chrome; newt series

[kousei ♚]

n e w t

Defined by the blurring of vision and the lapse in concentration, my attempt at redemption amounts to a knife skimming shallow against the target's synthetic skin and the tip of the blade embedded into the wall, hilt protruding and hanging loose. My father shakes his head and laughs, arms folded as if to hide the disappointment welling within the chambers of his hollow chest. The laughter that falls bitter from his throat is ended with a scoff and a "this fucking mess." His voice from the back of the backyard is the clicking of a revolver -- the threat of disappointment a loaded gun at his side.

Age twelve and I am in the process of learning that human worth is defined by how shallow a knife skims the painted bulls eye along the dummy's chest. I was never good at following directions, chasing fading pencil lines dotted across a yellow map but X always marks the spot and I could never find the right destination at the end point. "You can do better than this fucking mess, Newt." My father's voice across the training center would still pierce the back of my skull like a bullet coated in venom. "Nevah can do it, why can't you?"

Because I'm too weak to be best loser but too cowardly to be the best.

"I'm sorry, Father. I'm trying just please don't be angry, please."

Defined as shallow and labelled as worthless -- I have more in common with the knife that only knows how to skim shallow than I originally thought. Age seventeen and my worth is still marked by the shards of glass in my eye and the creaking within my cracked. "I'm not angry Newt, I'm just disappointed."

Don't shoot.

My father never needed laminated pages to tell him how to do his job as a parent, only his intuition and his instinct. His words reverberate against the hollow walls in my head, always reminding me that I'm just Newt, always constant, always broken. I'm suppressing screams, holding back cries and wails of pain that can only be defined as the virtue of being the best loser.

"I'm sorry I lost my eye."

Because having a worth that is set in something less than stone and defined by a surname correlated by seven recycled letters comes with a promise that I would make something of myself. The eyes of the world burned holes into the back of my trembling flesh and the whispers told tales of a belief in myself and a golden crown resting on my curls someday. I never wanted to climb the Summit only to fall from a height only few could even dream of reaching, I'm just Newt and I'm just useless. And this lack of belief in spineless self is only amplified by the maiming performed by Neptune's rage and Poseidon's howl.

"Can you do anything right, Newt?" He asks me and I pause, letting the question hang in the air and the silence wrap its tendrils around my throat.

A simple question fills the blank slate, his words tattoo the air between us and every damned syllable reminds me of what I am when you scratch below the surface of the eye patch and broken ribs -- (useless, petty, weak). I'm just Newt, forever constant, never mended. His question leaves the blank slate filled with honesty but leaves the white pages I never wanted to dare look over with wide eyes filled with nothing but despair. Sped up by adrenaline, slowed by realization, my heart thuds empty against the my rib cage like a drum to signal the beginning of my spiral from sanity and stability.

I am broken pencil led against paper. My father always knew how to whittle away at the fragile walls I built around my heart to keep me at arm's length from the concept of breakdown; whenever my knife flies wide of the bulls eye I do not wish for the reiteration of the failure's that transpire by my father's 'can you do anything right, Newt?' I just want to wait in silence so despair can flourish beneath the tide.

"You're weak-

("Newt, you're strong. Remember that.")

"And you're useless-"

("Newt, you're strong. Remember that.")

"So why the fuck do we even bother with you?"

("Newt, you're strong. Remember that.")

But I am broken pencil lead the stains the paper -- I couldn't even save myself. And yet, I keep myself numb to the truth behind his words, definitions that attach themselves to the name Newt can spell more than antonyms for power.

"Because I'm your son and you're supposed to love me unconditionally. Just because you were too much of a fucking pussy to volunteer for the games yourself you're taking out your frustrations on me. Just because you got Mom pregnant with us and had to play happy-"

His hand falls heavy against my porcelain skin and the silence that follows the clap becomes deafening. His rage cuts short my notation for the truth and I'm left clutching my red cheek, holding back tears that threaten to spill with each dull throb that only intensifies in the passing moments I fear to count. "Get out, get out of my house until you learn some respect."

Self preservation amplified by fear overrides human reasoning as I turn my back to him and sprint before I can be set aflame by the consequences of courage.

I do not wish to burn before I drown.

[kousei ♚]

n e w t

I never knew Mason Krearns.

Yet my automated movement feels so natural, the purple violet finds its way on his gravestone and in the passing moment I wish could be lost to the indistinguishable wind I am already counting the years gone by amplified by losses since tragedy first found our hollow family name. Ever since the Sixty Second Hunger Games it is said that every Krearns would feel a shiver pass through their spine, whether it was spoken by a passerby or a Capitolite.

Long before the coming of age, my nerves and synapses were numb so all I could do was watch the fire consume the edges of my younger father's mind when Peridot Myler's glaive split his skull and left his brains bare for all of Panem to see. My father's voice from the sofa was bare audible over the running commentary but loud enough to strike a chord in my conscious naivety.

("Disgraceful, no one will ever take our District or our family seriously again."

"But dad, didn't he tr-"

"Go to bed.")

I never knew Mason Krearns, I don't even know if purple was his color, I don't even know if he even liked flowers. I only knew the whispers in the dark and the gossip from across the sea; I only knew that he had brothers with luck as shit as his and the rusted gears that grinded and drove the mechanics working his mind were faulty. I never knew Mason Krearns for anything other than a glaive in his skull and the promise my father made that none of his children would flay our family name and drag it through the salt and sand.

("Newt Krearns, do you want to die?"

"No, death scares me.")

Eight years old and my father directed me to the glaive in my kinsman's face replaying in slow motion in the television screen. Eight years old and he already determined the nature of my downfall -- I would not be a footnote in a better man's victory like Mason Krearns.

("So why do you feel such pity for the ones who are long dead?"

"I don't know, wasn't he family?"

"Just because he is family, it doesn't mean you must follow in his footsteps."

"Okay."

"Don't be a loser, son.")

Mason never asked to carry a seven letter name that could only be spelt with cursive on his back, and in the flurry of bloodshed and the focal point leading up to his focal moments I do not know whether he feared watching his own life shatter or our precious family name shatter when the inevitable game to pass. I never knew him, I never spoke to him; I only saw his actions play in slow motion across the television screen as his death came instantaneously with the stroke of a glaive.

My hand runs smooth across the rough headstone, every bump digging lightly into my skin and my childhood conversation with my father in the wake of the owner's death more prominent than any non-existent memories I held of him. I know nothing of him besides the gossip told on the shore of the beach and the whispers of a common man who was not still caught within the confines of childhood naivety. I never knew Mason Krearns but there was always an image I built within myself -- pieces of my imagination my father would rather kept repressed were the building blocks of my fantasies for a dead name.

In my mind he liked things not too unlike me; he would've enjoyed the purple violets I placed at his grave and he would've ruffled my hair and told me to stop crying all the time because big boys don't wear their vulnerabilities on their sleeves. That when I made it to the tsunami relief center, writhing and sobbing in agony, he wouldn't have taken a look at my eye patch and called me 'Captain' in jest but would've asked me if I was okay and needed anything.

When my knife flew wide of the bulls eye he would've found other words to describe me that weren't synonymous with worthless.

But these disgusting chapters of my life do not contain pretty pictures and notations for glory and compassion. They are summarized with descriptions for Newt -- (useless, disappointment, worthless, petty, weak) while the average man looks at me, looks at my house and my family and tells me I have it all and that I should stop being a spoiled brat and strive so when my family speak of Newt it is always with pride on the tip of their tongues.

I never knew Mason Krearns, and I could never summarize what he could've been from his brief minutes in the limelight when I was still naive.

"I- I really hope you like them, they're one of my favorites."

I stand in silence, the crimson noose of truth wrapping tight around my throat and everything hazing and blurring with the fading sunlight that only knows how to lose its color. I only hold witness to half the world now and the shores of this district only turn grey and spill shades of monochrome -- that's all they've for seven years and counting. Within this crevice I am too weak to escape that's all I've known.

Heartbeat accelerating to unthinkable velocities, I only wish for the noose to tighten so it can finally come to a stop.

("I won't disappoint you dad."

"You promise?"

"I promise, I won't be a loser; I promise I won't be like the rest of them.")

When I finally fill my pockets with stones and lie within Poseidon's kingdom I wonder if Mason Krearns would've thought to pull me from this dying reality so I could live my fantasies.

[kousei ♚]

n e w t

I'll fall upon the bed of this sea kingdom, into the arms of kin whose faces I can't attach to anything but a steel on their skin and funerals I do not remember attending. Funerals I never attended because my father claimed he was too busy and my mother didn't want to go; we were banned from mourning and the only grief shared were tears staining my pillow like the dried life's blood painting pictures along Jay Krearn's sword. It was silly, shedding tears for someone who I never so much as spoke to simply because we shared the curse of a last name.

He ran himself along his sword but I swear it wasn't suicide; I labelled it almost as a mystery I did not dare mutter out loud at the risk of my self-worth falling beneath a hail of venomous gunfire under the guise of degrading words and comments. How does one fall on their own sword without a single suicidal thought playing within their mind?

I saw his eyes and I heard his words -- I told myself it was the end result of hatred, I told myself I wouldn't hate another.

Cautious steps carry me to the gravestone that is marked by his name and his games, I do not fear the dead like I fear the venomous sting of my sister or the vile truths uttered by my father. However, Jay Krearns was driven by hatred in his final moments and it led to him killing himself without so much as a single suicidal thought playing in his mind. I was never the superstitious one, but when I lay the blue violet in front of his gravestone I make sure the back of my hand does not catch itself along his gravestone in fear that his hatred will set me aflame.

Death by your own hand but lacking the suicidal intent, I would almost call it the perfect death had it not been for the hatred in his heart, the killing intent spewed from his tongue.

In truth, the only hatred I feel towards another is to myself. Towards these scars and this maimed face that can only see half the world in monochrome, towards these ribs that sport cracks and breaks as a result of my stupidity, towards these trembling hands and nimble fingers that have no desire to put a knife in anything but myself. I wonder if he would've hated me too, if he would've seen the drink and the drugs and the smoke paired with the eye patch and only saw me as another synonym for weak.

I leave the purple violets there all the same, running a hand through my hair and stifling sobs; I just want to breathe before I drown.

"So why the fuck do we even bother with you?"

weakuselesspetty

I've been giving pieces of myself in the name of retaining broken labels and presumed definitions. The packet of cancer sticks hidden within my pocket and the taste of smoke and liquor in my lungs is evidence enough of that. As a consequence I only see the world in a blur of monochrome, I hide within the shadows and hold a hidden desire to watch my insides burn as a drown.

Split me open so I my essence is laid bare, I've always given pieces of myself to bury the truth. Split me open and there lies years of smoke rusting my lungs and liquor breaking my gears -- I am a disappointment through and through because my father wanted me to offer a golden crown bathed in glory and a chance to relive his alternate paths and realities through what he could've been. Instead, the only thing I offer are dried tears in pillows and knives that can never seem to strike true.

Hatred towards myself can only be manifested with stones tethering me to a world beneath riptides and the desire to mimic Jay Krearns in his final moments, subtract of course the killing intent in his eyes and the bitterness of the situation at hand.

I suppose that's what would make us similar, we would both die in the dark.

"I never knew you." I say simply because it's true -- I never knew him as anything other than the pixels on my television screen and the hatred to his ally that left him alight in his final moments. Whenever I saw him on the television screen, the dying pulse beneath my pale wrists would accelerate to unthinkable velocities and I would lean closer to the screen in anticipation, unsure of whether I should be fearful or excited at the prospect of witnessing a career in action.

Twenty four hours passed and I decided that I was fearful and within that decision a variety of factors were the build up to that decision. I witnessed him burn in the shadow of his hatred towards his ally (death by his own hand without a single suicidal thought in mind) and my father's hollow contempt at the situation showed me consequences of being disappointing.

(weakworthlessuseless)

"Would you have liked to see the sunset one last time?" I ask simply, hands hung numb at my sides and the corner of my lip pulled into a weak smile. It's a question that'll never remain answered but, in my fantasy world, Jay Krearns was something underneath the bitter hatred he wore on his sleeve.

In my fantasy world, I can be described with words that aren't synonymous with useless, worthless, weak.

Suicide without the tendencies, death without the intent -- stones in my pockets and a death beneath raging riptides have got to be better than listening to one more dictionary definition of the word worthless. It's got to be better than being given knife wounds along my back by a friend, better than being fed venom in my lungs by my family.

"I'll see the sunset one last time for you, call it a family favor."

There are many labels attached to the name Newt Kreans, disappointment always seems to be one of them.

[kousei ♚]

n e w t

I've never had a hateful bone in my body.

Not when my father scattered my dreams like torn pages from his metaphorical guide to being a man. Not even when my sister crushed the remains of my shattered ribs and blinded the one eye I had remaining with the laughter that boomed from across the tsunami relief center when he finally found me. I've never felt the blood rush when my fists clench at my sides and loathing becomes my new reality. Instead I took to taking note of every syllable in the words idiot and useless, etching them in the crevasses of my mind like tattoos on my skin or carving my signature on a tree.

I have never loathed but the wave of relief and gladness that ran through my heart when a cannon sounded in Someith Krearns' honor would call me a walking contradiction. Perhaps the flowers I plan to place on the front of his tombstone is my sorry attempt at making amends.

(because when was anything I did anything other than a sorry attempt?)

As he progressed his way from losing his hand and dignity in the bloodbath to putting his polehammer through his sleeping ally's eye, it wasn't the nonexistent disgust at his actions that caused the reality of not a single hateful bone in my body to fade. it was the remarks of my father who had enough of a son who felt such connection to the weak.

("Fucking hell, that's what a true Krearns acts like, too bad he isn't my son."

"Half the number of hands but twice as much skill as you'll ever have.")

It was just too bad that I was his son. And as he put his dagger through Dustyn Chase's heart and my father failed to see the boundary between degradation of who was close and praise for who was miles away I felt the memory for syllables that correlated to sound out idiot and useless begin to fade and begin to be replaced with a list of reasons Someith would not come home. Reasons why my father could never see the madman he valued over the feelings of his own son despite the fact they never so much as met. I wanted Someith Krearns to become another static, another lesson for all the younger and newer careers to learn.

Despite my father's insistence that I take note of his form, his technique and his ruthless attitude, I could never find an idol in such a man. And while I never clenched my fists at my sides and looked at the television screen with hatred or contempt, I could only hold back the disgust and swallow the insults and hollow jabs my father would throw at me, whether or not he was aware of my presence.

("He's actually doing something for the name Krearns, his parents must be so proud, Newt could never pull that off even if he was against twenty three pissy kids, maybe Nevah could but never Newt.")

Once upon a time, Someith indirectly made me cry without even knowing it; now I stand over the tombstone erected in his honor, twirling flowers between my fingers as a sort of peace offering. I never knew him, I'll never know what turns the gears in the mind of a madman or what makes the mechanics of murderous sociopath tick but something tells me he would've hated these flowers on his grave.

(but this is for my own peace of mind)

Nobody ever cared what I want.

My good eye twitches and I instinctively move my free hand to the eye patch, my palm is rested over the itching and pain I once felt. But it's phantom pain, there is no need to nurse it. I sigh, leaning down and placing the tulip on the grave. There are no words of hate, no words of explanation -- just solitude and phantom pain begging to be nursed.

A shiver runs down my spine when I look to the side, squinting at the sight of orange slowly fading to black on the horizon. "I never hated you, and I never will." My voice is porcelain and riddled with cracks and imperfections; this claw gripped around my heart crushed the hope it once nested months ago but there is a silent wish on every omen and superstition imaginable that they can hear me, that they know what I'm doing, that they'll understand the significance of this sunset.

One last time, for all of us.

I turn my back to the grave and let my feet carry me, eyes shut, movement automatic and drawn to the sound of ocean. I once hoped I would be comfortable in my own skin, that I could laugh with Nevah and wake up to my mother's long hair tickling my chin and sleep with my father's nod of approval in the forefront of my mind.

(Newt, you are strong, remember that)

The beauty of family, the value of my pulse; there's nothing left when these two concepts are left to wilt in fantasies crushed by the claws of reality.