round and round [mylee]

[kousei ♚]

c r e s t

Shattered for three years and counting - I'm already beginning to question how far along into the process of repair I truly am. Tempting, questioning, clicking; I can't quite place a hand onto the correct motion. They tried put me back together, false eye, shattered feelings - I pieced together the final puzzle piece to acceptance but no amount of victor's blood money in the world can finish the job. Acceptance didn't come with a glass eye, it came with salted rivers that ran dry down red cheeks and constant reassurances and figments of false hope.

('Chin up, it will be okay . I promise.')

Fanatic fumbling, fists trembling, I place a hand to my chest and there's a strike right through the heart. Shattered for three years and counting; why does repair take so long?

The final year of my name in death's annual raffle has passed and yet I still see her face in the reflection of every axe and I still feel blinding pain through an empty eye socket at the tip of every knife. Every reaping bowl drawn, I gasp at any syllable that begins with the letter 'O' and there's sharp inhale at the colour red. I can still feel her memory at the tips of my fingers (here lies Hannah O'Leary) but I cannot remember a three year old obituary barely coherent that cannot possibly hold in relevance three years into the slow repair process.

Repair process; Hannah O'Leary's name hasn't left my lips for over a year now. Why don't I feel anymore whole than I did that day? Stupid, erratic, emotional; I still can't justify what drove the tip of a knife through tear filled eyes but I'm supposed to be able to state what's kept the memory of a sister dead all these years.

Chin up - with repair should come celebration. Six years of Crest O'Leary sitting within a pile of doomed souls and the scent of a victor's life's blood didn't attract the pack. The name O'Leary has only been called out on that stage once ever since Colgate came home; fragile glory and all. Killer of one, two, three, four, five villains who would tear our family apart; he's fallen from the podium of a hero in my eyes.

But six years avoiding the reaper's scythe along with three years of steady repair has to warrant some kind of merit. I think. Hannah O'Leary may have broken under the weight of Cody's axe but that doesn't mean the rest of us have to. How can the stroke of a dead boy's axe possibly hold hope of breaking the living without the hope of repair? It shouldn't.

When the citizens of District Nine clear from the grey town square, I am suppressing tears of joy and a cry of relief. Six years a survivor; death's scythe won't get me anytime soon. I'm free to restrain myself from chasing phantoms of the past. I stick my hands in my pockets and clear off with them, turning a shoulder to my final moments free from the reaper's clutches for the final time; so why can't I even bring myself to smile?

Minutes meld into hours and afternoon quickly passes but I don't step foot into the victor's village.

I pick up my pace when I pass the cemetery dedicated to fallen tributes, averting my eyes to the moving ground under me, and slow down at the close. The tail end of three years of repair ends with escaping the reaper's stern clutches - it's a personal victory in my eyes, even if it is worth nothing in the long run. It's practically microscopic, but I'm holding personal pride and relief to my chest all the same.

Standing at mental and physical crossroads, the decision it made to find the nearest bar rarely visited.

It's furthest from my favorite, drink has never been my go-to source but I decide that I definitely need it. Not to get away from the phantom stroke of a dead boy from eight's hatchet, nor to escape the phantom itch that comes with possessing a glass eye or insignificant years of name calling by school boys. I just -

Months of being told what to do (don't drink, don't cry, don't get angry),

being told why to do it (we're just trying to help you, you'll upset yourself even more, so you can heal),

- I just need to step into that bar because I'm tired of doing what's best for me. Even if it's just for this night.

Practically empty, rundown, perfect. Everything's rundown in comparison to the O'Leary household in the victor's village: more food than we need, more space than we imagined, but this place is still perfect. I stride to the bar in confidence and I can finally bring myself to smile - whether's it's the thought of going against three years of slow repair or the pretty barmaid I do not know.

"Shot of the strongest drink you got, actually scratch that, make that two shots."

Perfect.