Immortal Pain {Terra/Charlie}

[kap]

Terra Greenslade

These wounds won't seem to heal, this pain is just too real
There's just too much that time cannot erase

Many people have lost a loved one to death. I guess you could say I did, too, in a way. Although, he wasn't the one who died. My father killed a man, and that's why he's not here anymore. Instead, living in the Capitol as an avox slave for the rest of his life is what's become of him. He told us that he killed the man to protect my mother, but none of us believe him. I try to forget his face, but it shows up in my nightmares all too frequently. I imagine him coming back and killing again, and I wish I could just push that thought away. He'll never been erased from my mind, though. I'll always be damaged, and I don't think I'll ever heal, no matter what I do. I've been tempted to resort to drugs or alcohol multiple times, but haven't done so, for the fear of giving my mother another person to be disappointed in.

I don't want to be a disappointment, but at the same time, I just want the pain to go away, and I'm not sure what will do that, if anything will ever be able to at all. Every morning, it's the same thing. I awake from a nightmare of my father's cruel actions that he so vividly described to my mother and I, only to spend the rest of my day thinking about it, unable to shake the vision of it all. There's no way for me to stop thinking about it on a daily basis. At least, there's nothing that I've found. It seems to me like I've tried everything at this point. Though, I know that can't be true. There has to be someone out there that can help me.

Escaping my house was one of the only ways to at least decrease the amount that I thought about my cruel fatherly figure, even if it never truly vanished. I'd slipped into a black pair of sneakers late that night, and headed out the door, the cool summer night's air flowing as a breeze through my hair. Hands in my pockets and head down to hide my tears from any onlookers who may see my face as I pass under a streetlamp, I went in the direction of a small park near the center of the District. When I arrived at my destination, I sat on a bench that was under a darkened street lamp, it's bulb not on for some unknown reason. I then allowed myself to break down into tears as I did every night, just wanting to be alone. It was ten o'clock at night, and I just wanted to be alone.

As I sat there, however, I heard footsteps of another person coming down the street in my direction. I lifted my head up out of my hands, and the streetlight above me flickered on.

Crap. Now they'll see me. I quickly buried my face into my hands again, hoping that the person would just keep walking, as I knew there was nothing they could possibly do to help me.

[Cameo {RIP Charlie}]

Charlie Smith

A luscious gulp of vodka slithers down my throat. Music pulses the club environment, and it seems half the time I’m welcomed to this place by negative reasons. It’s bafflingly disturbing the perspectives some force themselves to mold into. Take for instance the second eldest Smith child, who condones our Father’s actions - and viciously despises me for ratting him out to the Keepers. Even his Mother was one of our Father’s victims, simply for an unacceptable failed experiment that he attempted. But my Brother still nearly worships the Man who’s engulfed by the Detention Center; and he’s determined to make me suffer for putting our Father there.

“Singing tonight, Charlie?” A regular, who I’m unable to place a name on, delivers a question I’ve heard countless of times this evening.

Another shot of intoxicating liquor ventures across my tongue, before I shake my head from side to side in an answer. “Nope. Not feeling it.” An explanation even combs past my teeth.

“Oh, come on. Since when do you not perform every time you’re here?” He attempts at convincing me, just as the other four who requested a song did. Irises roll across my eyes in annoyance, as I breach my the barstool. A grin envelopes the Man’s face, prideful as if he’s actually tempted me into a show - until he realize the direction my feet are taking me. “Where the hell are you going?” Another damn question. Silence and a middle finger waves my goodbye to him.

Immediately a flame sparks from a match the moment I’m outside the facility, and lights the tip of my cigarette. A deep inhale of the violent substance inflates my lungs, instantly relieving me from the stress of my thoughts. Maybe I’ll never be able to relax at a drinking establishment, without pleads to sing following me there. Perhaps I never should have saved my Siblings from the awful man that corrupted our childhoods. But within another puff of the burning chemicals, those debating worries flutter from my thoughts. A foreign path leads my steps towards anywhere but the place I’m supposed to call home.

A flask slides from my boot for frequent sips in-between the injection of smoke - anything to keep my lips, and my mind, busy. Flourishing trees surround my travel, allowing in a breath of rest that I did not know was available. My thoughts remain blank, dancing within the peace of nothingness, until a soft sob alerts me of someone nearby. Eyebrows crease in confusion upon my forehead, as I instinctively journey towards the cause of the noise.

The brunette locks, and tiny disposition, frightens me - immediately alarming me to believe that it’s Bernadette crying within isolation at a park. But as my feet venture closer to the sorrow, I’m relieved with the knowledge that it’s not my Sister. Satisfaction doesn’t comfort me for long however, as I realize I still stumbled upon a mentally wounded kid. Sympathy arches my lips downward, while I provide permission to myself to join her upon the bench.

“Looks like you could use a drink.” I note, with an offer of my flask. “What’s got ya down on such a beautiful night?” Now it’s I exchanging the annoying question. Though still, it seems like she could use someone to talk to. Unconditional understanding draws my stare, along with an assurance that I won’t be taking silence as an answer - I’ve always been a damn hypocrite.

PaT Word Count: 580