hawthorn clarke ; district 1

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call him thorn

*finger guns*
seventeen
he/him

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T H O R N My father killed himself. Without the mercy of prescription pills or the efficiency of lead bullets. He withered, hidden away in some dark warehouse creating opulence for another. Day by day I got to watch all the ways he became a stranger, that ever-present smirk twisting into a pained grimace. It was subtle enough that I'd long forgotten what his smile looked like by the time a scowl replaced it. Nobody ever had the guts to say it aloud but the truth clung to us like shadows the day of his funeral and every second since: My father killed himself for us. He went mad near the end, bedridden after an unreported injury gone foul. His eyes were glazed, too wide as they bore into my own. His hands were clammy against my cheeks but his nails dug into my skin to ensure they stayed in place. "Please," He didn't call my name, I don't think he recognized me, "I'm so tired." A son should never see his father cry and he sure as hell shouldn't pity him but I did both that day. If he were in his right mind, he would've hated me for it. Cole cried a bit at his funeral but I had the decency to pretend I didn't notice. He'd inherited a death sentence after all. I was ten, still too little to work and we needed food on the table. Lucky for my brother a position at dad's old warehouse had just opened up. "Holy shit," Cole's peals of laughter are as grounding as they are infuriating. My lips are bitten raw from sobs I've spent the last ten minutes choking back, eyes fixed on the sky so that they don't end up resting on what feels like the mangled remains of my legs. My blood smells metallic and a little bit rotten, acrid enough that I'm starting to regret that extra glass of orange juice I'd sneaked this morning. "Mom told you to fetch her blackberries, not mincemeat." My big brother's touch has always been more gentle than that baritone growl of his, betraying none of his apparent amusement as he kneels beside me and gets to work untangling my limbs from dried bramble. "Lil' Hawthorn all caught up in thorns," He snickers, but his face is flushed and he's trying to hide the way his breath jumps out his throat as if he'd just run the whole two miles it takes to get here from home. "How'd you know?" Shame quick burns through relief, though I'm not stupid enough to try to wiggle out on my own (again) I make sure to scowl at Cole the entire time he helps. His palms are rougher than they'd been only a year ago, callused and scared from long hours on the assembly line. "If you ask mom to make a blackberry cobbler for my birthday every year, it ceases to be a surprise, Thorns." He tweaks my nose as he helps me sit up, surveying the damage peeking through freshly torn jeans with a grimace. "You've been gone three hours when it should only take one." I jolt when he picks me up, disguising the gasp as an indignant scoff, "Thorns? That's a stupid name." He grins down at me, "Fit for a stupid little kid." "I hate you." With what's left of my strength I slam my fist into his chest, hoping to bruise. Unfortunately, Cole's five years my senior, and I think even if I managed to hurt him he wouldn't give me the satisfaction of knowing. "No you don't." I’ve never found peace in quiet. There’s something dishonest about it, a viper hidden in the bushes coiled and poised to strike. Silence, I’ve learned, only exists to be broken. At least it’s gentle this time, the soft splatter of blood hitting concrete and the occasional skittering of glass shards as I free them from where they’ve been embedded in my forearm. Every so often the unconscious man beside me starts to choke on the spit pooling in his mouth, gurgling and sputtering until the episode ends with a long, drawn out snore. I take a moment to lament not breaking his jaw alongside his nose. Little tears line the dress shirt mom had driven herself mad ironing to crisp perfection this morning. It’s easily the most expensive thing I own. A fifteenth birthday present from Cole after the reaping before had ended in an “unexpected disturbance”. Because the only way to fix a problem is to throw money you don’t have at it and hope it goes away. It’s nice to revel in all the ways I’ve ruined it now - it’s a hell of a metaphor if nothing else. And since the Reaping is one of the holidays the warehouse shuts down for, he’ll get to see the carnage firsthand. Some emotion might even stir in that stranger’s gaze. Unbridled rage is so much more interesting than those hollow, doll eyes he’s developed. They’re all so fucking content. Mom’s a grandma now, she absolutely adores Cole for giving her a thoughtless, complacent husk to fawn over. Cole’s pretending to be happy because Dahlia’s knocked up again. Even if that means he’s picking up yet another graveyard shift ‘cause there’s no way in hell they can afford another child. It’s like they don’t even notice the way their smiles falter when they think no one’s watching. They’ve gone dull and dreary, bleeding out by the hour. They’re killing themselves too, but they’ll only realize it on their deathbed. But no yeah, I’m the fuck up. Surely.

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Finished! L△LIA (:

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Accepted! <3