letters to the members of elysium.

[arx!!]

I wish you could see your
history is chaining you.

Tonight is the fifth night in a week I've woken up gasping for air. Drowning in a pool of boiling blood, breaking and suffocating beneath collapsing ceilings, burning to death in molten gold, acid eating away at my skin, a sword swinging skillfully at my head--

My head whirls around as someone knocks on my door.

"Justice?"

As soon as I recognize Opal's voice, I exhale and unfurl my hand from the whiskey bottle I had instinctively latched onto. I take a deep shuttering breath and flip on my lamp.

"I'm fine," I say, rubbing the sleep away from my face as I swing my leg over the edge of the bed. "Didn't mean to wake you."

Because I do know that's why she is knocking. I've been screaming in my sleep again. And Ripred knows the Training Center has thin walls to promote "scandal."

"Really, I'm fine, I'm going right back to sleep," I say as I slide my prosthetic on. "Goodnight."

I know she doesn't believe me, but she doesn't protest either as I hear her footsteps disappear down the hall. As soon as I hear her door click shut I grab my whiskey bottle again, leaning forward with a groan. My arm aches where it broke, something they said they'd completely healed. But I still feel it in my movements. I still hear my bone cracking beneath Achilles' war hammer...

("What's there left to do but give in, Fray? Haven't you already failed them all?")

I press the whiskey bottle to my temple, until the sound of her voice stops ringing in my ears. Except when I close my eyes I hear Pillar—("It's not ending here for me.")—as she lights her sword with a whoosh and a hiss, her face illuminated in my mind before the flames lash at my skin. I jump to my feet, tripping into my nightstand, struggling to keep my lamp from toppling over.

("Your mum should have swallowed you.")

I don't even hesitate. I throw the whiskey bottle as hard as I can in Scout's direction, her very existence in front of me enough to send fear coursing through my veins. But all it takes is a single blink of the eyes and she's gone, just as dead as she has been for the last two years. A piece of glass lands in front of my toes; I sigh.

My knee gives out and I sink to the floor. The glass shards shimmer in the light, the puddles of whiskey disappear between the cracks in the floor. I let my head fall forward into my hands as the voices in my head grow quiet for the night. What's wrong with me? Why couldn't the memories have just died right along with them?

I move slowly as I pick up the mess I made. I see my reflection in the dark glass. A tired, deranged boy with a chin that could use a shave looks back at me with a thousand ghosts swarming around his head. No one will ever see them, but they're there to stay. They've attached themselves to the tines on my crown, nagging me, taunting me, hissing—"Remember me!"—as if I haven't been doing that with every breath I take. Even in sleep I can't escape them. They've blocked off every exit; I'm trapped within my labyrinthine mind.

How do they expect me to get free?

"Ah!"

My finger catches against the edge of a piece of glass, sending droplets of blood everywhere. I stick my finger in my mouth, the taste of blood familiar, but not all that comforting. I toss what glass I've gathered in the garbage bin, moving to my bathroom in search of a bandage. I ruffle through the various medications until my hand falls against soft, worn paper edges.

("O-Once-- once upon a t-t-time...")

I chuckle as tears rise hot and fast to the corners of my eyes. I swallow the lump in my throat, reaching a bit farther until I feel the leather belt that accompanies it. I pull both items free of their hiding places, letting them fall into the sink.

I stare at myself in the mirror in the hopes that maybe my reflection will convince me that I can look at Scout's sketchbook and Roger's belt. Instead my eyes just get glassier as more tears arise. I bite my lip, look away and shake my head. "Come on, man, don't be such a fucking pussy," I murmur to myself, as I steady myself against the porcelain sink.

And with a single deep breath--

I look.

And the world doesn't crumble around me. Time doesn't stop. My heart keeps beating. And the voices and memories—silent. One deep breath. Inhale, exhale. Another. I reach out, running my fingers over the jagged letters—the name—carved into the belt. I was just on the other side of that acid puddle when he notched that name into his belt. I was right there, but--

I pick up the sketchbook and close my eyes. I still haven't looked. I don't think it'll ever be my place to look at the drawings she left inside, but I love the way the pages feel when I flip through them. I love the way they are wrinkled from use and I love the way they smell. So I let my thumb flip through until the very first blank page. I know because it is crisper than all the others. Flat, clean, untouched.


("There was a fair maiden, the fair-fairest in all--")


("Did you enjoy it?")

No.

("Did she deserve it, Fray?")

No.

("I bet it didn't mean a thing to y--")


My fingers close around the piece paper and it tears free of the binding. I blink in horror, my hands shaking as I pull the paper free, the cut on my finger leaving a bloody fingerprint on the parchment. And I know it's irrational and I know it's the most ridiculous thing, but it feels like I've killed her, them, everyone all over again.

"I'm sorry, sorry, so sorry, s-sor--," I whisper loud enough for no one but my own reflection to hear.

Because I'm still just a coward. The ghosts in my head aren't keeping me trapped. I'm just too afraid to try and find my way out of the misery.

("I'll be waiting for you, Fray. For when you finally get what you deserve...")

No.

I breathe in deep, glancing out of the window to where the statue garden stands illuminated in the darkness by a few sparse torches.

I snatch the sketchbook and the belt from the sink and transfer them to my bed as I rummage through my dirty clothes bin for pants and socks. I don't even bother buttoning my shirt or putting on shoes as I rush to leave. I scoop up the belt, the sketchbook, and snatch the pen from my bedside table before switching off my lamp.

I'm done being trapped.

JUSTICE FRAY

[arx!!]

I wish you could see your
history is chaining you.

My nose burns in the cold, but it doesn't stop me from pulling the air through my nostrils. The air is fresh and crisp like an apple on a beautiful fall day. It calms me. Numbs me. Ripred knows I could use some of that.

A Peacekeeper stands guard at the entrance to the statue garden, but he barely glances my way as I pass. It's open to the public at all times, fairly easy to access, and one of the most elaborate and intricate displays the Capitol has to offer. I was only six years old when the idea was first pioneered by the brilliant minds of the 62nd Gamemakers. I remember the project being rather pricey, calling on extra resources from District 2 and extra artisans from District 1 to complete the project in a timely manner.

As far as upkeep goes, I can already look into the glossy, marble-white eyes of Desimae Warble and Rolf Parks. Though I know better than to explore the freshly cut stone. It's not the statues that exist that will haunt me. It's the seven empty spots waiting to be filled.

It's not difficult to find her. She's never been difficult to spot. I swear she existed simply to demand and draw the attention of every eye in the room—you know, so she had the opportunity to drive a knife through them.

I sit at the base of Celia Mortuus' statue, the cold marble sending a shiver down my spine as I pull out Krigel's sketchbook and press my pen to paper. My hand shakes at first and my pride and ego nag at me—('This is so fucking stupid.')—but after the first few words, I know this is where I need to start.

My sister is where I have to start.

JUSTICE FRAY

---

Dear Scout,

I fucking hate you.

To normal people that's an insult, but I know better. To you, that is probably the highest compliment you could ever receive. And I suppose since you're my older sister, I at least owe you that much.

You were never normal. And that was okay because our family really isn't normal. We've got too many siblings to count, our parents pinned the adoptees against the blood relatives during training like a game, and our career training was more than just the typical, rigorous bullshit. You weren't normal, but Mom and Dad didn't care because--

Well shit, Scout, you loved killing. And yes, I'm sure that is the only thing you ever loved. And honestly, do you know what the sad part is? I'm not sure if I'm disgusted with you or jealous of you. I know that the people on the "normal" side of the spectrum would lean towards disgust, but like I've already been over with you--

I. AM. NOT. NORMAL!

I'm so fucking jealous that you found something you actually loved. You were a terrifying, disgusting, psychopathic bitch, but even you found that one thing. Even someone as sick and twisted as you.

So what does that make me? What the hell is so wrong with me that you, YOU CAN BE HAPPY, but I can't?

I know the world isn't fair. I learned that by living through the 73rd Hunger Games, but holy shit.

You didn't deserve that Scout. That feeling, whatever that feeling feels like, whatever you called it-- you definitely did not deserve it. You're my sister, I grew up with you, I know your quirks and I know your weapon of choice, but was I upset when you didn't come home?

No.

At least not until my parents took what little freedom I had left to create even more perfect killing machines than you—the psychopath. But look what I did! I killed five people! FIVE! And you want to know something? That still wasn't good enough.

You fell from good graces with Mom and Dad the moment your heart stopped Scout. I brought home a crown. I killed five times. I let them live with me, I let them carry the glory I earned, I've done everything they have ever asked and expected of me. But in their eyes you're still better.

I fell from their good graces the moment I told all of Panem that I wanted to be someone new.

You set a standard that I couldn't and cannot keep up with. Which I'm sure has you giggling on your throne in Hell. But I'm the one who's still breathing; that means I get the last laugh.

I don't fucking hate you. In fact, I love you.

Suck on that cold-hearted bitch.

J.F.

[arx!!]

Dear Celia,


You're just as awful as Scout. It's obvious why you two got along so well and that blood-lust is all that your relationship really was. You were both selfish, psycho bitches. You two didn't deserve to enjoy each other's company.

But honestly I'm not here to talk about Scout. I'm not even here to talk about you. Which is why I'm doing it; I know you'd fucking hate the conversation I'm about to force you into.

My sister, Pillar, she has to come home. Because I have to tell her that I'm sorry.

I know you're a pretty heartless bitch. But I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that the person you shared a womb with is someone you at least care a little bit about.

Celia, I swear to Ripred if your twin is the one that kills Pillar, I will be the one kill Hyacinth. So if you've got even a single ounce of spiritual, demon soul left in you, this is a warning. Reach up from your place in Hell and keep her your sister away from mine.

Either that or I make the life of Hyacinth Mortuus worse than a living hell. Up to you.

J.F.

[arx!!]

Dear Percy,


I'm sorry that I really know nothing more than your name. And yes, I'm apologizing for that. Because I swear I see your small, broken body in every single nightmare. And for the life of me, I can't figure out why. I'd like to think it's because I'm a good person, but I know better.

So then why is it I can't get your death out of my head?

You're like a song. But the record is broken. It skips every bit of the beginning and gets stuck on repeat before it can reach the end. I know nothing about where you were born, where you came from, what sort of family you had, if you had friends, what you loved, what you hated, whether you slept on your side, stomach, or back, what side of your head you liked parting your hair, what your favorite season was—nothing.

So why does it feel like I lost something? Why does your death make me feel like my heart was ripped in two? Why does it feel like I've known you my entire life, why does it feel like you were ripped away from ME? Me of all people? I didn't KNOW you!

I thought writing this letter would help me find answers, but all I have so far for you are questions. I thought I was ready to ask myself the hard questions and I thought I was ready to listen to the even harder answers, but--

I think I'm still too afraid to hear the truth about you, Percy. I'll be back.

J.F.

[arx!!]

Dear Heathcliff,


I know you hate me. And I think maybe I deserve that much. But I thought you'd find it pretty funny that I got what was coming to me. (Hope you heard me knock on my metal leg for you. It was a real pretty sound.) Not only that, but Roger cut it off. I know you two got along. At least, I think?

Whatever. That's not the point.

The point is that I can't apologize for killing you. I know that makes me sound like a shitty person, but-- fuck. I'm caught up in the system. Just like every other mindless, Career drone, I'm caught up in the system. And the system says, "Kill or be killed." so guess what I did?

I know you killed Percy. I'm not sure what you told people while you were still alive, but I've never known love or friendship. At least, not until after I had already lost it. So you can understand how I might question you if you said you killed Percy because she killed Renée.

I don't believe in love or friendship. I believe in kill or be killed. I believe in the will to survive at all costs.

Why did you kill Percy?

I wish I could ask you and get a straight answer. The real, true, deep-down, twisted answer. Because if it really was to avenge Renée...

Well, I guess that would mean I'd have to live with murdering one of the only decent people on the face of the planet.

And if that's true then maybe you can find it in you somewhere to forgive me. Because it's that idea that will help me sleep at night. And it's that idea that's going to help me forgive myself.

And once I forgive myself... well, that's when I'll be the guy who kills for something other than some system.

J.F.

[arx!!]

Dear Achilles,


You called me out the moment you met me. You just-- knew. It was as if that mask I had spent years molding and perfecting was completely invisible to you. How? How the fuck did you do that? Was I really that easy to read? Were you just good at reading people?

I've watched that fight, Achilles. That fight on day three? You remember the one, I know you do. I've watched it maybe a thousand times. I wonder if I slipped up somewhere or if perhaps I said something, did something—ANYTHING to indicate that I was nothing but a fake.

But the more I watch the more I'm sure that it wasn't me that slipped up. I don't even think you read through my act or saw anything but the mask I wanted everyone to see. I think you were the one that slipped up. And I think it's because you saw your own reflection when you looked at me. You wore a mask that I still wear today.

I don't know who or what you were hiding from, but I'm sorry. I know I never asked for my life to turn out the way it did. I doubt you really liked the way yours turned out either.

I know I'm an ass. I know I'm annoying, ridiculous, cocky, egotistical, and self-centered. And I know that you hated me and I hated you, but did we really? Or was that just what we were supposed to do, just the way that our parts were supposed to be played?

Isn't that what the Capitol wanted? Isn't that what everyone wanted? For the killing machines to hate despise eachother? Wasn't it a brilliant story? Achilles Muto, the beautiful, deadly assassin versus Justice Fray, the Career boy from a jaded family—and we sold that story to every citizen in Panem. Because that was easier than giving our true selves away to the Capitol.

Safer. I've always played it safe. Being the fuckboy is so much simpler than being a hero. Having someone look up to you, having someone count on you? I'm not strong enough for that. Even now that I'm trying to change, I know that being a cocky, flirtatious asshole will be such an easy role to slip into. But that's just what you said, wasn't it?

In all of the pressure, the safest place becomes alone.

I've never liked being alone, but it's so much easier. So I become something undesirable to the people with the biggest hearts—to the people it would hurt the most to disappoint.

But I guess the point of this letter is to let you know that I'm done being a coward. And though Justice Fray the Career and Achilles Muto the Assassin never got along, I think we can agree that our masks were rubbing our lips and cheekbones raw. I think perhaps the boy and girl beneath the masks could've been friends.

What do you say? I'll show you mine if you show me yours?

J.F.

[arx!!]

Dear Natalie,


The day Pillar got reaped, I saw you. In every nightmare, I see you. In the long, thin scar along my bicep, I see you. In the blade of every knife, in every drop of blood, in every post-traumatic episode—without fail, it is always you.

It shouldn't be. I'm pretty sure you're supposed to have nightmares about people you know. Pretty sure normal people see their parents killed or siblings tortured. Pretty sure I'm supposed to be seeing Kellan, Scout, and Pillar getting their eyes torn from their sockets. Or maybe even feel the sharp sting of pain as Machaon and Atlas stab me in the back with robotic precision and dead eyes.

Instead, I've got you. Face expressionless, eyes unblinking. Sometimes you're holding a bloody knife, sometimes you're dressed all in white, sometimes you're whispering, "...get past me first." over and over and over. But there is never anything over your shoulder. Just blank space. I ask you questions; you never answer them.

And then blood drips down the middle of your forehead, into your eyes. You don't scream, you don't flinch, you don't even blink—you don't even bother wiping the blood away from your lips. You just stand there, silently, with your head held high. Like a queen with a crimson crown, you look through me.

And in an instant an overturned crown of silver appears in your hands. Blood oozes from your palms, drips down the tines of the crown, disappears between your toes as you move toward me. There is never a way to escape you. But you never reach me either. I always wake before you can place the crown on my head.

I think you should've won. I think you were supposed to win. That day... you killed me. I'm sure I was dead for over half the day. The blood loss, the dehydration, the exhaustion, your blade—I know it all caught up to me that day. You were right there. You looked at me, you stood your ground. I was struggling just to stand while you grinned from ear to ear. But--

Did you know skulls crack just like eggs do? They make a loud, sudden crack! And then everything that's inside spills out.

Looking into your eyes the instant after your skull cracked was the most terrifying thing I've ever seen in my life. For just a moment you were suspended, blood dripping down your face and turning your golden hair red. I watched the light leave your eyes and your soul leave your body. I watched your muscles shut down and your body collapse to the ground and--

I know. I know. I know.

You're supposed to be here writing letters. I'm supposed to be suffocating beneath the dirt, not beneath a pile of bones and a bloody crown.

J.F.

[arx!!]

Dear Renée,


I thought about sleeping with you that first night on the train. Thinking back on it now, I can see-- well, I guess I can see I've changed, if only minutely. I suppose that's why I have to thank you. And why I have to apologize.

The memory of you shows me how much I've changed. Nearly an entire year and I'm not the same guy you met that first day on the train. Opal? I'd never say a word against her or anyone she loved. You? The idea of sleeping with a girl like you, under the circumstances that I met you—it feels completely out of character for me. So far removed from who I am now, what I've become...

I'm still a total fucking mess, but the thought of you reminds me that I am different. But it also reminds me that I wasn't a very good district partner, much in the way I'm not a very good victor or a very good mentor.

It's called betrayal, isn't it? The way I wrote you off like you were just another tribute? Just another person I had to turn into a body so that I could get home?

For that I am sorry.

We came from the same place. We were cut from the same stone. We were molded and built by the same trainers. We looked up to the same victors. I have no doubt that we held the same dreams and aspirations at more than one point in our lives.

We were the same. Then I decided to change. It feels like betrayal.

But for that? For deciding I wanted to be something different? For changing?

I won't apologize for that.

J.F.

[arx!!]

Dear Minos,


I know you might have had some sort of hope that your kiss would be good enough to make me switch teams, but, uh, I'm still as straight as ruler!

Sorry. Maybe it's stupid to start this letter out with a joke. It's a defense mechanism that I just can't seem to shake, no matter how hard I try.

But you don't really care about that. I mean... fuck, I killed you. It was nothing like killing Heathcliff. Killing Heathcliff was simple—easy to justify and explain to myself. I had to do it. They were a Career, I was a Career. Rivalry. And even after I had killed Heathcliff it was like-- I had been in the process of running away anyway. I didn't see it then. I didn't see the light leave their eyes.

But I saw it in yours. I couldn't run from what I had done like I had before. I had to stay and fight and... well, I've already written a letter to Natalie. I should've died that day; everyone knows it.

But I'm not here to talk to you about that fight or that day. I've got other questions I need to ask you.

You see, I don't remember you as the boy I kissed in a silly game of spin-the-bottle or even as the lower-district kid I killed. You're not some statistic to me. You're an unknown variable. I've got a million questions to ask you that I wish I would've asked while your heart was still beating. Because holy fuck would I love an answer.

I've never been a strong man. And no I don't mean physically, but mentally. Emotionally. My parents tried to snuff it out and I tried hard to hide it and yes, I still hide that weakness behind sarcasm, insults, and cruel jokes, but I know people can see it. I care too much. But I've never been strong enough to let anyone see.

But you... How did you do that? Every feeling you had for Daniel you just—you laid everything out for everyone to see, even after he rebuffed all of your affection. Even after he told you 'no' you held your head high and fought for him anyway. Someone you had only just met and you'd decided he was worth all that emotional vulnerability.

How? How can I do that? Ripred how I'd love to be able to do that...

I'll never tell Opal, but I've rewatched her games a thousand times. Not for the kills, not to see her strategy, not to admire her fighting skills, not to relive the glory with her. I watched so many times to try and understand unrequited love. How is anyone strong enough to love without being loved back?

How did she do that? How did you do that?

Will I ever be strong enough to do that? To be like you?

I hope so. I think I'll give it try. Just try not to laugh to hard when I fail, alright? My weak heart can only take so much humility.

J.F.

[arx!!]

Dear Weaver, Bailey,
Daniel, and Lucrezia:


Our families have had a tough go of things. Some of us more than others I suppose. Look at me, acting as if I can talk when I'm the one with a crown. What is it now? Lucrezia, you were the third of your family? And Weaver, you're the third, too, yeah? Bailey you had a sister before you? And Daniel, a brother? I had a sister. And now I have another sister.

Maybe Scout was onto something when she cursed the Capitol and their agendas. It does seem--

I guess I'll just stick to using the word unfair. I'm not bold enough to throw out the words that Scout did. Maybe she would've made a better victor for all of us. A bit braver, willing to say the things no one else is saying but everyone is thinking.

It's not shit luck. It's not by chance. The Capitol wants it this way. The same names, drawn from the same bowls, over and over and over again until the ones that are left are too broken to care whether or not they live another day. Or until there are no more Summits, Krigels, or Keenis left to reap. And by then there will be new names, new tributes, new families to torture and toy with.

It's an endless cycle. One I'll have to watch over and over again. Because I can't stop this. I can't fight to keep your families safe. Not when I can't even protect my own.

J.F.

[arx!!]

I wish you could see your
history is chaining you.

My hand trembles, the tip of my pen following right along so that the name I was trying to write ends up an illegible mess. I tear the page free, starting over on the next. But I come up with the same result. I blink as the cold, night air whistles through the gardens. I sigh in frustration, closing her journal and clenching my jaw as tears threaten sting the backs of my eyelids. I curse aloud, but it is lost on the wind.

I don't know how long I sit there at the foot of her statue. It feels like months, years even. Like I've lived a thousand lives, known a thousand stories, and still—somehow—I've ended up here. I stare into the stars, admiring the tiny points of light as I outstretch my arm, connecting them with the tip of my finger. I stop when I think about running my finger over her cheeks, connecting the freckles like constellations in the sky.

One deep breath and I know I don't have the strength to write this all down for her. I exhale—"Fuck."—and pull myself to my feet.

"Dear Scout," I begin at a whisper, looking at her carefully sculpted feet. "Do you miss the sand between your toes?"

I close my eyes and lay my head in my hand. What the fuck am I doing here? I rub my face, scratching at the stubble forming on my chin. I rake my fingers through my hair. They don't catch, no snags to get caught on, but I run them through again so that when I open my eyes I'm looking into her marble eyes.

I smile; it turns into a nostalgic chuckle. I run my fingertips over her ear as if it were possible to tuck her hair behind it. But as I look back to her eyes the smile falls from my face. The stone is too cold, befitting of someone with a cold, dark heart. Not someone who bedazzles beards, braids hair, and dreams of riding unicorns into the sunset. The Capitol made a mistake in immortalizing her here. Someone made of stardust can't be cut from something as cold, dead, and simple as stone.

"They got your ears wrong," I say, poking at her cheeks next. "Forgot your freckles, too."

I throw my arms out, spinning around to take in as much of the garden as I can, as if she's seeing it all through my eyes. "And doesn't it feel like a crime that they don't bedazzle these things?" I chuckle as I speak, feigning exasperation. My eyes catch on Machaon's statue; my arms fall with my grin. I grumble in frustration as I turn on my heel to face her. I set myself down at the base of her statue, ruffling the pages of her skethbook with my thumb.

"I didn't look at the drawings," I say, shaking my head. "Promise."

I lay my head back against cold stone. A shiver shoots down my spine, but I don't move. The cold is a comfort. "It's pretty chilly tonight, but, uh, after our arena I don't think I'll ever complain about the cold again."

I sigh and a cloud of breath appears. I blow a few breaths, remembering the days when I was still young enough to adore the idea of building snowmen. My parents told me I should worry about more important things and forbid me from playing in the snow, so I tried to make one on the way home from school once. The snow was perfect, the air was crisp, and the mucus in my nose froze when I breathed, but I so badly wanted to build that damn snowman. He ended up being headless because I wasn't tall enough to put his head on. I ended up naming the snowgirl Naveen and leaving her head on the ground. I burst in the door claiming to be Wednesdae Drummond.

I bet Scout used to build sandcastles just to knock them down. I smile at the thought only to remember that she isn't here. She's dead. I killed her. And all the stories I make up in my head about her? All the things I figure she did? Nothing. Just my imagination getting away from me. Just the idea of a girl. Not the real girl. But it could've been. And if I hadn't watched her bleed to death then maybe she'd be talking to my statue about the sand between her toes and the pictures she drew of a unicorn knight and the sandcastles she built.

"You could've been someone."

I press the cover to my forehead. It's worn, soft; I've no doubt she had this with her always. I really shouldn't be holding it. Or writing in it. But here I am, being selfish as per the usual.

"You could've been so much more than a martyr," I murmur. "You could've been a leader."

I blink at the stars with the smallest of grins rushing over me.

"You had ideas and opinions and you didn't take shit from anyone, not even these pretentious Capitolites who hold knives to our throats and guns to our backs."

I lick my lips and laugh as I think about who I am in comparison to someone so perfectly imperfect.

"Instead Panem got me," I say. "The asshole, the Career, the fucking boy the Capitol would've handpicked as a Victor because I do as I'm told and I smile for the cameras and I'd never dare to step out of line because--"

I swallow the lump in my throat, swipe angrily at the tear rolling slowly down my cheek.

"I'm too selfish to give up everything I love, Scout," I pick up the pen lying on the ground and struggle to my feet. "There's too much in life that I care about to risk it all."

I stand and look at her statue one last time. I chuckle and more tears fall. Some make it to my lips and the salt stings as it seeps into the cracks in my skin, but there's a beauty to that isn't there? There's such a beauty in the things we call, "flaws." The salt stinging my chapped lips, the funny twist in Scout's ears, the headless snowgirl, the remains of a fallen sandcastle kingdom, the smallest limp in Opal's step, the way Petelia snorts when she laughs, the way Poppy glows when she drinks, the spacey, toothy grin that Ky is growing into—it's in the imperfections that the most beautiful things appear.

I can't give all that up. I love it all too much.

"I can't give it all up, Scout," I say, just before I turn away. "But I think I'm a better man for it."

And it's as the sun begins to rise that I realize it. That I've become everything I've ever wanted to be.

I am a good man.

JUSTICE FRAY