, I could feel my anxiety rising inside of me. After endless weeks of his antics, coming and going as he pleased, I couldn’t take it anymore – I ran to him and clung to him and begged him to stop leaving. As I hugged him, he winced, and it was only then that I began to realise how much he was dying inside each day we stayed. When he showed me the scars criss-crossing across his back, I traced them, and my heart shattered even more. Break 4. The worst break of all. I was nine. It wasn’t Blaire. It was me. Break 5 came when we left. I cannot remember how old I was, nor how we came to be at Sycamore House. All I remember is pain in leaving my father behind, for I refused to believe anything in the world was bad. The happiness flooding Blaire’s weary face was enough to convince myself what we were doing was right, and as I held my tears in, I realised it wasn’t me that was breaking – it was the constraints. Break 6. Our rock, so stable, crumbles, and I do too. edgar Break 7. Our mother, so forgiving and compassionate, brightening our lives, putting us first. Yet seeing her so willingly put others before herself when nobody appreciated her efforts enough made me hurt inside. It wasn’t fair at all. lilith Break 8. Two broken souls combine together in a show of affection. Realisation nobody can ever love me like they loved each other took over. silas&arwen Break 9. A woman too fragile to move properly. Shut away, out of sight, so nobody has the burden of looking after her, I fall apart as I feel her pain. Perhaps she simply feels nothing at all anymore. miss aggie Break 10. A baby’s tortured scream – an all too painful reminder of my own. ara Break 11 came when I was twelve. My first Reaping. Every year beforehand, I would stand by Miss Aggie’s side, clutching Blaire’s hand, praying with Laila and Septimus that our older siblings would escape Death one more year. They always did. When we turned twelve, we no longer stood by Miss Aggie, watching on tensely as outsiders – too young to understand, even though we understood perfectly well. I was told where to go, where to stand, and how I would have nobody by my side. I broke down. I wasn’t ready to face it alone. I’m still not. Break 12. Last year, I discovered butterflies die after 10 days. Perhaps the first time I truly believed the world was a cruel place. Break 13 came today, and as my world burned around me as our dear Laila was stolen away, I still could not find it in my heart to believe the world was cruel. I am broken today, yes. But I will mend, and the scar that is a single tally mark slashed across my heart will forever remain if she does not make it home. Each death will bring another laceration in the dreaded years to come. Yet the single possibility that she will come home to us all keeps me hanging on to that belief that the world has not abandoned us just yet. che1sey ©