signed,

DISTRICT TWELVE

FIVE YEARS LATER

“Love, Ridley, please, pray tell, what led you back to one another in that arena after spending the entire Games apart?” said Caesar Flickerman as he looked across the stage at the young pair; Ridley was wearing a befitting black tie and Love was dressed in an airy yellow ballgown, the two smiling brightly despite their insides feeling like they were being churned relentlessly.

“Well, once I heard the rule change I knew I needed to find him,” said Love, always the one to take initiative when it concerned questions about their so-called romance. “And so I ran as fast as I could; away from the Careers, my only hope for survival, everything. Suddenly I knew where I needed to be. It was like my heart was guiding me to him.”

Caesar gave a cheesy grin as the audience let out a collective awww. “Of course it was. And when that rule changed again, well, you certainly had other plans, didn’t you?”

“It was really last minute,” chuckled Love softly as she squeezed Ridley’s hand. She was surprised to feel him return the gesture seconds later. “But… I couldn’t — can’t — imagine my life without him. The idea of us ever being apart broke me.”

Despite anxiety giving him a rush of blood to the head, Ridley spoke up. “And I couldn’t imagine life without her. She saved me.”

“We saved each other,” said Love.

Once they bid their farewells to the audience and Caesar, Love glanced up at her fellow Victor. “You didn’t have to say anything.” she said, as if he had a choice, but still he remained cordial. He knew that she hadn’t bought into what they were selling to the rest of Panem, that she couldn’t, knowing that Ginny was back home waiting for him with their son.

But it wasn’t always like this. The back and forth, the wondering, the shared gazes that lingered for a second too long, the nightmares that shook them awake each night, and the flashbacks that haunted them with every step they took. Before they were Victors, before they were tributes, they lived two entirely separate lives in District Twelve.

The Albrights were once a contented family. Composed of a mother, a father, a little girl and a little boy, they may have lived in squalor but they treasured every moment they had with one another. It was Adam who inspired everyone the most to be kind, even when they were at odds. He was the one to show his young son where the best places for hunting game was; most of them being outside district boundaries, but he didn’t seem to care much, so neither did his son. They only admired the scenery as they remained on the lookout for squirrels and pheasants they could present to Marcela and Manon come dinnertime.

Sometimes, whenever the weather was against them and they couldn’t hunt, they would spend their afternoons at the Hob, the district’s black market, and watch whatever was playing from the projectors. One day it had been an interview with the newest Victor to emerge from the Hunger Games, a District Two Career that had her teeth sharpened into fangs so she could rip out the throats of her enemies. Ridley was standing beside his father, who was trying to bargain with a dealer over a chicken as he kept his eyes focused on the interview.

“I must say, Ajax, your commitment is unprecedented. What was it like at the very end, facing off against the District Twelve duo that had hid out in the caverns?” asked Caesar, leaning away from the Victor as she showed her canines in a smile.

“It was hardly a battle worth a show, really,” said Ajax in return, chuckling to herself. “They didn’t stand a chance from the beginning, I was surprised they made it so far. Dodging their sharp sticks and slingshots had to be the easiest part of the entire Game. Maybe that’s enough to kill someone in Twelve, but things work differently in an arena.”

Ridley huffed as he turned away from the projection, glancing up at his father who seemed griefstricken that they couldn’t afford the whole chicken he’d promised his wife he would bring home for dinner that night. From his right shoulder, he unfastened the mockingjay pin he was gifted for his birthday and tossed it over to the vendor, who caught it with widened eyes and quickly surrendered the chicken to them. 

“You didn’t have to do that, Ridley,” said Adam as he carried the chicken that had been carefully wrapped in a cloth. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“I wanted to do it.” came Ridley’s reply.

Adam smiled proudly at his son and ruffled his hair lovingly. “You’re too good, kiddo.”

A hollow formed in his family tree whenever Adam died, something that nothing could fill, no matter how much Ridley tried to make things right again for his mother and sister’s sake. He made a living for his family by continuing to venture beyond district boundaries and hunting, having a bow equipped from the time he was nine years old. He’d become rather good at it, making a humble amount of money for his family through the Hob at the former’s insistence. Though whenever it came time for the Reaping, he always entered his name in more times than he could count so they could collect tesserae to survive them over the Games. He had yet to be picked, and only ever had good outcomes, so he considered it a solid system.

After dinner one evening, Ridley sat on the porch where he watched the sunset alongside his sister, Manon, while braiding her hair in a shared silence. His mother had ignored her ever since his father’s death gave her the excuse to, and in response he dedicated some of his time to her so she didn’t feel even more ostracized than she already was in their small district. 

“... R-Ridley?” she spoke up eventually. 

He glanced up at her as he reached the end of the braid. “Yeah?” he hummed, chewing on his lower lip in concentration.

“W-What happens if… If you g-get picked?” she asked.

Ridley stopped for a moment, keeping the braid between his fingers so it wouldn’t fall apart. “I won’t get picked.” he answered rather than give an honest reply — which is that he didn’t know. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I-I will worry.” insisted Manon as he began tying off the braid with a ribbon. It was a nice one; baby blue, something he snagged for cheap from the Hob. When Manon was first presented with it she nearly cried. 

He scooted himself down the front steps so he could sit at her side, reaching for one of the hands in her lap. He laced their fingers together and she squeezed him gently, a gesture he returned. “Even if it does happen, you know me,” he said. “I like to think I could take care of myself.” And that was the truth. While he wasn’t certain whatsoever that he could win the Games, he knew he could last longer than the bloodbath, at least. 

“Y-You always take care of yourself,” said Manon as she looked up at him, frowning. “You s-should let someone else do it for once.”

That evening, he left the house whenever the rest of his family was asleep with a lantern and a ration of bread, walking through the path he’d made through the dense forest that separated him from the fencing that prohibited anyone from leaving the district boundary, however he knew that the electricity had been absent from the wires for a good six months thanks to the inconsistent maintenance the Capitol offered Twelve. He planned on splitting it with Ginny, as they’d always venture out to the valley and eat in what little peace they could find in the world. They were more alike than the two of them cared to acknowledge — both had a penchant for arguing over nothing and were stubborn beyond belief, yet they got along fairly well anyway.

He sat the lantern down in the soft grass and looked up at the stars above. He couldn’t remember their names or the stories attached to them, but they still always made him feel small in comparison, even if they appeared as specks to him. He often wondered if people from the other districts, namely Career ones, ever thought the same. It didn’t seem like it, from how they acted in projections. But he would hate it if someone misjudged him based off of his status alone, so he tried to avoid thinking about it that night.

Turning his chin over his shoulder, a grin creased in the corner of his mouth as he spotted Ginny’s silhouette in the moonlight approaching him. “About time,” he called out.

“Shut up,” she returned as she sat in the grass. “I worked a double at the bakery. That girl you like so much really knows how to put me to work.”

Ridley flushed instinctively. “I don’t like her.”

“Sure you don’t,” snorted Ginny, reaching for the ration he brought and tearing off a piece for herself. Despite working at the town’s only bakery, he knew that she wasn’t allowed to eat anything she couldn’t normally afford, even if the Bytheseas were by far the kindest people in the district — Love in particular, the daughter of the owner who Ridley did, admittedly, have a crush on. But he had Ginny, someone who lived closer and seemed to understand him fairly well, and Love had Mikael, a slightly older man who had been courting her for the past year or so and was a much better prospect than he could ever hope to be, as the only living Victor in their district. “I mean. I hope you don’t, at least, because, well—”

“Because she’s taken?” interrupted Ridley as he watched her chew slowly. She stared at him for a while, and he stared back at her, eyebrows raising eventually as to ask what she was oogling over. She cleared her throat and handed the bread back, smoothing her apron out and looking ahead of them into the darkness of the valley.

“Because,” she began. “Because I’m pregnant.”

The next eight months were spent explaining the situation to his mother, who nearly disowned him before realizing that she and Manon were better off having to deal with a child of Ridley’s rather than try and survive without him whatsoever, entering his names as many times as he could to collect tesserae for whenever the baby came, and eventually moving Ginny into his childhood home where they’d assembled a quaint nursery in the large attic in which they would sleep just so Manon and his mother could have some reprieve. It was the closest his family had been since his father passed. They had dinners that Ridley caught or bought from the Hob around the table and played games together afterwards — even his mother had joined in, after she recovered from her initial grudge against Ginny for pulling her son down and putting him at even more risk than he already did himself. And yet still he hadn’t been more anxious in his entire life, and by the time the Reaping did come he had forgotten altogether about the chances of himself being picked.

He and Manon walked side by side, Ginny having walked ahead of them, as her pregnancy strictly forbade her from being chosen, and he helped his sister communicate with the officers that worked to check them in for the event. Keeping a hand on the small of her back, he stopped them whenever they were meant to separate into two sections of boys and girls.

“It’s your last year,” said Ridley, giving her a reassuring smile. He still had two years left until he was free from the burden — but then again, he’d have much rather endured it if it meant he could amass more tesserae. “You excited?”

Manon’s eyes shifted back and forth as she rubbed her hands together where she stood. “I-I guess.” she murmured softly.

“You should be.” he told her before noticing the Peacekeepers approaching them at an alarming pace. He reached out and placed two fingers underneath her chin, pivoting her head up so they could make eye contact. “Don’t worry, little duck. We’ll be okay.”

She gave a halfhearted smile before a Peacekeeper shoved themselves between them. Ridley stumbled backwards, sighing heavily as he nodded to his sister and went to join the rest of the boys on the other side of the small field they had gathered on. He squinted as the sunlight hit his face, sweat beginning to perspire on his forehead the longer they idled while waiting for the escort to ascend the stage and officially begin the ceremony.

First, of course, they had to endure the Mayor’s speech.

“My friends of District Twelve, in anticipation of this year’s Hunger Games, I welcome you to Reaping Day,” Tepid applause ensued. Ridley watched the eighteen age group rustle a bit ahead of him. They were all on edge that day. “This Day, like The Games themselves, provides us a chance to reflect on the costs of our violent rebellion all those years ago, and to be grateful for the kindness now shown to us by the Capitol. It's a time for both repentance and for thanks.”

Beside the Mayor had been Resplendence, the escort for District Twelve, and an empty chair, which was taken by a drunken Mikael Lindqvist stumbling on stage. 

“‘Scuse me, sorry,” he muttered out, though Ridley could hardly hear him from what he was saying. All he could think to do in response was roll his eyes. The Mayor carried on as usual.

“... By law, each District is required to send one boy and one girl into the Games each year. 24 young people, fighting to the death until one emerges victorious — bringing great pride, and great material reward, to his or her District. Joining me now on stage is the only Tribute from our

fair District to have ever done so. Please welcome Mikael Lindqvist.”

Mikael rose drunkenly and gave the Mayor an enthusiastic slap on the back. But when he tried to hug Resplendence, he ended up lurching across her and slamming into the empty chair. And it just went out live, across Panem. The kids stifled nervous laughter as Resplendence, tight-lipped but professional, straightened her wig. The Mayor did his best to go on. 

“I'm sure whoever's chosen today will — under Mikael's steady guidance — represent our District well.” said the Mayor with a plastic smile. “Now it's my privilege to introduce our tributes' escort. Joining us from the Capitol, Miss Resplendence.”

One hand steadying her wig, Resplendence trotted up to the podium. Bright and bubbly, she spoke in a stilted Capitol accent.

“Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor! I know you're all excited, so let's get right to the drawing! Boys first this year!” The ridiculously dressed escort approached one of the bowls, circling her hand around the edge before sinking her fingers in. No one breathed. “The boy tribute from District Twelve is… Ridley Albright!”

Ridley froze, replaying it in his head. Must have heard it wrong. Manon too — a look of utter confusion on her face. The Square was deathly silent. No one can believe what they

just heard. His mother staggered. Ginny just stared, dazed. 

“Come on up,” encouraged Resplendence, waving him up onto the stage. Despite feeling the urge to push them away, he allowed the Peacekeepers to guide him forward as the world began moving in slow motion. “I’m sure you’ll do a fine job for us, Ridley.”

He could see Manon’s face in the crowd and his heart shattered in his chest, despising seeing her so struck with horror and complete bewilderment as she watched her brother being actively fed to the wolves that were the Capitol. Glancing over, Ginny’s hormones had caused her to let out a sob, and his mother, for once, was there to comfort her as she collapsed onto her knees.

As if it were the most natural thing in the world, the escort carried on, clearing her throat dramatically. “And now for the ladies,” she announced, walking up to the adjacent bowl and repeating the same motion before plucking out another card. “... Love Bythesea!”

Love’s green eyes expanded in size as she heard her own name, and Ridley saw in his peripheral Mikael visibly stiffen. He may not have ever liked the man, but he couldn’t comprehend the kind of emotional turmoil he as well as Ginny were enduring as a result of the Reaping. His eyes tracked Love as the Peacekeepers brought her on stage so she could stand beside him, tears prevalent in her gaze when she glanced up and looked out at all the people staring at them in shock.

“Let's give a big round of applause for our latest tribute!” exclaimed Resplendence. No one clapped. Instead, they did something else — a gesture: In unison, the people there touched the three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and then held it out to her. She silently acknowledged them before the Peacekeepers began herding them inside city hall.

Practically barging through the doors came Ginny, tears streaming down her face as she came up to Ridley and threw her arms around him. It was the same process with his mother, who had finally lost her composure whenever she saw her son again. Once they had stepped aside, he quickly brought his sister into an embrace, and he could feel her soft cries in the crook of his neck as he cradled her close. 

“It’ll be okay,” he reassured her. Glancing over her shoulder, he saw Love bidding farewell to her father and brother while Mikael awkwardly idled to the side. “I promise. Okay? Everything is going to be okay. You have to trust me, little duck. Do you trust me?”

He pulled away and held her face in his hands, to which she nodded along, sniffling as she tried her best to keep from crying too hard. He nodded and pressed a kiss against her forehead, repeating it’ll be okay even as he was brought away by the Peacekeepers, shoved onto the train after Love and barely given any time to adjust to his new surroundings before the doors slammed shut and sealed. 

He and Love exchanged a single glance and knew that, from then on out, they were on their own.

Returning home not only as a victor, but as part of a pair of victors, had come as a complete shock to Ridley — but the sudden rule change during the Quell had inspired him to rebel against the Capitol and try to save both himself and Love, when it’d come down to only the two of them. The act was widely regarded across Panem as one of unconditional love, and it was sold that way to the Districts for their entire Victory Tour. Although he may have been a father, no one else was aware of Ginny’s existence, and it had put a strain in their relationship that made it all the more worse to endure day to day life, even in Victor’s Village. What ruined everything beyond repair, however, had been Love discovering she was pregnant — with Mikael’s child, yet another dirty little secret that the country couldn’t have a clue about if everyone wanted to keep their heads. 

Ridley was sat in the meadow, peacefully observing the midnight skies above and listening to the songbirds mimic each other in the trees whenever he heard the crackling of leaves in the distance and he stirred, picking up his bow and readying an arrow. “Who’s there?” he called out, his eyes narrowing at the shadow that came in closer.

“Calm down, Ridsy,” said Love as she held both hands up in surrender. He untensed, giving a sigh as he lowered his bow and turned away from her. “Wow. I’m really not who you wanted to see, am I?”

He chuckled dryly and rubbed his tired eyes. He really should’ve been heading home. “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t really want to see anyone.”

“Sorry to bother you, then,” she said as she walked up beside him. “I just… Thought we should talk.”

Ridley didn’t look over at her when she sat, just keeping his focus on the stars above. They were plentiful that night, dotting almost every crevice in the sky. He could remember falling asleep to the slow rotation of digital stars in the arena, before he found Rue or Love and believed himself alone in the arena. Sometimes he wished he were, as it’d make things a helluva lot less complicated for him, but that was a selfish thought that he tried not to entertain too often. He was lucky he had the life he did — he had a wonderful son, although no one else knew that, and soon enough he’d have another, considering Mikael had been spending most of his time in the Capitol to avoid rumor from spreading.

“... I want you to know I don’t expect anything from you.” she spoke up eventually. He still didn’t look at her. “I know I’ll be doing this mostly on my own… And that’s okay. I can — I can handle that. I’ll have my Papa and Cody, just like you have your mom and Manon.”

He fully splayed out on his back, his hands pressed against his curls as he continued stargazing. “I’m not going to leave you high and dry,” he finally said. “I’ll help. Especially since Mike isn’t here.”

“I don’t think he was ever going to be here,” murmured Love, but when that seemed to catch Ridley’s attention she coughed into her fist nonchalantly. “I appreciate it. Really.”

Nodding along slowly, he remained silent before she came to kneel beside him. He looked at her strangely and knit his brows together. She reached into her apron pocket, then held out a familiar golden pin. He seemed to be in awe, unable to respond for a moment as he simply stared into her open palm.

“Where—”

“I was there that day, at the Hob,” said Love. “I saw you give it away for that chicken. I traded one of my mother’s old necklaces for it.”

He frowned up at her, suddenly hesitant to accept it, which only made her chuckle.

“My mother wanted me to get rid of it. It was before she…” she trailed off, a lump caught in her throat. “Anyway. Here. Take it.”

Ridley accepted the pin, holding it between his fingers and unable to keep himself from smiling.

He was there for her every moment he could be after that night. Whenever it came time for the birth, he was by her side, letting her squeeze his hand as hard as she needed. It felt like the least he could do, since he missed his own son’s birth. It didn’t feel right letting another person he cared about endure something like that alone. And whenever the baby was born, all slicked with goo and blood, he couldn’t help but feel his eyes water watching him cry out for the first time. The newborn was quickly placed on Love’s chest and she cradled him, cooing at him before gently uttering the word, “Jae.”

They raised their sons together. Their houses in Victor’s Village were across from one another, so commuting was absurdly easy, and it felt right, like they had a family of their own. However this only further cemented their doubts and worries in the world they were living in; they knew that if either of their secrets ever came out, if their pristine images of perfect, lovestruck victors were ever to wither, they would both have to pay the ultimate price. Enough visits to the Capitol and rumors circling about a certain Victor from District One and his slaughtered family members as a result of his disobedience had affirmed to them that the safety of their children came before all else, even their budding feelings for one another. Both of them had been terrified of the capability of their own hearts to expand and take in more loved ones than they already had. So, they kept to themselves, apart from passing their children between houses and occasionally speaking at a dinner hosted by her father. It wasn’t until three years after their Games that they had a humbling awakening from the ebb and flow of domestic life.

Gathered at Ridley’s house to watch the Reaping, they all gave a collective sigh upon seeing President Jensen on the projection. The house smelled delightful, it smelled full and warm and he was more than ready for the ceremony to conclude so they could enjoy the dinner that he helped Rune prepare. However, he and Love had to leave early as they were the acting mentors ever since Mikael went missing the year before. No one in the Capitol had the slightest idea of where he’d wound up, but Ridley had a sneaking suspicion they were covering up for him.

He could recall a conversation with Lucky at one of the Presidential Parties they were both invited to. The District One Victor had clearly overindulged in the drinks and was more than willing to divulge in the gory details of the comings and goings of the Capitolites. 

“Men like him never last long,” said Lucky, his speech slurred a bit as he stood on the sidelines, his eyes lingering on Manon who was awkwardly swaying along to the music. “Or they last too long and become absolutely insufferable.”

“I think the latter’s already happened,” replied Ridley honestly, which made the other Victor snort.

A head full of styled black hair shook back and forth, and as he brushed some behind his ear Ridley could see a gold bangle in the shape of a snake adjusted around his wrist. “It’s a shame, really. If only you’d gotten to her first, and everything would be so much easier.”

Ridley glanced over to Lucky, stiffening where he stood. “I think you’ve had too much to drink.” he said, beginning to take notice how his sights were set on his sister minding her business, attempting to blend in with the crowd. He was the only person to find it endearing, not other men, and especially not any Victors that felt they owned whatever they touched.

“The wheel keeps turning,” hummed Lucky thoughtfully.

“The wheel?” echoed Ridley.

Lucky nodded along, finishing off his flute of champagne and searching around for another server that was carrying a tray. “The wheel. That metaphorical one that keeps us all in line for the better good, or so they say here. You know what I mean.” His synthetic blue eyes caught sight of the pin Ridley was wearing and he grinned slyly. “I like that. What is it?” he asked, tucking some black hair behind his ear, the bangle he wore glistening under the lights of the party.

“A mockingjay,” answered Ridley. “It’s from my district.”

“Charming. Let’s hope it doesn’t cost you anything,” complimented Lucky before becoming distracted. “Excuse me,” he pushed past Ridley, following closely after a tray of champagne he spotted.

Ridley was too relieved that he hadn’t sought out Manon to think further about what he meant by that.

First, they watched the Reaping for the Career Districts, and Ridley noted the lanky figure that idled in the background of One who adorned pitch black hair and snakebite piercings that made him appear even more standoffish than his general demeanor. They sat in silence as the children fought one another over who would volunteer before they finally reached District Four’s broadcast, which meant he and Love needed to be out the door soon, at least before they made it to Six.

A collective pause overtook the room as they heard the boy tribute’s name being called and, on stage, a grinning, five foot four preteen presented himself with a wave as if it were the Tribute Parade already. None of them knew it yet, but he would be the singularly most lethal tribute in the entire Game. Still, Love thought to hold both Rue and Jae close to her, reminded of them in his baby-faced glow as he wrapped an arm around the girl tribute and they were escorted off stage. 

Ridley glanced down to Love, who looked back up at him. 

THE FLICKERMAN SHOW

25 YEARS POST-REBELLION

“Tell me, Stella, what is it about knives that engrosses you the most? You’ve amassed the most kills per tribute since the beginning of the Games with a whopping eight overall, at our first Quarter Quell nonetheless, and that’s equally in part to your natural strength and your prowess with blades.” asked Glint Flickerman, lavender-tinted hair shining underneath the limelight that accentuated the sleek white suit he adorned in contrast to the dramatic crimson number that the District One Victor had worn, described by her styling team as an homage of what it cost her to win.

Brown eyes casting out toward the crowd, Stella observed the disposition of the audience. They were all at the edge of their seats. She could feel every last set of eyes scrutinizing her, waiting with bated breath for a charming reply that always slipped out whether she liked it or not. She was groomed from a young age to please others; whether that be physically, emotionally, or mentally. It what garnered her so many sponsors in her Games, after all. Winking at the desperate passersby at the Tribute Parade and mingling with them over a few flutes of champagne had won her the Quell just as much as killing had.

“It’s the balance of it all, Glint,” spoke Stella after she examined the room, rubbing the gold bangle that was fixed to her wrist displaying a snake that wrapped around before sticking its tongue out defensively. “You have to have… A certain finesse, like with any weapon, but with a knife it feels more gratifying, striking something with it rather than a spear or a bow and arrow, both of which can weigh you down. And I’ve never let anything weigh me down.”

A unanimous oooh sounded in the theatre, and she flashed a quick grin that further seduced the crowd. Glint chuckled along, relaxing in his seat and propping one leg up over the other. “Of course not. Now, tell us about the other District One tribute, Decimus. He was lethal, coming in only second to you with an impressive five kill streak. How did you know he would be returning to the Cornucopia near the end? Did you speak strategy beforehand, or were you working off of instinct?” inquired the interviewer.

“We hardly spoke at all, really,” she answered truthfully. “I made it clear from the beginning I didn’t need any allies, and he seemed to respect me more for it. Maybe he thought sparing me until the end would be in good spirits, but he had another thing coming for him.”

Laughter shook the room and Stella instinctively clutched onto the armrest of her chair, then released her tightly held posture and resumed smiling at Glint. “Such an interesting dynamic coming from two Careers. Typically you’d see the Career Pack form early on, which it had, though I think all of us knew there was a piece missing with you going off on your own. It paid off well, nonetheless, even if it brought down one of the most handsome tributes we’ve seen in years. In fact, I believe most of us sniffed out a romance between the two of you,” he grinned impishly at her.

“There could’ve been a spark,” entertained Stella. “Before I took his eye out, that is. Can’t really ask a girl on a date when you’ve got a knife stuck in your brain.”

“That you can’t,” cackled Glint as he reached over to tap her on the knee, and she fought against the gut reaction to pull away from his touch. “So, before we say our farewells this evening, tell us, our dear starling, what is the first thing you do when you return home before your victory tour?”

Stella ruminated on the question for a while, listening to the quiet of the room as they awaited her answer. She liked having that sort of command over others, deep down. You’d think she’d display more pride in that fact — but in truth she had been terrified since the moment she volunteered. It was expected of her, after all, even though she had to watch her young uncle succumb to his Games when she was only five years old. She could still remember every year that had passed where his absence hung like an anvil mid-air, everyone pretending like it couldn’t drop on them at any given moment. When it finally had, she had reaped and sown as a consequence of upholding the family’s pride. 

It could’ve been worse, most everyone would assure her. She was going to be drowning in riches for the rest of her life, bringing honor to her family that had once been lost, uplifting them as one of the more prominent names in District One, which was already densely populated by the egregiously spoiled and famous. She would no longer have to live with her parents, instead taking up her own space in a mansion of the illustrious Victor’s Village where an eighth of the population of One resided. She would never have to be alone for the rest of her life.

“I’m going to…” she trailed off, her eyes shifted downward as she threaded her fingers together. Glint took this as an initiative to lean in closer so he could perhaps hear her better. “I’m going to train. So I can continue to be the best Victor and mentor the Games has ever had.”

“Brilliant,” praised Glint as he held an arm out for Stella to take, which she did obediently, standing up from her seat. “Our starling, Stella Spencer, Victor of the 25th Hunger Games and first Quarter Quell, ladies and gentlemen.”

The Victor curtseyed for the crowd, which erupted into a roar as they said their goodbyes to her until she’d inevitably return for follow-up interviews before they’d find a new piece of meat to auction off to the masses. She thanked Glint, pressing her cheeks against his’ in a show of good faith as she was escorted off-stage. She could feel her shoulders slump automatically as her stylists crowded her, beginning to disassemble what felt like a strait jacket; undoing her corset, tearing off her stockings, unhinging her platform heels from the soles of her feet, and plucking out the golden barrettes from her brunette locks that were stiffened by an absurd amount of hairspray. 

“Simonides, can I have some juice?” asked Stella, directing the question to her mentor, who had remained staunchly at her side since the beginning of her and Decimus’ training. She could feel her tongue stick uncomfortably to the top of her mouth and she was desperate to regain some composure after nearly falling apart walking backstage.

The District One mentor shooed away the stylists, commanding one of them to retrieve a drink before she came at Stella’s face with a makeup wipe. “You can have whatever you want from now on, you don’t need to ask,” said Simonides. “Speaking of — there’s a message for you, whenever you get back to your apartments.”

“I’ll answer it tomorrow,” she dismissed as she felt the relief of the caked on makeup being cleaned off her skin. Her eyes narrowed whenever Simonides’ posture struck upward and she appeared more grim than before, and it was in that moment that Stella understood. “President Jensen?”

“Yes,” confirmed Simonides as she accepted a glass of orange juice from one of the stylists and offered it to Stella, who began drinking it immediately and could taste the bitterness of vodka mixed in. She couldn’t have anything without a string attached.

Stella walked to her apartments after finishing off the drink, feeling her skin warm up and her stomach bubble as she breathed in and out steadily with each step. She bid goodnight to Simonides and retired to her bedroom, where she disrobed out of her undergarments and slid on a slip dress and tugged on some socks to soothe her aching feet. Padding across the marble flooring, she sat on the edge of her mattress and grabbed the remote so she could bring up the projection where all her messages could be displayed.

A blond haired, middle-aged President Hugo Jensen appeared in front of her. She swallowed, wishing she had more juice to calm her nerves, although she was certain it wouldn’t be before long she was passed out as a consequence of accepting the first drink at all. He was sat in a leather chair behind a mahogany desk, displaying a devilish grin as if she were there with him. She felt on edge instantly, crossing her arms over her chest protectively.

“Miss Stella,” began President Jensen. “You’ve made quite the name for yourself in the Capitol. I couldn’t be more proud of a Victor. This year, you were truly a force to be reckoned with. Never have I seen such passion and perseverance in a woman so young and vulnerable. As much as they would all like to think, that is what you are. And there’s no shame in it. But things will be different from here on out, as I have a proposal for you that will guarantee your legacy for decades to come. Would you open the study door for me?”

Eyebrows knitted together as she slowly glanced over to the bedroom door, pushing herself off the bed and moving so she could exit the room, eyeing the entryway across the hall that would lead her into the study that she’d never ventured into before. She glanced over the shoulder, where the projection had frozen, signaling that it’d come to an end, and proceeded forward cautiously. Her fingers hovered over the doorknob before she grasped it and pushed through the threshold. Ahead of her had been Hugo Jensen himself, exactly where he was shown to be in the projection. Confusion overwhelmed her and she opened her mouth to speak before being interrupted.

“... President Jensen.” she greeted, their eyes meeting and an ignition starting in her core. She felt uncharacteristically self-conscious and wrapped her arms around her exposed figure. “It’s an honor.”

“It certainly is,” said the President as he stood from his seat and sauntered across the room to meet her. She looked up at him with doe eyes, which made him chuckle heartily. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen the man so intrigued before, not even by the Games themselves. He was always an inscrutible person, as any President would be. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this day. Stella Spencer,”

She watched as he descended onto one knee and reached into his back pocket, unearthing a velvet box and opening it to reveal a scintillating double halo of brilliant diamonds and a striking cushion-cut center stone, light gathered and mirrored throughout the design, resulting in an unrivaled display of brilliance in just one ring. Her eyes expanded as her arms fell away, exposing her curvy form that stood in shock.

“It will be a truly divine privilege to call you my wife,” said the President — there was no question that need be asked, because the answer was already decided on her behalf. He took her wrist, outstretching her left hand so he could place the ring on the correct finger. She could feel the weight immediately, how her whole body seemed to gravitate around it in the matter of a few seconds. 

He stood up and stroked her cheek, a gesture which she, for once, hadn’t felt the pull to shy away from. It was an odd thing, as normally tribute relationships were put on display for all of Panem to witness, though it didn’t entirely surprise her that the President himself preferred a private audience when it concerned his personal life. The only man in the whole country who could truly have a room to himself, and now, she would be the only woman. 

THE CAPITOL

FIFTEEN YEARS LATER

A tired mother watched from afar as her youngest, Lucien, a boy of eight, sparred with other Capitolites’ children in the yard of their mansion. When she was his age, she could recall training in the Career Center. In fact, that might’ve been the same year she found her affinity for throwing knives. She noticed that her son had inherited that from her, always transfixed even over the butter knives at dinner, which his father disapproved of as they weren’t like the savages from the Districts that needed to know these things in order to survive. They were the ones in control, yet all Lucien could think about doing was demonstrating his skills on others whenever he could.

He first pushed his limits with his older brother, Dante, who was his senior by seven years. Stella could still feel the panging in her pelvis all these years later from when she gave birth to her eldest at only seventeen, her narrow build forcing out an overdue child. He had always been difficult, much like his father, and her middle child and only daughter, Avril, hadn’t surpassed her expectations either. It was a wonder to her how her youngest had the courage to square up against them whenever the opportunity presented itself. Often it ended in him being brutalized, which is what initially summoned her into her husband’s quarters (that had been made separate from her own years ago, just so he wouldn’t insist on a fourth child.) so they could arrange a group of other youthful Capitolites for their son to spar with.

“It’ll be good for him,” said Stella as she placed a hand atop Hugo’s. Her ring still shined brilliantly, even under the dim lighting of his bed chamber. 

“He wants so badly to be like you,” replied her husband. “One day he very well may volunteer himself. And what will that say about us? As a family? As a government?”

Stella gave a sigh. “It’s only for play, Hugo. You remember Dante at that age. All he did was bully the staff for a rush. It’ll be better this way. Easier. I’m not saying we give him rabbits to slaughter, just friends that he can let out steam with. It’s natural.” A pout formed on her lips, and he couldn’t help but chuckle at her.

Her husband took her hand and raised it up so he could place a kiss on her knuckles gently. “We’ll find some children for him, my starling.”

And so they did, and every Saturday they would gather up and perform their own Hunger Games. All the children were rather plump, but the scrawniest of them would be assigned as one of the lower Districts while the heftier and more lean participants would give themselves the ranking of a Career District. They used plastic weaponry and spent hours chasing one another down, even going as far as assembling into packs and mimicking campfires where they’d tell each other stories. Stella always volunteered to watch after them, just to be certain that they wouldn’t get carried away with the game, as they often could. She imagined it was quite the immersive experience for them, considering they didn’t have any real threats looming over them. In truth, the years had worn on her, and this was one of the last good things she thought she could do for her family before she broke in two and became disposable to not only her husband, but all of Panem. 

She had been warned since her wedding day that her place at Hugo’s side could be easily replaced, but she had done an excellent job at dissuading others that she wasn’t one of his many pawns in a grander game she knew took place behind the scenes. Bearing him children and raising them as true, proud Jensens had seemingly secured her a place by his side until their final days. She knew that he had fallen in love with her. Of course, the whole country thought he must have, although he couldn’t have chosen a more desirable tribute to marry in front of millions, but she was well aware that in the beginning he was more attracted to the allure of her status that would in turn boost his own and make it seem as if he had a direct link to the Districts than he ever was to her. Yet he had eventually succumbed to her big brown eyes and a heart that beat straight out of her chest, and she was at first happy. Overjoyed, even. It wasn’t until the realization dawned upon her that she couldn’t reciprocate those feelings that she had begun sinking into a depression that slowly ate away at her.

“Lucien,” she called out as she witnessed the child assigned as a District Four tribute begin cornering her son. She hated whenever he was struck down, although it was all fair play. “It’s time for dinner. Say goodbye and come inside.”

The fair-haired boy had always been a dutiful son, especially to his mother. So, he cast aside his plastic knife and waved goodbye to all his friends, jogging up until he arrived at Stella’s hip where she could wrap an arm around him and lead him indoors. The corridors were richly scented with the smell of roasted chicken, the perfect meal after a sparring match, and she guided him slowly throughout the hallways.

“You did well today,” she commended.

Lucien looked up at Stella with identical brown eyes, even shaped the same as hers and adorning long eyelashes that worked best at flattering others. “Pelagius almost got me,” he told her. “If you wouldn’t have stopped us, I’d be dead.”

“Don’t be dramatic. You could have stopped him,” she insisted, never wanting to instill doubt into her children, no matter the cost.

“Not with my stupid plastic knife.” he murmured.

Stella glanced at him, then crouched down to match his level. “You don’t need a real knife, Lucien. You have more than enough for your Games already,” she said as she brushed her son’s sticky curls away from his forehead. “Don’t ask for such things. I promised your father that you wouldn’t be interested in any of it. It’s not a game that we must play.”

“You played it,” pointed out Lucien. 

“... I was a different person then,” she excused, though she did feel caught by his words. “I did what was expected of me. Just like you have to do what’s expected of you, which is not playing with real knives or spears or swords or any of it. Do you hear me?”

Lucien pouted at her and she grinned a little at him. “Don’t smile.” he said bashfully.

“I can’t help it, you’re the handsomest boy that’s ever lived,” praised Stella as she leaned in so she could press a kiss against his cheek. “Now go and get cleaned up before we eat.”

She didn’t speak much over dinner, allowing her husband and Dante to do all the talking amongst themselves while she picked at her medium rare steak and mashed potatoes, a nasty habit that unfortunately her daughter had picked up on and began mimicking, thinking it would make her even prettier than her mother, the Jewel of Panem. But that night she couldn’t find it within herself to nudge Avril and encourage her to eat more off her plate, hardly interested in finishing her own food. Each week, it became more grueling to witness her son play pretend in the yard, given vicious flashbacks of her own Games that she survived by the skin of her teeth. The nightmares had long since been cured by a steady dose of morphling each evening before she slept, but she refused to take any during daylight hours, fearing she may have been at a higher risk for addiction already even though most of the Capitol utilized the narcotic. 

Later on, when she was laying motionlessly in her bed, Stella could hear muffled footsteps outside her door. She felt disinterested at first before she then heard giggling, followed by the familiar echo of her husband’s voice. She pushed the duvet off and padded across the room, tying her robe around her waist as she went to slowly inch the door open. As her eyes gazed into the hallway, she witnessed Hugo’s shadow casting over one of their maids, who couldn’t seem to quiet herself despite their proximity to his wife’s quarters. Stella’s breathing halted in her chest and she could feel something burn hotly inside of her.

They fumbled around in the hallway, Hugo’s hands sliding up and down the maid’s slim figure, eventually creeping his fingers between her thighs and making her gasp. Stella could feel the sickness cement in her gut. Despite all the years of apathy she felt toward him, she had admittedly reveled in the fact that he was committed to the family they’d built together. It was one of the few truly admirable things about him, and now it was all crumbling before her eyes.

She closed her bedroom door and returned to bed, lying silently for hours as she watched the sun rise through her balcony window. She had assumed the worst while she processed what exactly she witnessed hours ago — she was no longer the prize possession of his life, and if she wasn’t that, that meant she really was replaceable. Perhaps not in the eyes of her many adoring fans, but all of that could change in an instant if Hugo willed it so. For the first time in her life, she had wished she perished during her Games, and it didn’t occur to her until then how much power she still wielded within herself. 

Lucien was always the first to wake up in the morning. He was a restless sleeper, tossing and turning no matter how much morphling he was administered by the in-house nurse that had been taking care of him since the moment he ripped out of Stella. Yet what woke him that day had been knots that developed in his stomach overnight rather than his own bundle of nerves. He looked around his room, curious if anyone was watching over him as he slept, but he was alone. The mansion was eerily quiet. He could feel something was wrong in the marrow of his bones, and so he scooted off his mattress and went venturing around his home to try and find a servant for direction. 

He checked the grand foyer first, but it was still empty and lifeless as the sun crested the horizon, then the dining hall, then the living area, and finally as he was about to relent he thought to try the kitchen. There was always someone in there preparing one meal or another for the family, or Dante sneaking in after hours for a snack. He advanced toward the kitchen, but the closer he came, the more nauseous he began to feel for seemingly no reason at all. Clutching his stomach absentmindedly, he shouldered open the door and stepped inside before he felt something wet make contact with the bottom of his foot. As he raised his sock up to examine it, all he could see was a thick layer of blood that had stained the white cotton. 

Looking up, he saw Stella sprawled out on the linoleum floors, her wrists slit wide open and her mouth ajar as she stared blankly through him. He could feel his lungs swell as he inhaled steeply, the scent of blood hanging in the air like a dense fog, and as he moved forward he seemed to think that he could save her somehow. Frantically wiping away at the puddles of blood, he undid the tassels of his robe and tried to slow the bleeding by wrapping her wounds with the satin material. 

“Mom, wake up,” he had sobbed over her lifeless body. “Please, Mom. Please!”

He was sealed in that moment with her, unable to move or think properly until one of the chefs came in and witnessed the scene, quickly fleeing to alert someone who could actually help. Lucien was eventually forced away from his mother’s body, and he reached out for her desperately, never wanting to let go of her even if she’d lost all the warmth she once used to envelope him in whenever he doubted himself. He would never feel that again.

Unbeknownst to Lucien, his family had started plotting against him from the very instant they learned that Stella had passed. Panem couldn’t know that their favorite victor was weak enough to resort to killing herself as a solution for all her problems, and, well, they also couldn’t know that her son had been the one to find her. So, they devised a plan.

Glint Flickerman appeared on everyone’s projections the evening after Stella’s passing, a grimness encompassing his features that had not yet been seen before, even in lieu of a beloved tribute’s gruesome death. 

“It’s with a heavy heart I announce to you that our dearest starling, Stella Jensen, passed away in the Presidential Mansion this morning. We’ve been told that she suffered an overdose of morphling after a staff member miscalculated a dosage. Her youngest son and one of our shining stars of tomorrow, Lucien Jensen, passed alongside her in his sleep from the very same incident. The rest of the Presidential family greatly appreciates your thoughts at this time and is being kept under a keen eye by their medical staff to ensure this tragedy is at an end.”

Rather than lie dead, however, Lucien was passed along to a team of stylists that worked tirelessly all night long to reshape his appearance. His hair was dyed a jet black and his curls were cut away from his forehead, permanent blue contacts were placed in his eyes, and by midday he was on a train to the nearby District One, where he would stay with distant maternal relatives that swore to keep his identity a secret if they valued their own lives. He assumed the alias Lucky and watched from afar as his father and siblings mourned him in front of the cameras, then swiftly moved on as he found another woman to take his mother’s place, though she would never be as beautiful and captivating as Stella Spencer once had been. 

For a long time he was subservient to his mother’s family, doing all their bidding and wondering how such awful people could’ve made someone so spectacular as his mother. It wasn’t until he turned twelve years old that he realized he could volunteer during the Reaping  — even if it went against everything his family was instructed upon having custody of him thrust on them. 

Now, rather than play pretend, he attended the Career Center every weekday and slaved over the exercises set out before him. He found he had a particular knack for knives, unsurprisingly enough, and honed in on those skills as the years passed by. Despite the anticipation he felt build up in his gut, he knew that he needed to be smart if he wanted to have any chance at entering the Games without his father’s interference. He waited for puberty to take root in his system, his facial structure shifting slightly and his height rocketing to an impressive six foot one by the time he was sixteen years old. He was completely unrecognizeable.

Looming above others in the crowd at the Reaping for the second Quarter Quell, Lucky kept his eyes trained on the escort that made a show of circling the bowl before fishing out a card and reading the name off. Before anyone else could, he raised his voice and proclaimed: I volunteer as tribute! 

He fought off a few other District One males for the spot, eventually ascending the stage and grasping onto his female partner’s hand so they could hold them up together in solidarity. They were briskly brought to the train, and Lucky was relieved they didn’t make the time to say their goodbyes to their families, knowing that his own would be cross with him over his stunt. He learned on the ride back to his home, the Capitol, that his District partner’s name was Gaia. She was a stout little girl of fourteen who wore a bejeweled black jacket with striped slacks, making her appear older than she was. It was a little startling, the contrast between her young face and her adult bodice. She also didn’t like much conversation, at least not with Lucky, who always thought he dressed appropriately enough although Stella’s family had run their money dry in the past few years since his father had forgotten about him altogether and they couldn’t afford some of the finer things the luxury district offered.

Training wasn’t much different than how things were conducted at the Career Center in One, which made sense, though it was clear that special adjustments had been made considering this was a Quarter Quell. Still, the differences in each District’s tributes was more than apparent, as Lucky witnessed other Careers excel in combat, while those whose districts lay farther from the Capitol were much more skilled in survival; identifying plant and animal species, striking up campfires, and practicing knot techniques. He copied others whenever he could, dedicating some things to memory so he wouldn’t be a fish out of water in the arena, meanwhile Gaia stuck to what she knew best. He thought it was probably likely enough they’d separate during the Bloodbath, as she didn’t seem remotely interested in the Career Pack. She reminded him of his mother in that way, having heard the story of her Games countless time from the maids that once tucked him in, how she conquered the arena and won over the heart of the most powerful man in Panem all in one fell swoop. 

Interviews took place the night before the Games. One last gathering of all the tributes, where they could mingle with one another but mostly stuck to themselves, mostly concerned with acquiring as many sponsors as they could during their ten minutes in front of the crowd. Lucky watched as Gaia was introduced first, and as he lingered at the side of the stage one of the District Two tributes approached him.

“Good luck out there,” he had said, and Lucky smiled awkwardly in response. “Not that you need it. Your mother didn’t.”

As Lucky’s expression fell and his face paled, he heard his name being called over the loudspeaker. The sound reverberated in his ears as he was frozen in place, shoved forward by his mentor so he didn’t make the audience wait any longer than necessary. The world went from technicolor to static as he was introduced to Glint. 

His cheeks still swollen when he would smile with two missing front teeth, his knees always inexplicably bruised, and colorful bandages decorated nearly every finger. He had this thing where he’d chew at the skin around his nails until they’d bleed. That was one of his many vices, another one of them being the innate desire to climb and wander and touch every surface of the earth, which is what led to him scaling the willow tree in the suburbs they’d just moved to from New York City, where everything was gray and cold and you couldn’t climb anywhere, really. He reached his chubby arms up and latched onto each branch, one after the other, until he reached the tallest one and mistakenly thought it meant that he owned the world. The world would give a swift and unambiguous response by shoving him off the branch, and as he spiraled to the ground he realized that there wasn’t very much of a life he’d led to flash before his eyes.

He could feel the impact of his fragile bones against the hard ground, the snap of bone and the crack of teeth shattering in his mouth. Everything went dark for a while after the wire between his spine and brain got cut. He was floating, endlessly, uselessly, throughout time and space; this sort of in between that he liked to call the Middle. He stayed there for a long time. Longer than they had math in school. And even longer than it took to drive from New York to Virginia in the first place. Then, right when he thought everything would be boring forever, he woke up, and it was all blue skies and his mother’s big brown eyes that were wet with tears as she cradled him against her.

I’m still here, he thought, but he couldn’t speak for a while. He glanced up further and saw his father, who was consoling his wife, and then there was Tallulah, three inches taller than him and all gangly and awkward and with no place in this situation. He liked to think he learned a lot that day — but he would always wonder what his sister took from it. 

Life carried on. He wasn’t allowed to climb the tree anymore, even though he’d escaped relatively unscathed, only adorning a cast on his severely fractured left arm for six weeks, but it was okay because the kids at school would carry his backpack and lunch tray for him. Tallulah was around more often. She was a third grader, so she was always busy, yet she made the time for him. They would sit in his room during the after school haze in silence. She was always doing homework. He would watch her, observe the human noise she made. Breathe in. Scratch her nails against her temple. Breathe out. Glance frantically around the sheet of paper until her brain caught up and her fingers would flex around the pencil and scribble an answer. 

“Just because you almost died doesn’t mean you get to stare,” she spoke up. He hadn’t noticed she finished ahead of schedule. Of course she did. She was always an overachiever. She and their cousin Jules were the family jewels. Micah was widely regarded as a stain. “It’s rude.”

Rather than say anything, Micah issued a response by tackling her. She yelped and fought back, and since she was already nine and had swung on the monkey bars everyday at school, he wasn’t difficult to overpower. By the end of it, he had a chunk of her flesh between his teeth and she had a lock of his hair. They would never be in the same room alone again.

The second time he died happened two years later. He was eight years old but he hadn’t met the average growth percentile for his age group. They said he’d always be a little smaller. Which made sense when you think about how he ran after his soccer ball, even into the street, and could only see the flashing of headlights before his underdeveloped body was crushed by the grill of the speeding car. For a moment, he felt like he was flying. Then he was back in the Middle. When he woke up two weeks had passed, and he was sitting in a hospital bed with flowers and stuffies and cards surrounding him like he was a gravesite. He might as well have been. All that remained from the accident had been a jagged scar on his torso, from where the doctor said his spleen had ruptured and they needed to perform emergency surgery on him. 

He began to think this affliction had to do with how good he had been — which wasn’t very good at all. He didn’t listen to his teachers, because they never had anything interesting to say, he avoided his older sister, because she started it, he threw these nuclear fits in the middle of the grocery store when he’d accompany his father, because he never learned how to properly discipline a child like Micah, and the only person that could see through him was his mother, but she was too busy for him. That made him more angry. His Nana’s husband told him about this thing called karma, which was responsible for balance in the universe, and if you did good things, the scale would tilt in your favor, but if you did bad things, the scale would tilt against you. It would weigh you down.

Micah didn’t understand. He was little when he first felt a weight on him. Had he been bad all along? He tried his best for a long time. It was his first time living, too, after all.

His third death was unremarkable, because the only evidence of it had been his blood-smothered pillowcase. The doctors at the hospital said it was likely an aneurysm that burst overnight. He was miraculous for surviving it. No one else seemed to think so, minus his mother. 

“Why does this keep happening?” Micah asked her as she was tucking him into bed. He could still feel the crust of blood lining his nostrils. They stuffed cotton balls there in the hospital. They made him sound stuffy and stupid, said Tallulah. 

His mother perched on the side of his bed and reached out, her gentle fingers caressing his forehead as she brushed aside his overgrown bangs that he refused to have cut. “I don’t know, Meeks.” she answered honestly. “All I know is that you’re meant to be with us. I like to think I’ve known it since you were born, but something keeps thinking to remind me.”

Micah’s lower lip began to quiver as he cast his gaze up at her. “It’s starting to not hurt anymore,” he admitted.

She inhaled steeply and offered him a warm, tired smile. “We count our blessings where we can find them, don’t we, huh?” she said. “That’s what Nana always told me growing up. I’d get hurt a lot, too. Not like you did, but… We’re tough, Meeks. You might even be tougher than me. I don’t know where you came from, really.” A chuckle surpassed her lips and he perked up a little, because this time he knew the answer.

“I came from you.” he said.

The fourth time was the worst one he could remember. He was almost thirteen. It was late winter. All the trees were trying to come back to life, desperately sprouting leaves that would shrivel up in the bitter cold, and the breeze was only partially miserable to walk through on his way to school. A sleek black car pulled up beside him as he trekked uphill. He was wearing a cap and a puffy sweater that made him look bigger than he was, which boosted his confidence even though one kid told him he looked like a balloon. Before he could do anything, the driver rolled the window down and asked him if he needed a ride home. Not being entirely incompetent at these sorts of strategies, he declined the offer and carried on — but instead of narrowly avoiding disaster, he had fallen directly into the trap that had been set out from the moment he was spotted. The car drove around the curb and came to a sudden halt in front of him. He froze, watching in a daze as the driver grabbed him by the wrist and began dragging him ahead. He stumbled over his ankles, then started resisting, using all his might he’d gotten from following in his sister’s footsteps and climbing the monkey bars and the rope in gym class to get away, but he was still too small and weak.

His cries were silenced by a piece of cloth, which smelled like bleach and rubbing alcohol, the kind his mother would use for his fingers whenever they’d peel. He was thrown in the backseat and glanced out the window, the world dripping away like watercolors on canvas as the darkness engulfed him once more. The Middle was always eerily quiet, and with no place to go he would wander aimlessly until he awoke again. Wandering, he could sometimes hear echoes from the world he once lived in; his mother’s soothing voice, a doctor’s calm and collected reverence, his Nana’s singing. Those were the only things that kept him connected to the life he couldn’t ever seem to escape from, no matter how hard anyone had tried. 

When he came to, all he could feel was this heaviness surrounding his body. He opened his eyes and felt stinging immediately, and darkness still overwhelmed his vision. When he opened his mouth he swallowed something thick and nasty, and as he was forced to chew he realized it had been dirt. He was underground. Thankfully, it was a shallow grave, and he dug his way upwards with the minimal upper body strength he had after returning from the Middle. He coughed and sputtered and vomited grass and mud whenever he resurfaced, and as he looked down at himself he could see his t-shirt was bloodied and he’d been stripped of his jeans and sneakers. He reached up when he felt a divot in his throat. It’d been slashed. A deep scar remained. The only surviving evidence of what had happened. 

He was picked up by a well-meaning couple that already had children packed in the backseat of their minivan, so he knew they could be trusted. He said that he’d run away from home. He would have told them the truth if he could pick out the details of his assailant’s face, but it had withered the longer he spent in the Middle, and deep down he didn’t want to worry people more than he already did. 

When he made his grand homecoming, everyone was delighted to see him. He could feel every last touch, every press of skin against skin, and it made him writhe around uncomfortably, so he shoved everyone away and told them that he wasn’t a kid anymore — he didn’t need to be coddled after running away. There was a tint of white in his mother’s face when she realized her son had no other choice but to surrender, for the first time in his life.

School was different. The scar on his neck was visible and he excused it by saying he had an unfortunate encounter with a stray cat, which damaged his reputation but dissuaded others from haranguing him about it further. The only person that didn’t buy it was Tallulah, because above all things she was a know-it-all.

“I’m gonna figure it out,” she warned him as they waited for the school bus. Their twin cousins were with them. He wasn’t allowed to be alone anymore. (And Tallulah was still on probation.) “I hope you know that. I’m not stupid or blind like Mom and Dad.”

And maybe she wasn’t, but she never did learn what had happened. Maybe she lost interest at some point, Micah didn’t know, nor did he care. The older he grew, the less he seemed to think about life and death and karma and the universe as tangible things. It all felt like a thinly veiled illusion; a puppet show where everything was made out of construction paper and glue and glitter to make the ugly things shine brighter so people didn’t lose their minds watching it all unfold. 

By the time he was a freshman in high school, he had picked up the habit of sneaking out just to kill himself for the dopamine rush, as everything had lost its color. He used a popped out razor blade from one of his pencil sharpeners, felt the searing of it penetrating his forearm, witnessed first hand half his blood volume pour from the wound and stain the linoleum floor. He bought a rope after school one day and hung himself in the forest behind his house — a couple hours later he awoke in the same position, awkwardly dangling five feet off the ground, and had an embarrassing struggle trying to get himself out of the noose. He downed all the mood stabilizers he was given as a result and puked up stomach acid and blood clots until he asphyxiated and fainted. And finally, he stole one of his uncle’s poorly kept guns and shot himself in the head on the beach. He would watch the sunrise from the shore the next day with a migraine.

It was the last beautiful thing he thought he’d see before the world went static again.

He had made a bucket list of suicide methods that he had yet to try, and was contemplating on it one day before he heard chatter from downstairs. He closed his journal and shuffled into the hallway, looking over the railing where he could see his Nana and her husband and what looked like their entire extended family in the living room. Oh, that’s right. It was his cousin’s birthday. He had forgotten. It’d become difficult to retain much of anything after dying so many times. It didn’t help that he was a certified basketcase, either. Whenever he was spotted, his mother motioned him downstairs and he obliged her, going to greet his Nana first and then his cousins, who had shot up in height over the summer and leered over him at uncomfortably tall measures. 

Then, after greeting his step-aunt, he looked up and saw a pair of green eyes gaze down at him in return. He swallowed, suddenly hyper aware of himself, and he could feel his palms begin to perspire for no reason as he reached out to shake the stranger’s hand. Except he hadn’t been a stranger at all. They’d known each other once.

“M-Micah, right?” he stuttered out. How adorable.

Micah nodded slowly. “Oh. You’re Jae.” he said as it dawned upon him — the last time he saw Jae, they were still small, and he was often too busy being put in time out for them to spend any real quality time together. He still seemed the same, though. He looked… Well, definitely grown. But kind. There weren’t many people in his life he could say that about. Almost everyone had either a grudge or vendetta against him. So, he let his heart guide him for once, and he asked: “You wanna smoke?”

He could have probably gotten a sign-off sheet from his psychiatrist for a small dose of medical marijuana, but he much preferred buying it himself on the street corner like it was still the 90s. Plus, he got more that way. He didn’t want to have something as limitless as drug usage be mandated. Regardless it didn’t really matter, because no, Jae didn’t wanna smoke, but Micah was resilient and said he could watch him smoke and they could just talk, so they settled for that.

As Micah unearthed the baggie of weed he acquired over the weekend and grabbed his pipe to begin packing it, he couldn’t help but recall a conversation he had with Tallulah a few months before.

“I just don’t get it,” Tallulah said, her breath strained as she held the smoke in her lungs, gradually easing it out between her lips after she let it linger. “You’re so fuckin’ secretive and shit, like we’re not the only ones who know. Like you’re the whole reason we’re even here.”

They were sitting on the rooftop, which they had access to via Tallulah’s front-facing room. All the stars were at their disposal, constellations that had written stories which Micah had forgotten all about, only remembering the names in their simplest iterations. The Big Dipper. The Chameleon. The Lion. They had moved to Nylaende from Richmond two weeks prior at their mother’s behest. Tallulah had thrown a fit over it, so Micah offered her spliff as a peace offering.

“I figured you’d have forgotten about it by now,” Micah replied truthfully as he accepted the pipe that was passed over to him. He held it up to his chapped lips and inhaled, a cough sputtering out as the smoke ascended into the night sky.

“You were gone for three months.” Tallulah deadpanned. “There’s no fuckin’ forgetting that.”

Micah’s brows scrunched together in thought. It didn’t feel that long. Then again, time operated differently in the Middle. He figured it lacked a presence there whatsoever, but still. He’d assumed he would’ve been able to wager how long he was out for, but he never really gave it much consideration. His eyes drifted slowly to his peripheral, where he could see his sister’s expression in anguish, and although he couldn’t normally emotionally attach himself to others, he felt a panging in his chest for her then. It must not have been easy, constantly watching someone you love die while the rest of the world carries on. But that was life anyway, he naturally assumed she would understand that. 

Maybe the fact of it still wasn’t enough to dilute the unspoken bond between them. He liked to think so, in that moment. They hadn’t been the closest siblings, but she’s all he had, all he ever would have.

“You don’t wanna know the story,” he told her as he watched the cherry burn brighter and then blacken. “I hardly remember it, anyway.”

Tallulah didn’t appear convinced. “Try me.” she challenged.

He stiffened at her response, and then took another toke off the pipe. He had tried to eradicate the memories from his mind, push them as far back as they could go until they simply disappeared, but there was no ridding himself of that kind of torment. And now he had to decide whether or not it’d be right to extend that onto her. 

Fuck it.

“I was… Coming home from school,” Micah began slowly as he gave her the pipe. She’d need it. “Walking. Listening to music. Uh, Kid Cudi, I think. Anyway. This car pulled up and asked if I wanted a ride, and I said no, but… They followed me. Some guy jumped out and came at me and I — I didn’t know what to do. For once I didn’t know what the fuck to do. I froze.”

Swallowing, he glanced up at the sky and hoped his gathering tears would evaporate.

“... But I got it together,” he said, closing his eyes momentarily. “I got it together and I socked him in the nose. I ran away and I just… Didn’t turn around. Wasn’t thinking clearly. And I figured… What harm could the rest of the world do to me that I couldn’t do to myself first?”

It was a well-intentioned lie, and it worked numbers on Tallulah, who was a bright girl, but didn’t deserve to have all the intuition in the world so she could figure out what had actually happened.

“Never again,” Tallulah said as she took his face into her hands. “You understand me? Never again.”

“Yeah,” he nodded along, sniffling faintly. “Never again.”

BASIC INFORMATION.

GIVEN NAME: Niniane Claire Mercer NICKNAMES: Nini, Nini Weenie, Twin A AGE: 25 BIRTH DATE: February 11th ZODIAC: Aquarius ETHNICITY: Ashkenazi Jewish GENDER: Cis female ORIENTATION: Homoromantic demisexual RELIGION: Atheist SPOKEN LANGUAGE: Multilingual in English and French BIRTHPLACE: Las Vegas, Nevada HOMETOWN: Summerlin, Nevada OCCUPATION: College assistant professor (TA) EDUCATION: Master’s in archaeology

RELATIONSHIPS.

PARENTS: Adrien Mercer and Sydney Coolidge. SIBLINGS: Two biological siblings; George Mercer and Lionel Mercer (twin). SIGNIFICANT OTHER: None. CHILDREN: None. PETS: Homer, an English sheepdog.

PERSONALITY.

ALIGNMENT: Chaotic neutral INTELLIGENCE: Above average intelligence STRENGTHS: Witty, passionate, ambitious, respectful, resourceful, clever, courteous, innovative, enthusiastic, optimistic, amiable, adaptable, vivacious WEAKNESSES: Stubborn, indecisive, discontented, impulsive, erratic, self-indulgent, zany, dissonant, absent-minded, noncommittal, restless AESTHETIC: Always wanting for more, dastardly Disney prince, hands stained with blood and heart with tears, sunglasses hiding that cunning glint in your eyes, winning the battle before stepping into the fight, the battle between girlhood and godhood, the desperate search for love, jumping the train tracks, a loopy smile and an honest heart. THEME SONGS: Afraid by The Neighbourhood, Snap Out Of It by Arctic Monkeys, The Adults Are Talking by The Strokes, bad idea! by girl in red, 1980s Horror Film by Wallows, nicotine stains by second thoughts

PHYSICAL TRAITS.

FACE CLAIM: Maya Hawke EYE COLOUR: Blue HAIR COLOUR: Naturally medium brown HEIGHT: 5'8  WEIGHT: 135 lbs  BODY BUILD: Average TATTOOS + PIERCINGS: Lobe in both, and tragus, daith, and industrial piercings in her right ear NOTABLE PHYSICAL TRAITS: Freckles that span across the bridge of her nose and her cheeks

HEALTH.

ALLERGIES: Tree nuts SMOKES?: Yes, cigarettes and marijuana DRINKS?: Yes DRUGS?: Mostly hallucinogens  CHRONIC ILLNESS: None DISABILITIES: Dyscalculia (a learning disorder that affects a person's ability to understand number-based information and math) EATING HABITS: Learned how to cook for herself from a young age and relies on the few meals she rotates between a week EXERCISE HABITS: Works out every other day

PHOBIAS AND DISORDERS.

Dear Love,

I don’t remember the last time I wrote someone a letter. Maybe it was my ma. She’s always asking for me to write more, but I never know what to tell her. She wouldn’t understand any of what’s happened since I moved out West, and if she tried she still wouldn’t like it very much. I’m glad I have you around in that way; you understand, and you don’t judge me for the way I am. I wish everyone were like you. I hope soon you can read my letters on your own. That way we can properly talk shit about the people in our lives. I’m just kidding. Mostly. Have Cody write back soon. California’s lonely without you.

Yours, Riley

Dear Love,

I can’t believe you’ve got a baby now. Maybe when I get back from Kansas City, Rue and Jae can be best friends like the two of us. Tell Mikael I said congratulations. I’ll bring you back some of my pa’s good wine to celebrate! 

Yours, Riley

Dear Love,

Sorry it’s taken me this long to draft a reply. My pa came down with a fever the night before I was meant to hop on a train back. He’s doing better now, but ma was worried he wouldn’t last til the end of winter, so I’m staying here a little longer to take care of him. How’s little Jae doing? I’m sending a photograph with this postcard. Rue drooled on it some but it’s otherwise in perfect condition. You can look at it when you miss us too much. If you can, take a photo of you and Jae so I can do the same. I’m not sure when exactly I’ll see you again.

Yours, Riley

Dear Love,

I hope this letter finds you well. I miss you and Rue and Jae. I’m worried I won’t make it home for the birth, but I’m hoping for the best. Thankfully Colorado isn’t too far. The boys are giving me a run for my money, I think I might fall insane before we see each other again. Pray for me, would you? Your prayers always seem to work the best. 

P.S. If it’s a girl, I like the name Zelda. 

Your cowboy, Ridley

Dear Love,

It’s raining out and I’ve been stuck in my tent all day, so I thought I’d write you a letter. I know you said we’d talk when I got home, but you still seemed awfully mad, and to be honest I’m a little afraid of you. You’re a force of nature when you’re pissed, especially at me, and especially when I deserve it the most. I wish things didn’t have to be this way. I wish I could stay home with you and the boys and Zelda. But don’t you see? My work is what gives us our home. I’m worried if I quit, it’ll have all been for nothing. Just know that everything I do is for our family. Our life. And if you ever doubt that, just read this letter. Because I love you, and that’ll never change, no matter how mad you are. I think that makes me love you more.

              INTERVIEW WITH RIDLEY ALBRIGHT — 1/13/24

What is the most difficult thing about being a musician?

Probably the fame [chuckles]. I like to think I can handle my fair share of bullshit, but people really show you who they are when you’ve put yourself on a pedestal. But I don’t mind it that much, I used to be really into debate, so I know how to navigate the attention better than others I’ve seen.

Which song from your current album is your personal favorite and why?

“Videodrome”. And not just because of the solo I get. I think we really came out of our shells brainstorming ideas for it and even though it wasn’t the single we picked for radio stations or anything, I’m still proud of how well it does live.

How do you manage to maintain musical integrity while being commercially successful?

Remembering where you came from. Life wasn’t, uh, always like this, and it’s important to remember that it can be taken from you just as quickly as it was given. Kind of a cliché, but if I didn’t think about my scrawny college-aged self fighting just to make it through the day, I’d get in way over my head and it would drag everyone else down with me.

How do you deal with creative blocks or performance anxiety?

My sister helps me the most when it comes to anxiety. She has her own issues, but she always makes time for me when I most need it. I don’t really know where I’d be without her. When it comes to creative blocks, I mostly smoke a joint and see how far that gets me, and if I’m at a stand still, I just give myself the time I need to actually think and not force anything out.

How would you describe your style of music?

Um... Probably, like, post-grunge, alternative rock. We’ve still got fragments of grunge here and there in our sound, but for the most part we’ve evolved from just being tethered to one genre of music. I’d even go as far to say that we’ve dipped into hardcore with songs like “Light Me Up”, which was a lot more popular than any of us were expecting whenever it first came out. It shot to the top of the charts almost immediately.

Are any of your songs based on real events or people we might know? If so, can you tell us more about them without giving away too many details about the song itself?

[laughs] Definitely not anyone the outside world would know, but that might change with our next album, definitely. Everything on “Technicolor” is mostly based off of figures and experiences from our youth that, as musicians, we’re morally obligated to hold a grudge against in order to make a good album, and with that an even better story that’s tied into it.

                       INTERVIEW WITH EL MERCER — 2/15/24

Isn’t it true that with songs like “August Honey” and “Snuff 102” you really re-discovered Tom Petty and Heart for the younger generation that’d never heard them before?

Yeah. We really all channeled what we listened to when we were kids, or, well, what our parents would listen to and we’d be subjects of, y’know. Stuff that we thought deserved to be brought back to the mainstream.

At that time did you think you were going to be a writer and get into all your own things as you have?

I always had a certain fixation toward writing, but I don’t think I could’ve predicted all of this. Dreamed about it, sure. But knowing for sure where I’d end up? Hell no.

Your change in style came about when you thought enough people had been turned on to grunge?

I think our change came about the same time a lot of the grunge resurgence started. When there were no hit groups. We were grunge purists who liked ever so commercial things but never did them on stage because we were so horrible and so aware of being grunge purists, y’know what I mean? We used to be so surprised to hear other people do the same things we were doing. The thing is that the public didn’t know about any of this music because the record companies were issuing hundreds of singles a week so naturally most people missed a huge lot of them.

What were the first things you wrote?

The first thing was “REDROOM.” Well, that wasn’t the first thing we wrote but it was one of the first things we recorded that we had written. Also, “Things We Do in the Dark,” “August Honey,” which was a hit here. We were writing ballads, essentially.

Is there a central figure in your writing, someone you’re writing to or about in particular, or does it shift with each song?

I feel like I write everything for my younger self, first and foremost. Shit that kid would’ve listened to and thought, damn, this is sick. I tend to write more ballads for my dad, who died when I was sixteen-ish, because he loved that sort of stuff. He was big into David Bowie — who wrote some of the best ballads known to man, like “Wild is the Wind” and “Heroes”.

Do you prefer songs with a subtle or obvious message?

I’d say subtle. Sometimes I get carried away with flowery language that Gabe, our drummer, has to be like... Dude, no one knows what you’re talking about. Are you high right now? [laughs]. But that doesn’t mean some songs aren’t more straightforward than others. Like, “Antenora” is probably the most layered song I’ve written, and I think everyone gets the gist of “Apocalypse”, so, it varies.

I DON’T REALLY KNOW RIDLEY ALBRIGHT. But we went to the same high school, shared teachers throughout the years, classes, clubs, etc., etc., and despite being a drug addict — he’s reportedly an excellent guitar player. I’m the lead guitar, of course, because that’s how it was in my old band before my bandmates decided to ditch town after graduation a year ago and didn’t look back. Not that I blame them, I only wish they would’ve brought me along. Anyway, all of this has led me to the doorstep of a guy I hardly know on an entirely different part of town than I’ve come from. All the houses are fenced-in and have security cameras installed, much more higher tech than the ones attached to the mobile homes in the trailer park I’ve been living in since junior year, and their grass is finely cut and treated better than anywhere else I’ve seen in town. How does a dope fiend live so lavishly? I ask myself, before I think, his mother probably doesn’t know. And I'm right about that much, because whenever I approach the door and knock, scraping the bottoms of the same Converse I’ve owned since I was fifteen, she seems surprised someone like me is on their side of the tracks. I ask her if Ridley’s home and she’s hesitant to answer, but eventually relents and says he’s upstairs. I walk through the threshold and breathe in the warm scent of cinnamon and clove emanating from the living room, which is minimally decorated but still looks lived in. So maybe they are real people, and not robots that are simulating human existence. I thank her for letting me in and trot upstairs, following the sound of a distant guitar until I reach a door with a STOP sign mounted on it. It reminds me of the room I share with Gabe, where we’ve decked it out with every warning poster we could find at the thrift store. It’s kind of funny, his older brother has the same design choice on his door, and he’s twenty-five. I guess guys never really do change if they can help it.

I knock on the door twice, but the guitar doesn’t come to a halt. The sound echoes and I can hear a faint voice singing along, albeit off-key, however it’s not excruciating to listen to. I press my ear up against the door and close my eyes. I nod along to the beat he’s playing to. I know the song, I just can’t quite put my finger on from where. Maybe one of Gabe’s dad’s old, abandoned vinyl records that we put on when we want to drown out the rest of the world when we’re doing our homework or talking nonsense at each other. Whenever I snap out of it, I knock louder, and I can hear the screech of the amp and a bit of shuffling before the door is swung open and a lanky kid, still a little more built than me, in a Joy Division shirt and sweatpants stares down at me with deep brown eyes.

“... Can I help you?” Ridley asks. He seems a little twitchy. I wonder if he keeps his dope kits in his room, or if he solely participates outside his perfect dreamhouse. Probably won’t do me any good to ask him that.

So instead, I say, “I’m Ellie Mercer. We used to go to school together. At Thomas Jefferson?” There are two kinds of kids in Richmond — kids that went to Thomas Jefferson like normal people, and kids that went to Open. Despite his reputation in debate club and soccer, I’m really glad I’m not speaking to one of the latter variety. “I was two years under you.”

“Oh,” Ridley says as his brows knit together while he scans my face for any familiarity. When nothing sparks behind his eyes, he still opens his door for me to come in. “Right, yeah. What’s up?”

I look around his bedroom. There’s a full-size bed underneath an open window, a desk pushed into a corner with drawings tacked above it; a lamp looming over a couple journals, pencils of differing utility in a cup, and a suspicious looking lunchbox. There’s also a couple of band posters taped to the muted blue walls, like The Smiths (Morrissey is a fucking asshole, but he makes good music, much like most musicians — not us, though), Slowdive, and Deftones. I think he’s got a decent taste in 80s male manipulator music, which should be a red flag, then I remember I kind of worship David Bowie and even though he’s technically a queer icon, he’s also on the roster of the countless men in the industry who were total pervs.

“I’m in a band,” I tell him and he immediately seems disconnected from everything I’m saying, or am about to say. “It’s not like that. We’re really cool, except, well — our rhythm guitarist dipped and, y’know, we need one of those.”

His eyes dart around his room for a moment before he begins retreating to where his guitar is. I give it a once over; looks like a Fender Strat, which is fine, even if I prefer my Gibson Les Paul. “I don’t really do bands.” he says in return, scratching the back of his neck. A bead of sweat glistens on his temple. Is he sweating out a high or something? I wouldn’t know much about the heavier kind of stuff, I’ve only ever screwed around with weed and coke, if I tried anything more than that Gabe would probably strangle me in my sleep. Not that I’d mind. If anyone was going to murder me, might as well be him.

“Yeah, I get that. But we’re different.” I insist much to his disgruntlement. I don’t care, I’ll stay as long as I need, hold a fucking protest here if I need to. He sounded good. But I can’t make it obvious that we need him more than he needs us, not at first anyway.

“What’s your damage, then?” Ridley wonders, crossing his arms in a condescending fashion that I don’t entirely appreciate.

I clear my throat. “We’re garage rock at the moment,” I answer after a beat passes. He doesn’t seem totally tuned out yet. “Kind of punk? Still figuring that out. It’s me and my best friend, he’s the drummer. Gabe Lahey?” The name seems to snag on something in his brain, because his eyebrows lift and he suddenly looks enlightened. “The quarterback, yeah. He’s really into tacklin’ dudes and smashing drums. Oh, and our bassist, Cisco, but he’s kind of an asshole.”

He hums, and I take that as an initiative to keep talking. “We’re called The Missing,” I continue. “I’m the singer and lead guitar. I brought some of our songs.” I reach into my backpack, fumbling around with its innards before I grasp onto a crumpled piece of paper that I wrote REDROOM on. It’s our oldest song, and currently the only one on any streaming platform. It’s gotten a decent amount of attention on Soundcloud, and a humbling amount on YouTube. I tell Ridley this as his eyes scan over the words and the accompanying chords.

“You wrote this?” Ridley glances up at me. I nod at him affirmatively. “Huh. I guess you’re really into grunge.”

“Kind of,” I reply. “... A lot, yeah. Is it obvious?”

“A lot, yeah,” he mimics me with a snort. I like to think I have enough creative liberty to not copy and paste everything Kurt Cobain ever wrote, but, well, the music bleeds how it bleeds. I’m afraid if I say that to him, though, he’ll mock me even more for it. “It isn’t bad, though.” I perk up whenever he says this. “I dunno if I have time for a band, still. I’m in college and shit.”

I accept the paper whenever he hands it back over to me, carefully shoving it back into my backpack and zipping it up. Gabe will probably ream my ass later for not being more careful, but I have a better memory than he does on my meds so I can just copy it from memory whenever I want. “We’ll be in college in a couple months too. Unless... This goes well.” I motion between us, and he must think I have massive balls or something to already be suggesting he’s a part of the band, as a crackhead and all.

“My girlfriend would be pissed,” he adds. Now it’s my turn to snort and act all cocksure.

“She use your dick and balls as a gear shift or something?” I ask him and he pales a little. It’s satisfying. “If she’s a real one, she’d appreciate that you’re getting out there. And once we blow up she’ll really be impressed.”

Ridley doesn’t seem convinced at first. He eyes me, then my backpack, then the lunchbox on his desk, and whenever I don’t seem to disappear like a figment of his imagination, he realizes he actually has to respond to me. “... I have a sister,” he says after a couple of seconds of silence. “She likes to sing. If she’s in, I’m in.”

I stare at him. Another singer? We don’t have the fucking room for that, I want to say, but then I quickly comprehend that this is a business deal. And he’s been negotiating with people for much longer than I have, at least in a semi-professional setting. Still, should that make me shit my pants or something? I can just say no and figure out an alternate deal to get him to join. Then I think... What’s the harm in sharing the mic? If my dad were still around, he’d probably tell me to loosen up and stop being such a dude about it, because it’s already my band and I’ve had so much of the limited spotlight we’ve been offered. Rather than respond, I move across the room and scribble mine and Gabe’s address on the front of one of his journals in red sharpie, just so he can’t forget, and before I leave I tell him to come by before the end of the week if he’s seriously interested.

•

Wouldn’t you know. He actually shows up. His sister in tow, of course, which doesn’t surprise me but Gabe seems defensive at first from where he’s sat behind the drums. I give him an assuring pat on the shoulder that makes him bristle, and I roll my eyes. He’s so weird about that. Him and Becca have been broken up for three months already and he still doesn’t think I’ve caught onto the fact that Cisco got to him before I did. We’d basically been circling him like vultures for years, and I can’t say I’m totally cool with the fact he won. Not that Gabe’s a prize or anything — but shit, losing to our bassist in any capacity is a blow that lands low. Like, directly on my groin. Metaphorically and physically.

“Can you read sheet music?” I ask her before anything else and she seems caught off guard by the question.

“This is Manon,” Ridley introduces rather than acknowledge my question at first. “She’s only a year above you two. And she likes other kind of music.”

I can’t help but frown at him. “... Well, why’d you bring her here, then? Our music is our music.”

“Just give her the mic, okay? Let me see that,” he reaches a tanned arm out to snatch the sheet music from my hands, analyzing it while I nod to Cisco and he adorns a grin while plugging in the microphone and bringing it front and center.

I turn my head to look at Manon. “What kind of music do you like, then?”

She shuffles in place, her hands fumbling together awkwardly as she avoids eye contact with me. “U-Um, I don’t r-really know how to... D-Describe it.” she stutters out. Oh, fucking great. She can’t even speak correctly and I’m meant to trust her with a mic? Maybe Gabe was right, and that whole family does have a drug empire that they funnel through their kids. “Can I-I just sing?”

A couple seconds later, Cisco passes by me and hands her the mic with a charming smile that I wish I could punch off his face without worrying about the consequences, which would likely detail in me ending up bloodied and bruised. I step aside to where Ridley is, notice he’s taken the liberty of looking through the rest of our music catalogue, and find myself a little relieved in that, at least. Whenever he sees that we’re actually giving her a shot he straightens up and gives her a reassuring smile before handing us the unnamed sheet music. It doesn’t take me long to note that it’s a duet, so I step up to the mic beside her after slinging my guitar over my shoulder.

The intro starts in a flare of drums and guitar, and I begrudgingly nod along to Cisco’s bass before she opens her mouth and begins to sing.

“Baby, you come knockin’ on my front door, same old line you used to use before, and I said, yeah, well what am I supposed to do?” Fleetwood motherfuckin’ Mac. And she doesn’t sound terrible at all, she doesn’t trip up over any of the words. “I didn’t know what I was gettin’ into, so you’ve had a little trouble in town, now you’re draggin’ my demons down.”

I chime in with stop draggin’ my, stop draggin’ my, stop draggin’ my heart around, and I can see Cisco’s shit-eating grin in my peripheral and become quickly distracted again by the music before I can feel anything about it. I can’t fault him. We sound good together, better than we ever have, actually. I used to think I’d have trouble sharing the spotlight — seemingly that isn’t the case at all.

When the song is over and we all glance up from where we were focused on our instruments, I look to Manon, who seems bashful and reserved again despite mere moments ago flourishing within the electric high that all music gives to true artists. “... That was good,” I tell her.

“T-Thank you,” she bows her head down and focuses on her fumbling hands again.

REINA WAS, IF ANYTHING, A PERSISTENT CREATURE, vying for the validation of an inattentive father figure and relentlessly combing through every strand of long, black hair she found on the bathroom floor in a fruitless search for her mother, who had long since disappeared. Still, as if she left a part of her inside that house yearning for a connection, Reina would move along with the rhythm of a planchette across a Ouija board, trying to spell out the words that would summon her back into their lives. She was a peculiar case; her father made her aware of that at an early age, less out of spite and more out of a callousness that even his wife couldn’t smooth out with her soft, nimble fingers that Reina could remember intricately braiding her hair in the evenings and stroking her cheek so she’d fall asleep knowing she wasn’t alone. Her mother never made her feel like she was a stranger in their home, unlike her father, who made a sport out of humiliating her in front of those that came to visit. Ah, Rainbow. Not a thought behind those eyes of hers — all she does is wander around, asking me the same questions day in and day out, probably to write in that book she keeps. Oh, I have considered boarding school. I think letting her go to the local high school will toughen her up, though. If she can ever get out of her own head. 

Her favorite place in their house was the attic. She’d asked ad nauseam if she could move there, alas she was repeatedly shut down by her father, who assumed it only would’ve allowed her idle daydreaming to worsen. He called it woolgathering, though, which perplexed her at first before he explained that it meant she had an addled-brain. Tiresome of his semantics, she conferred with a dictionary she owned at the request of her school, and then found that it was just a more pretentious word for stupid. By the end of the week she was sleeping in a sack above her father’s master bedroom and refused to climb back downstairs for the entire weekend, which served as both a hunger strike and a reconstitution of life for the young girl: from then on out, she was the only person she would rely on. 

When she was old enough to attend Sweetwater High School, she signed all the papers herself and forged her father’s signature — a skill she acquired spending so much time with her nose buried in her notebook; a queer thing brimming with diary entries and drawings of things she saw in Eden County, like upside-down crosses and what she hadn’t recognized was the chemical compound for Bliss that had been painted on the sides of businesses on main street. On her first day, she wore her mother’s clothes that sagged in places she hadn’t grown into yet and combat boots that were a size larger than she needed, found in a box in a corner of the attic. She Dutch-braided her own hair, but before the bell could ring she heard a small clique of kids snickering at her appearance and she undid them in the bathroom. She glanced up in the mirror where her unpainted face stared back at her, tears developing on her waterline that she hastily blinked away. She hugged her jacket tighter around the sundress that hung off her developing figure and breathed in the faint scent of lemongrass that stuck to the fabric after all that time. 

Even when no one was with her, she never felt alone. Or maybe she did, but it wasn’t an unbearable loneliness, because she made good company for herself. She and all the ghosts that haunted her.

School was uneventful. Eventually, the staring dissipated, the attention span of an average high schooler whittled significantly by the world around them falling apart. This was the norm, however, something that even Reina was aware of. It was made even more apparent by the presence of the Chosen. She would see them sometimes on the walk home, standing on street corners in their plainclothes and untrimmed beards and unruly hair, singing a song that told the end of the world as they knew it. They were often brushed past, disregarded, but Reina could see in their eyes the shimmering of hope that she only ever recognized before in portraits of her mother. She wondered if her mother would ever believe such a thing. Then she wondered if she would ever believe it. The thought unsettled her, so she didn’t think about it again for a while.

One morning, she made an early appearance on campus so she could sign up for band as an extracurricular. She didn’t have any idea how to articulate with any instruments, but she was searching for something to keep her out of the house for longer. It had become increasingly obvious that her father was counting down the days until she moved out and he didn’t have to lord over his ex-wife’s shadow everyday, so Reina decided to pay him only kindness and mind her own way before she could legally leave. Upon approaching the board to sign her name as one of the few students interested in the class, a boy with bleach blond hair and blue eyes scooted up beside her, a sideways grin plastered on his lips.

“You’re Rainbow,” he said. She didn’t know how to respond at first. How did he know her? “I’m not a creep, I swear. We have the same homeroom. I’m Tripp.” He extended a hand for her to shake, which she lowered the pen to do. 

She offered him a demure smile and shrunk a little into her jacket whenever he pulled his hand away. “It’s nice to meet you. Are you... Signing up too?” she wondered, glancing back to the blank space where she had yet to sign her name.

“Oh, no way. I can’t even use chopsticks, let alone a tuba. Plus I’m a senior, I’d look pretty dorky around a bunch of underclassmen,” His laughter echoed in the hallway, which was meant to be silent as it was study hall, but she thought it was a nice sound. Charming. She hadn’t ever met a boy that awoke the butterflies that were long at rest in her stomach, and now it felt as if they’d all come alive at once. “Not you, though. You seem cool.”

Reina was taken aback by this analysis. Someone thought she was cool? “... Thank you,” she said, a blush painting her cheeks. 

“Did you wanna get lunch?” he asked suddenly. She stood, stunned, unsure what to say before her head began nodding and they were walking hand-in-hand out to the parking lot. 

They ate at a shitty burger joint on the outskirts of town, but she didn’t seem to mind. They had good conversation, something that couldn’t be said for what she had at home. She told him that she was only a freshman, but that one day she’d be traveling across the country in a van of her own with her notebook and a camera and find everything wonderful there was to see. He thought that was brilliant, that she was brilliant, because life was too short to idle in small towns forever and mull over everything you could’ve done rather than doing something when you still had the time. Most people don’t know when they’re in the good times, then they spend the rest of their lives trying to recreate it. You’re ahead of the curve, Bowie, he said. Bowie. She’d never had a nickname before. She could feel her stomach quicken and she cleared her throat, returning to her lunch with a growing smile on her lips. 

Tripp asked her to prom two weeks later. She hadn’t attended a school dance, mostly because she could never urge her father to lend her enough money for a suitable outfit, but this time she’d dug through his dresser drawer for spare dollars and found enough for a dress she spotted at the thrift store. It was ankle-length and a deep amaranthine, a piece that glimmered underneath soft lighting and was attached by thin straps over her shoulders. She’d settled for a pair of old, wrung out ballet flats that tied around her calves, and for two hours she sat in front of her bathroom mirror perfecting the makeup that had long since expired, not anticipating the breakout that would inevitably desecrate her skin. Whenever she walked downstairs, she beckoned the attention of her father, whose nose was buried in a book that looked to be about finances. She thought quietly how similar they were whenever he wasn’t thinking, then pushed the idea as far back as she could. 

“Daddy?” she spoke up, shuffling in place as his grey eyes drifted upwards. He scrutinized her under his gaze for a couple seconds before returning to his reading materials.

“Curfew is ten o’clock.” Was all he said in return.

Words gripped her throat, combatant words that wished she would open her mouth so they could slip from between her teeth. Still constrained by childish insecurity, she pressed her shimmering lips together and walked out of the living room so she could meet Tripp outside.

The dance was a relatively boring affair for the seniors, but for the underclassmen that were invited it seemed like a whole other realm was opened up to them. The gymnasium had a perfume of chewing gum shot through with alcohol, which Tripp had brought for the both of them in a flask that had his initials carved on it. She wondered where he could get such a thing, and he said it was a Christmas gift from his father. She didn’t know fathers gave such grand gifts to their children. She couldn’t even remember the last time they properly celebrated a holiday together. For her birthdays, she was always slid an envelope containing a fifty dollar bill, every year without fail. She’d been using it to buy more film for her mother’s Polaroid since she first discovered it in her attic, and that night she snapped a picture of herself and Tripp before they left for the dance and gave the photo to him — he put it in his visor, so he could see it every time he drove his car.

Tripp took a swig out of his flask, offering it to her once he’d swallowed. Slowly, she reached out and unfurled her fingers so she could clasp onto the metal and sink back a sip. The taste was sharp on her tongue, citrus and peppery notes burning the back of her throat. He laughed as she scrunched her nose up and coughed into her elbow. Despite the initial reaction, she was emboldened to keep drinking, and so they would trade the flask every few sips until she felt her vision double and standing up had become a sport. He gave her his arm to hold onto, and as a slow song played and echoed within the confines of the gym she rested her head on his shoulder and swayed pleasantly to the beat. 

When it hit nine-thirty, Tripp lured her away from the crowd and wrapped an arm around her waist so she wouldn’t stumble so much, leading her back out to his car. She was lifted into the passenger seat, smiling deliriously at the Polaroid of them that she saw whenever she turned her head toward the driver’s side, where Tripp quickly made a place for himself. They drove for a while, much longer than the time it took to return to her house, but she seemed to have lost track of time as she closed her eyes and focused on keeping her dinner in her stomach. They came to a stop eventually and she pushed herself upwards in her seat. Ahead of them she could see a cliff’s edge, below them the millions of twinkling lights of Sweetwater’s shopping district, and above them an untouched sky with a full moon casting down a heavenly glow unto her. 

“Have you ever done this before?” Tripp asked, the scent of alcohol lacing his words. She didn’t quite know what he meant. Because yes, she had been in a car, but no, she’d never seen Sweetwater quite like this before. She had always been much more invested in nature than residential areas. But when he clambered over the gear shift and lifted her dress up past her knees, she realized what he was asking, and she felt her tongue go numb in her mouth as she shook her head. He seemed prepared for that answer, as he reached into his pocket and placed a plastic wrapper between his teeth to rip open clumsily, reaching between them and fumbling with his belt as he left wet kisses on her jawline and neck. Next, all she could remember feeling was a deep panging in between her legs and his harsh breathing as he rocked against her. At some point her entire body went slack and her head pivoted toward the window, and spent a while counting each star in the sky until he had finished. He pressed a kiss on her forehead, like she’d been an obedient pet, and rolled off of her so he could drive her home. 

When she had the wits to sit up again, the soreness in her thighs began spreading to her core, and the first thing her eyes locked on was the time on the dashboard: 10:05.

                                                     🍃

Her father banished her to her room for the rest of the semester following the incident. She couldn’t say she was entirely upset about it, although she longed for the notebook she left upstairs in the attic, except she wasn’t sure what she would’ve written exactly. Her memory of prom night was mottled and all she had to remember it by was the feeling that lingered between her legs for a few days after the encounter. Eventually, the faint panging subsided and was instead replaced by extreme fatigue and nausea, keeping her bedbound for an entire weekend as she tried sweating out a fever that didn’t exist. Her father’s new girlfriend had commanded even more of his attention away from her than normal, which left her alone to suffer in silence. It wasn’t until she nearly hurled on the floor of third period French that one of the girls who she’d exchanged pleasantries with before followed her into the bathroom that she discovered the culprit for her sickness.

“You know, you should take a test.” The girl said, blonde hair dyed half-pink being flipped over one shoulder nonchalantly as she leaned against the wall beside the sink where Reina was attempting to gather herself. She could recognize her as the band teacher’s daughter — she didn’t garner much attention before she transitioned the year earlier. “One of my friends got knocked up at homecoming, I biked her to the clinic downtown. They're super discreet about it. And they give out free condoms, too.”

Reina’s dark brows furrowed at the other. “A test?” she asked bemusedly. 

“A pregnancy test. God, I’m so glad I don’t have to deal with any of that,” she blurted, then caught herself and gave a bashful smile. “But hey, you’re not alone. Half the girls here treat getting pregnant like it’s an achievement. It’s Sweetwater, y’know? Nothing better to do.” she said as she patted Reina’s shoulder in passing, moving to leave the restroom.

A lump formed in her throat and she stared at herself in the mirror. She could feel the ghost of her mother hugging her then, in the form of that jacket she always wore, rain or shine, and for once she wanted to be rid of the extra weight. She emptied her stomach again before returning to class, her palms perspiring under her desk as she rubbed them together as she contemplated venturing into town to find the clinic that was mentioned before. She couldn’t focus for the remainder of the day, preoccupied by the worries that festered in her mind, and as the last bell rang she mounted her bicycle and moved in the opposite direction of her house, toward the heart of Sweetwater.

The clinic was an easy find, as it had a sign at the front depicting the symbol for female and the words ‘Hope Clinic’ pasted on the glass door, which had been spray-painted with an upside-down cross that she so often saw around town yet didn’t quite know the meaning of. She parked her bike outside the building and wrang her fingers together for a few seconds before she made up her mind to enter, glancing around at the other women who populated the waiting room; they all looked fairly normal, besides the uncomfortably pregnant women that were likely there for one of their final check-ups. She tried to envision herself in that position, carrying something so heavy for so long, and the thought made her shiver. 

She slowly approached the front desk, unable to find it within herself to smile. “I’m here — for a test.” she sputtered out eventually.

The clerk glanced up at her with narrowed eyes. “What kind of test?” she asked in a monotone. 

“... A pregnancy test.” she said quietly.

Without asking anything more, the clerk grabbed a clipboard and thrust it toward her, to which she accepted it and went to sit beside a mother of two with another on the way. Her brown eyes kept flickering over as she wrangled her children that played at her feet, distractedly filling out the information they needed. When she was finished, the older child reached for the lace of her boot, and Reina gave them a soft smile in response as she gently tugged her foot away and returned the clipboard to the front desk. She was instructed to wait in the same seat she’d taken, advice she heeded as she waited for her turn to be seen. The mother beside her was called in first, and she watched the two children waddle after her. 

She glanced down at her hands, picking at the skin around her nails. She could never be a mother. She was abandoned by her mother, hardly stomached by her father, and Tripp only seemed to like her best in low lighting. How could a child love her? And how could she love a child in return? She would’ve liked to think it’d have been as easy as everyone said it was — you’d see them and you’d know. But she was reminded incessantly that she knew nothing, and she would probably remain that way for the rest of her life.

After a handful of others were called back and dismissed, her name was spoken and, as if she were in a classroom, she straightened her posture and stood up, walking with her backpack into the exam room. 

“How are you... Rainbow?” A nurse asked as she entered the room, taking a pause as she read the patient’s name and brushing it off as an alias, then closing the door behind her as she began readying a needle. 

“... I’m okay. How — how are you?” she asked in return.

The nurse chuckled at the question as she adjusted silicone gloves onto her hands. “I’m doin’ well. Now, I understand this can be a difficult thing, but we’ll be here with you every step of the way. Alright?”

Reina swallowed thickly and nodded. “Alright.”

Her blood was drawn next, which made her lightheaded but wasn’t unbearable. She then waited patiently in the exam room as the results were processed; during which she pictured her mother in this position, fifteen years before, wondering how she felt whenever she discovered she’d be having Reina. She wondered if she ever doubted herself, or felt regret or remorse for choosing the man she did to bring a child into the world with. She wasn’t sure if she could raise a child with Tripp — not after prom night. Although she couldn’t fully comprehend the severity of what’d happened to her, she knew that something shifted between them that couldn’t be easily fixed. 

By the time the results were ready, her step-mother must’ve been making comments on how careless she was for staying out later than she was permitted, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care very much. She had pulled her arms out of her sleeves, allowing her jacket to be worn as a blanket around her shoulders as the shivering worsened. The nurse had a neutral expression, though Reina could swear there was a glint of dourness in her eyes as she sat.

“The test did show that you’re pregnant,” the nurse informed her. “Six weeks along. I understand this is a hard thing, Rainbow. But I have some questions to ask you.”

Reina clutched onto her jacket and nodded along, giving the nurse permission to continue.

“Do you have anyone we can call for you?” she asked first, to which Reina quickly shook her head. “Alright. And do you know who the father is?” She was met with an affirmative nod. “Good, you’re doing good. Are you safe? Is he forcing you to this appointment?”

She continued to shake her head, refusing to allow tears to form as she huddled further into her jacket. 

“Did you have a plan?” she asked. Another shake of the head. “Well, we offer counseling for this sort of thing, and there are options for you. Do you know your options?”

Reina may have come across as dim-witted to nearly everyone in her life, but she knew what people did with babies they didn’t want. “I — I do.” 

The nurse nodded, skirting around her so she could pull a machine up beside her. Reina didn’t recognize it at first, as the screen was turned away from her, but when she spotted the wand that the nurse had equipped she realized what it was designed for and visibly stiffened.

“It’s alright, I just want to make sure there’s nothing wrong,” she was assured. “You don’t have to look if you don’t want to.” A cold gel was applied to her stomach when she was coaxed to lift up her shirt, breathing shallowly as she felt the wand slide against her stomach.

Eventually, she turned her head and glanced up at the nurse, whose expression had remained stagnant throughout the visit. “... Can I?” she inquired meekly.

The nurse gradually moved the machine so that Reina could see the screen. A grainy black and white picture was shown, moving back and forth as the wand was adjusted over her stomach. She could feel her heart begin beating in her throat whenever the fetus was pointed out for her, and when she was asked if she’d like the images printed, she said yes before she could think twice.

She left the clinic as the sun was setting, biking home and basking in the steady flow of wind that kept her motion sickness at bay. She didn’t give any excuse as to why she was gone for so long once she’d returned home, just climbing up into the attic and moving to tear off one of the still frames from the strip of pictures so she could paste it in her journal. As she closed the page, she could feel tears slide down her cheeks, and she didn’t bother wiping them away as she laid down to sleep — for once, hoping she wouldn’t dream about anything at all.

Two days later, she caught Tripp during his lunch hour and asked him if he was free to talk. He offered to drive her out for food, but not only had her stomach waged war on anything that wasn’t water, she also didn’t feel comfortable embarking in another car ride with him. Instead they stood outside the band room, underneath a peachleaf willow tree that she could remember scaling as a child, her mother’s guiding hand on the small of her back so if she fell, she could be caught and saved. She wished she felt that safe then.

“What’s wrong, Bowie?” Tripp asked her, having taken note of her mournful expression. “You’ve barely called or texted. I was starting to get worri—”

Rather than speak, she reached into her jacket pocket and unearthed the ultrasound pictures, handing them over to him. “That’s from... A few days ago.”

Tripp’s eyes focused and unfocused on the pictures. “Are you — kidding me?” he asked breathlessly. 

“No,” Reina said, trying to gauge his reaction better before he moved forward to hug her. 

“It’ll be okay,” Tripp replied as if he was trying to convince himself more than Reina. “We’ll do this together. I’ll be by you every step of the way. When — when’s the appointment?”

She began to frown, pulling herself out of his embrace. “Appointment?”

“... You know,” he said. “The abortion.”

She froze in place and remained silent for a while, which seemed to be all the confirmation that Tripp needed. He switched up so quickly that it startled her, his hand clasping around the picture and crumpling it within his grip. “Bowie. You can’t have this kid. It’s — we’re both in high school — you’re just sixteen—”

“Maybe you should’ve thought about that before prom night.” she blurted.

“Really? You’re gonna fucking use that against me?” Tripp hissed. “We both wanted that. But neither of us want this, trust me. I’ve got college and you’ve got the rest of your time here, I don’t know how you could even think about—”

He rattled on for a while. Eventually, Reina tuned him out, letting him rant as she breathed in and out slowly, trying to regulate her pulse. He took notice of this, however, and reached out to force her to look up at him. She kept a brave face despite her fingers beginning to tremor. Was it the cold, or fear? She couldn’t tell. 

“Bowie, we aren’t doing this. We can’t.” he said, and before she could give a proper response he began leading them away from the school and toward his car. She was screaming at herself internally, desperately pushing on the brakes that didn’t seem to function as she was brought closer and closer, escorted into his passenger seat and buckled in whenever it didn’t seem like she would be moving on her own volition. “It’s gonna be okay. It’ll be okay.” he reassured himself in a murmur as he closed the door, walking around the front of the vehicle and bringing a hand through his hair.

She didn’t say anything during the car ride to the clinic. For the longest time she was all she had to keep her safe, and now look where she’d ended up. Maybe her father wasn’t wrong whenever he pinned her as a stupid, lackadaisical girl, coasting recklessly through life searching for a purpose that would never come. Her mother would never come back, no matter how many times she scoured their house for clues of where she might’ve gone, her notebook was a pitiful attempt at stringing her nonsensical thoughts together, and everything she did sequentially ended in failure.

When they arrived at the clinic, the rest of the afternoon felt like a blur. She went in alone and signed herself in. A different nurse greeted her this time, and she was soon asked the same questions she had been before, except one stuck out to her: Is anyone forcing you to do this? She ruminated on the question, considered her options in the moment, then shook her head in response. After signing a few more forms, she was brought further into the clinic and offered an anesthetic that would keep her incapacitated during the procedure, which she opted for rather than remaining awake. 

She dreamed of her mother while she was under. She saw her round, happy face and the soft brown eyes that she’d inherited, and she could feel her hands cup her chubby cheeks and stroke them soothingly, then moved her fingers so she could brush her curly black hair behind her ears. Are you still looking for me, my little Rainbow? Don’t worry. I’m right here. You aren’t alone anymore. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt such peace. And when she woke up, she began doubting she ever would again, as after she waited the allotted time following the procedure and walked outside, Tripp’s car was nowhere to be seen. 

Collapsing on the curb, she held her head in her hands and began to hyperventilate. She was far too sore to make it back home on foot, and she had no close friends that could give her a ride. As the tremoring in her fingers worsened, she reached for her phone and slowly dialed her father’s number. He answered on the last ring.

“Daddy,” she let a sob rip out of her chest. “I — I need your help.”

Within ten minutes, her father’s car was parked in front of the clinic, and he rushed out of the car and picked her up himself so he could situate her in the backseat, not wanting to burden her with any seatbelts. On the drive home, Reina was asked more questions, none of which she wanted to answer, and for the first time it seemed like her father could accept that. The strangest thing of all was that he seemed genuinely concerned. She couldn’t remember another time when she witnessed him truly shaken. Tears prickled the sensitive skin around her eyes and she shed a few tears as they made a careful drive home, where her father would exit the car and move to carry her inside the house. His wife began wondering what had happened, but he promptly ignored her and instead made a B-line for the attic access, where he brought his daughter up the stairs and carefully guided her to her mattress.

She shuffled as he was tucking her in, and he hissed for a moment before catching himself and swallowing his gut reaction instead. 

“Goodnight, Rainbow.” he said softly.

                                                            🍃

As time went on, things returned to their natural state of being. Tripp graduated. He didn’t say goodbye to Reina, and all she knew was that he was heading further west for college. She finished her her sophomore year, then her junior, and eventually it was the summer before her senior year and she had a lot of decisions to make. While she and her father had established peace in the passing years, the damage inflicted upon her still festered and it had become increasingly obvious they’d never achieve a typical relationship — so they kept their distance from one another. So much so that one day, he would end up losing her entirely without even noticing.

It was partially her fault, she would admit, as she was biking close to sundown in search of her favorite thrift store. She’d made plans with the band teacher’s daughter, Adrienna, to attend her first ever concert and was thrilled to find a suitable and affordable outfit before she passed by the clinic on the way there. She’d gone by it plenty of times since that fateful day, feeling next to nothing as she hadn’t allowed herself to, but this time was different. At the front of the building, two people were spray painting a message: on the door, another upside-down cross that she had once obsessively scribbled in her journal, and on the brick wall the words: THE COLLAPSE IS COMING.

She had begun to push on her bike pedals before one of the chains made a squeak and alerted the attention of the two vandals. She gulped noisily and tried to get her bike back into motion, but she couldn’t make it to the curb as one of them stepped ahead of her.

“You look like someone that could use a pick me up,” they said. “What’s been going on, friend?”

Reina’s brows fixed inward and she shook her head. “Nothing. I don’t need anything.”

“I think you do,” they started approaching her, and in response she took a few cautionary steps back. “Hey, it’s alright. We aren’t going to hurt you. I know a true believer when I see one, you know. The Father says it’s one of my better qualities. That and painting.” they chuckled.

“The Father?” Reina echoed.

They nodded at her. “He’s here to guide us. People like you and me. People that understand there’s no escaping what’s coming next without him. People that need people.” they enthused, the timbre of their voice drawing the young girl in. “You just seem lonely, is all. You don’t have to be.”

Reina steadied herself on her bicycle, giving them a once over. They smelled odd — like grass and chemicals. “I’m used to it.” she decided to answer. Except that didn’t seem to be enough, as they beckoned their companion over and the two had officially outnumbered her. “I should be going.” she said, kicking her bike into motion again without thinking twice.

Before she could ride past them, however, one of them brandished what seemed to be a dish rag and held it over her mouth and nose, muffling her protests as she was dragged off her bike and onto the sidewalk. She flailed around helplessly, her jacket that she’d finally grown into hugging and squeezing her tightly as she fought as hard as she could against the fumes that were beginning to permeate in her lungs.