wesley blume. / district 12 [1st games] fin

[sidney]

w.j. blume / eighteen son of a rebel ——————— Compassion, sometimes, can be self-destructive. I carried it to the point of self-destruction, and I learned— it was a sin too.

[sidney]

wesley james blume

all their words for glory they always sounded empty way down here upon the ground when we're lying in the dirt d "Who are you?" A BROTHER Twins? You look nothing alike. But Hana has my blood running through her veins, our mother’s same button nose, and a love for adventure. Anything she feels, I feel. Anything she does, I do. Into the depths of hell, I would follow her. Not that she would need any saving, not in the least, but she chases chaos like a dog chases a bone. And I will do anything to keep her safe. It’s her who tells me of my father’s plan, an attack of sorts—overheard when she should have been fast asleep instead of eavesdropping well past midnight—to collapse the mine during the next Keeper inspection. The entrance will cave in and they’ll be trapped. Starved, just like us. She says it with fervor, a glint of something in her eyes I’ve never quite seen before. They deserve it. To die? I ask, brow furrowed with uncertainty. Three times this week alone we’ve gone hungry. No breakfast, lunch, or dinner to speak of. And no money to spend either. Cutbacks, our father had said on the fourth day. The best day that week because I’d managed to knick a loaf of bread on a passing cart while walking home. We shared it, the four of us. Mom, Dad, and Hana. A small piece each to last at least three more days. They deserve it. She whispers it again, grabbing my arm tightly, as if my attention isn’t already focused on the gravity of what she’s saying. Like I don’t already know she’s right. Like I don’t remember the countless nights of going to bed hungry, the gnawing pit in my stomach echoing throughout our tiny little hut called home. Like I don’t see our father working himself closer to death each day, breaking his back only to have nothing to show for it. They deserve it, I repeat it back. A mantra taken as my own and turned into the same fire that’s always burned within my sister. The same one that apparently had always roared within my father, though it’s not so much of a secret now. He's a rebel. A fighter—for what is right, for what is just. So is my sister. Fierce and loyal, ready to wage this war.  And so am I. A SON My father is my hero. Brave and strong, willing to do whatever it takes to protect his family; willing to carve out a world in which his family will thrive; willing to rise up and tell those who would work us to death, oppress and silence us, that enough is enough. My father is my hero. I repeat it over and over in my head as the Keepers storm through the front door of the only home I’ve ever known. My mother cowers in the corner, clutching a hand over Hana's mouth tightly so she cannot be the brave little (only by a minute, she always reminds me) sister I know her to be. So she cannot take the blame. So she stays safe—alive.  My father is my hero. I say it silently to myself a few more times, each repetition steeling the basket of nerves that are my stomach, preparing me for what's to come: penance.  "Jakob Blume, you're under arrest for conspiracy against the Capitol. For the theft of District 12 owned explosives. And for the murder of six Peacekeeper soldiers."  With the crack of a gun to my father's temple, he falls to his knees in a heap on the floor. Blood begins to poor from the fresh wound to his forehead, and for the first time I see him for what he truly is. A scared man, terrified that the choices he's made won't help his family, but instead hurt us irrevocably.  My father is my hero. He looks up at me, then glances past me where I stand to lock eyes with Hana and our mother where they hide behind the shelves in the kitchen. It's written all over his face. The panic. The regret. How will my family survive now? I know this is all he's asking himself as surrender quickly becomes his only option. But in that moment, I am positive of exactly two things:  My father is my hero. And my mother and sister need him more than they need me. I nod at him and a silent agreement is made, whether he likes it or not. "It wasn't him." My voice is calm, collected, despite the fear that wells in the back of my throat. I know what they do to rebels. I've seen the bodies hanging by the dozens. I've seen the executions in the square. I've seen the beatings in the street. "It was me. I caused the cave in. I stole dynamite during my shift and planted it at the entrance to the new expansion." "Wesley, no. Don't do thi—" Hana curses from across the room, fucking idiot, and it brings an unnatural grin to my face; she's always cruel when she's forced to feel. My mother sobs, which breaks my heart, and it takes all I have not to look back at her one last time as my father tries to get up. But the Keeper beside him cracks him again across the temple and he falls right back to his knees, effectively keeping my attention and solidifying my decision. My father is my hero. And I cannot let him take the blame for my crimes. "It was me. I'm who you want." A TRIBUTE Punishment.  That's what they call it. A boy—me. A girl—the Mayor's daughter. One of each offered up as... what, exactly? A gift? A sacrifice. For rising up against the tyranny. For rebelling against the Capitol's mistreatment of the Districts who do everything for them.  It's suffering they want from us. From them. Those I left behind. Those Lennon left behind. Those each and every other tribute left behind. Friends. Family. I think of mine as the Peacekeepers escort me to my dedicated entrance into the arena. Their hands rest firmly atop my shoulders and I ache for a different touch. A hug from my mother. A pat on the back from my father. In fact, I yearn for both. So much that it makes my chest—now hollowed out and cavernous since I've been taken from them—ache as all I can think about is them.  Hana and her mess of curls. My bestest asset, she'd always say before whipping her hair right into my face. Mama and the sprinkling of freckles atop her nose. Kisses from the sun, she'd say before placing one atop my forehead. Pops and the wrinkles along the edges of his eyes. They make me wise, he'd always say with a toothy grin.  But the last, crystal clear thing I remember is drastically different than the memories of my family I cherish so much. All that remains now is the moment when I saw my father cry for the first time. Big, completely out of character crocodile tears as his only son was forcefully ripped from within his tight grasp. I remember my mother sobbing uncontrollably as they shoved me through the front door. And I remember most of all my sister grimacing, starring daggers at me as they threw me into a windowless truck. Like I had betrayed her trust.  Maybe I did. I left her; something I promised to never, ever do. Then again, I don't think she would have ever forgiven me if our father had been executed right before us. This saves him. Me being here now, with Peacekeepers at my side and karma staring me right in the face. On the other side of the door, fate awaits. It's a fight to the death. Kill or be killed.  If I win, I'll get to see them again. But if I lose, then what has this all been for? Nothing. My death is exactly what they want. But my death is what I refuse to give them. "Who are you?" A victor—if I'm lucky. If I play my cards right. If I set aside the conscience gnawing at my insides and swallow the fear rising in the back of my throat.  It has to mean something, my life. So why not hope? all their words for glory well, they always sounded empty when we're looking up for heaven

[L△LIA]

Love that the setup for all of this weaves its way through his family in order to get to him. The writing is phenomenal and I love the way he's drawn into the rebellion in little pieces, despite his uncertainty, the war circling around him and drawing in tighter and tighter as it goes on until it's just him vs. the games and still trying to hope for the best somehow adkfjha.

ACCEPTED!