owen hykes . d9 . fin

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owen avery hykes
district 9 . 17

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He woke up with his fingers wrapped around his own throat, spit pooled under lolled tongue as if, with slumber and force, he had wept through his mouth. 
Really, it'd be almost more justifiable if he had. Owen Avery Hykes— just Avery, he'd always chime in— had one strained relationship with sleep; and though most of his dreams these days ranked high on the "shitty things to dream about" list, nightmares and weeping seemed so much cooler than "dumbass dreaming about tying ties chokes himself to death."

Having obviously failed his attempt at the Windsor, Avery moved his wrist to wipe the sleep from his eye, lashes just barely crusted over by the few real tears that had managed to slip out. The morning light was gentle, barely felt as it filtered in from cracks in the nearby door, and despite the summer's unbearable heat, the draft itself felt cool on the back of the youngest Hykes's neck. 

From the other room, Avery's mother, Alena Hykes, argued with Avery's father, Jack Hykes, just as the two of them had nearly every other morning before. It had been over a decade since Avery heard his parents speak softly to one another, but Jack's condition, being one of mostly confusion and anger, only ever seemed to be getting worse, making things worse. When Avery finally saw the man emerge from the back of the house, he hid his face inside the blankets, hoping that the specter would pass by without disturbing him too deeply. Instead, he was sucked in by the pitiful voice of dementia. 

"Owen," barked Jack as he watched his boy settle further into the couch. Ignoring the unpleasant chime of his first name, Avery peeked up from behind the covers, faking a yawn. "Ally's almost ready," he heard the voice in the doorway stutter. "Why aren't you?" This forced comparison didn't phase him much, Avery having grown up around competition as a coping mechanism. Still, he winced at the dig, brain trying damnedly to take things through the light of illness rather than personal spite. 

"It takes me an nth of the time," is all Avery replied with. His voice was gentle, patient. He propped himself up on his forearm as he spoke. "You don't have to worry." 

The thing was, is that even if his father didn't worry, Avery would. Avery worried about a lot, actually. He got ready faster than his mother did, sure, but what if this was the one time he didn't? Not that his father would remember, considering he'd already walked away to the kitchen to rummage through this week's rations. But Avery hated catching himself in a lie, even if no one else did.

Jack murmured unintelligibly as he picked through a bundle of vegetables; Avery whipped his legs up and off the edge of his makeshift-bed-but-actually-a-couch. Like broken clockwork, each of the two went about their morning in avoidance the other. From the other room, though, Alena's singing brought them together. Despite Jack's grunts and Avery's sighs, Alena's hums and whistles prevailed, reminding the men of the house whose heart they belonged to.

Avery quickly slipped on his socks and shoes— he had slept in fresh work clothes— and snuck past his father to the back of the house. Just inside the doorway of his parents' bedroom stood his mother, in her own factory attire, as she braided her long, brown hair down into just what she could fit into a cap. Avery sometimes wondered if his own hair would ever be long enough to need to braid, but that was a later-him worry. Today, he just needed to keep what he had back.

The two uniforms spoke in circles for a moment before Avery cut to the chase and made his pitch, tapping the brim of his mother's hat playfully, childishly, as he inquired. With maternal intuition, Alena shook her head, never having needed anything more than the one she wore on her own head. Smiling softly, however, she opened the drawer of her dresser and pulled out a bandana instead.

"Wear this," she suggested with utmost certainty. The fabric was clean, and the pattern was subtle, and as Avery turned around to allow the woman access to his own brunet mop, he closed his seafoam eyes and bathed in his mother's warmth.

When he was younger, his mom and dad seemed like they had a love straight out of a kids tale. They had met working in one of District Nine's many factories, planned to have just one kid, and kept enough food on the table for everyone to be both happy and healthy. Economic downturns aside, the Hykes seemed to be getting by alright. It wasn't until Avery was six or seven, Alena told him early last year, that his father started acting differently.

Avery didn't care enough to make sense of it, so he learned to be compassionate and kind to offset the harm that his father's disease put unto him and his mom and, by extension, the rest of the world. For now, at seventeen, he was lanky and lean, but he hoped to gain strength— and with strength, courage— over the next few years. By then, he'd hopefully understand the nuances of how to take care of himself and of his mom. Others had never been his forte, but he'd have time to grow into that.

"Are you ready?" asked Alena, her voice full of love as much as concern. Her husband, though twenty years her senior, felt puny in comparison to the span of energy she projected. And though she did not fear him, she feared what had become of him— she would never let neither her son nor the man himself know that, however. 

Avery nodded just wide enough for his movement to be considered a response. He was quiet, observant— not loud or bold— and though he knew how to use his words, he preferred silence and thoughts as company over speech. His mother was the same, truthfully. Alena, through decades in the factories, had learned how to be a leader. Even so, she seemed more reclusive at home these days, choosing to stick to the walls and floors instead of the skies out of a compulsive need for avoiding confrontation with her husband. 

In unison, Avery and Alena marched to the front of their home to pick up their work bags and lunches. They filled their shoulders with even more weight, tangible weight, and trudged to the front door with the grace of folks much lighter. And they looked out to the back where Jack stood grimly, his eyes focused deeply on the swarth of woods behind their house.

A little bit of Alena, and a lot bit of Avery, hoped that one day, Jack would take the curious leap and venture out there. It was a cold wish, but it was an honest one; and when their eyes met as they turned to leave, the two of them became aware of this burdensome thought they bared and felt guilty from it. Neither said a word as they stumbled out the door. 

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Fin.
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