you can always bleed a little more.

My eyes ache with the weight of unshed tears /
You are my home, do you not understand?

THE FRUIT GARDEN PATH / AMY LOWELL

﹙ chapter two, act one ﹚

darkmoor, district eleven.
july, 70 att.

                    MARA GOES NUMB TO THE WORLD. The rain pours down harder than ever, the droplets running down her face as she stands there. It's as if she's been thrown against a brick wall, the air knocked cleanly from her lungs. As realisation slowly dawns on her, as her fate becomes terribly clear, she begins to hope that she merely misheard Antonia. This can't be happening.

                    "Mara Cayden!" Antonia calls out once more, her voice carrying over the whispers of the crowd.

                    But, it is.

                    Parts of the crowd, the ones who've seen reaping after reaping, they know. They remember the misfortune of the Cayden family, and murmur words of pity to each other. Antonia clearly doesn't. There must be some kind of mistake. It was her name out of thousands.

                    "Mara Cayden? Where is she?"

                    There really is no denying that it's her, and Mara can only stand there, struggling to exist. She's felt like this before, only for something far more innocent. Harvest-time, a few years ago. It's always the worst, with schooling cut back to make way for fruit picking, which on weekends could last well into the early hours of the morning. Harvest is when people drop down from exhaustion and don't get back up. That day, they'd all been called into work when she should've been starting her first lesson at school. Night had long since fallen when she collapsed, and not even the threat of punishment could stop her.

                    Next thing she knew, she was falling to the ground, landing on her back. It was as if every breath of air had been knocked from her lungs, and she lay there, struggling to inhale, exhale, and get up before somebody found her.

                    It's how she is now, unable to speak, her own name bouncing around the inside of her skull. Another girl is casting a pitiful look her way ─── she must've stumbled, and she's realised who she is. While the cameras search, she stands there, still and blank, as if nothing happened. As if the escort hadn't called her name, as if she isn't going to die.

                    Slowly, numbly, she steps forward. There's no need to push; the crowd parts easily to make way for her. Countless dark eyes trail her as she slips on the puddles and rights herself. She's not going to burst into tears.

                    She won't, she won't, she won't. She doesn't recollect climbing the stairs, even as she does so. She doesn't remember staring at her feet as they automatically carry her, shuffling towards the escort and the podium, because that has to be someone else. Certainly, she won't remember Antonia's joyous welcomes, the pats on the back, however much they pierce her ears.

                    But she remembers the stares. ( The world is particularly cruel to the Cayden family. )

                    She stands next to the escort, who grins widely at the crowd while she puts an arm around her. Mara doesn't think to brush it off, she can barely string together a coherent thought. Up close, Antonia is not nearly as beautiful; her makeup is powdery and textured rather than smooth, and blonde colouring pokes through the roots of her hair.

                    Antonia makes sure to glance at the cameras, enjoying her moment in the limelight, before following the same script she does every year. "Any volunteers?"

                    Silence, utter silence. She didn't expect much more.

                    Antonia continues, undeterred and unsurprised. In all her years as an escort, there has never once been a volunteer. "Well dear, how old are you?"

                    "Fifteen." Her usual voice is gone, replaced with a monotone that does not belong to her.

                    "And how are you feeling?"

                    "Terrific." She deadpans in response. She sounds lifeless, emotionless ─── more like her father than herself. Antonia seems to think she's joking as she giggles, patting her shoulder; it dies out as her expression doesn't change.

                    "Well," she says, adjusting a brooch on her dress, fiddling for a moment. Looking up, she beams, realising that the tribute has no intention of saying anything else. They never do. "Give it up for Mara Cayden everyone!"

                    She begins to clap daintily, and is met only with burning stares and utter silence; it's an unofficial and unspoken rule to never, ever, clap. It's the only rule that has never been broken ─── she dwindles out once more.

                    For a moment, her smile drops, as if she was expecting this but is still disappointed. As soon as Mara properly notices however, it's quickly propped back up, and she doubts she ever saw it at all. She heads over to the other side of the stage, where the glass ball is filled with the male slips, wobbling slightly in her high heels.

                    The other glass ball is equally ─── if not, more ─── overflowing than the female side. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, for the male tribute!"

                    Once more, her dainty hand dives in, and she searches through the mountain of paper. Her nails grasp a particularly crumpled piece, and she holds it up. She unfolds it, glancing at the cameras and the crowd, before reading it out. "The male tribute is───" she mutters under her breath about the dreadful handwriting, squinting to read it, "───Avens Fida!"

⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹ ⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹⭒

the orchards, district eleven.
september, 64 att.

                    THE EXECUTION WAS HOURS AGO, AND MARA CANNOT UNSEE THOSE DEAD, GLASSY EYES. They're branded into the back of her eyelids, breaking into the surface of the poisoned waters in her mind. Unrelenting, incessant, taunting. No matter how far she runs, they always catch up, haunting her.

                    This is your fault, they whisper, voices curling in her mind. You played a part in this. Do you regret it?

                    What sort of a question is that? Of course she does. Mara cries her little eyes out that hazy night ─── she has far too many reasons why. The still-healing cuts on her back, only just scabbing over, threaten to split every time she moves and burn violently when she's not. There's never any winning. The wind slowly dries her tears and the leaves rustle in something almost like a lullabye. Hidden among the thick green foliage, resting her broken form against the branches; she curls up into a ball, tucking her knees into her chest.

                    Mara can see why everyone seems so cold and stiff now. It's her fault. The words ring in her mind, resonating in her bones. People are colder now, and she is freezing up. The frost spreads, dusting the tips of her fingers with a blue tint. It races up her limbs, her insides, turning flesh to cold stone. The ice reaches her mind, her heart, and she now has something else to mourn; who she used to be.

                    She has hidden herself so that nobody may find her, unless they know where to look. The only real company is the birds; she is a small, dark shape that shakes and sniffs, icy tears racing down her cheeks. She tries to be quiet, to go unnoticed, but it doesn't quite work.

                    He notices her, when the other fruit-pickers don't ─── why would they, too busy keeping their heads down. Even if they saw her, it would be risky to stop. Fear is a fickle thing; and it's too easy to ignore other people's problems. That's the way it is, and how it always will be. She'd do the same.

                    He thinks she's interesting. Maybe he's too curious for his own good, and he's dooming himself. Maybe he's saving her. He's a year older than her ─── a few months, but it places him in the year above her ─── but he's known her name long before today.

                    But, she's a girl, and he's always too nervous to talk to girls. The words come out wrong and all he receives is a confused look. She's crying, and not as pretty with her puffy eyes and trembling hands, so maybe that's why he approaches. Still, he doesn't risk it by speaking, only offering her a pear from his basket, one that will go unnoticed.

                    He doesn't know what he's getting himself into.

                    After a pause, in which he awkwardly clears his throat, she looks up. Of all things, she didn't expect a boy she's never spoken to sitting there with a small, but kind smile and an outstretched hand. For a moment she doesn't know what to do ─── why is he being nice to her? She takes the offer anyway, clasping the ripe fruit with both her hands, savouring every nibble that reaches her starving stomach. She would say thank you, as her mother has told to always be polite, but she doesn't. What's the point; mother isn't here to chastise her anymore.

                    Besides, she isn't planning on talking with anyone. He doesn't know that, though, asking: "What's wrong?"

                    He receives only silence, gently marred by the rustling of leaves in the late summer breeze. Voice gentle, he tries to push a little further. "My Ma says that talking always helps."

                    A minute shake of the head. She does little more than nibble away at the fruit and meet his eye every so often. To his credit, the boy tries for a lot longer than she expects ─── he tries to make further conversation. Soon the night darkens, the shift ends, and he leaves as well.

                    It was better when he was there.

                    A few days later, she recognises him by his smile, which is brighter than average. She also remembers his eyes, kind and dark; he now haunts her twisted dreams too. She doesn't particularly like or trust him, because she owes him something. As her grandmother says, someone you owe is someone you can never trust. ( She also says, when the door is safely shut and locked, that the district owes a lot to the Capitol. )

                   Therefore, adhering to her words ─── while Mercy isn't nice, she's rarely wrong ─── she tries to avoid him. But now she can't stop seeing him, though no further words are passed between them.

                   That is, until she's assigned to the same acre as him a few days later, in the orchard dedicated to oaks, and they're bound to run into each other at some point. She's many things, but prideful isn't one of them. The whole day is spent picking without a single sight of him. But when night falls and she puts on her goggles, he seems to appear out of nowhere. She takes a breath and crosses over to him where he's reaching for an apple, navigating the branches with ease. Mara clears her throat to get his attention, and takes off her goggles so she won't have to see his reaction. It's awkward already, and she hasn't even begun.

                    The boy turns to her, surprised, and a little pleased too. "What's up?" he half-says, half-whispers, because they shouldn't be caught talking.

                    She pauses, unsure of what exactly to say. "Well, I───" Her confidence dwindles and embarrassment floods her cheeks, dusting them with rosy shame. She fiddles with the loose threads at the hem of her shirt. "───wanted to say thanks."

                   "Oh? What for?"

                   "A few days ago. I, uh . . . never said thanks. It was nice."

                    The boy blinks, thinking; then remembers: " You were crying that night."

                    Mara nods, gaze still searching the inky darkness, anywhere but him. She hears him reaching for another fruit, placing it in his basket as he speaks. "Yeah, that. Don't worry 'bout it."

                   "Thanks." She says again, before exhaling with a small laugh. After a pause, she adds, "I don't even know your name. You never mentioned it."

                   "It's Avens, Avens Fida." He says, and she can see his smile when she puts on her goggles.

                    And so, the two are bound together, for better ─── or for worse.

⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹ ⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹⭒

darkmoor, district eleven.
july, 70 att.

                    AVENS FIDA IS LOST IN A TRANCE. His features were already laced with sorrow once her name was called; now that it's his, he's frozen in a state of empty terror. The other boys around him send mixed looks of pity, relief, disappointment. Avens is well-liked; his death will be mourned by many. The rain lashes down, as if trying to beat the ground into submission, and the drops run down his face. It could easily be the sky's tears.

                    But the trance is broken, and he displays nothing more than a slight determination as he steps forward shakily, making his way through the crowd. As he nears the stage, his steps become strides, his face morphs into one of more ease; it doesn't go unnoticed. By the time he stands next to Antonia, her distaste becomes delight as finally, a tribute isn't dull or weeping or angry.

                    Standing on her other side, the two don't dare look at each other; from now on, they must be strangers to the rest of the world. If only, Mara thinks, we were.

                    This time with more enthusiasm, Antonia asks: "So dear, tell me, what's your name?"

                    An easy-going grin slowly grows on his face; he's always been a brilliant liar. Avens appears much more collected than any tributes in the past. "Didn't you just read it out?" the words are laced with just the right amount of humour.

                    She's known him long enough to see past his beautifully crafted mask. Antonia doesn't; she giggles shrilly, her orange-painted lips spreading across her teeth. "I suppose I did! How old are you?"

                    He smiles at her, and then to the cameras, as if they are old friends. She'll never know how he does it. "Sixteen."

                    Antonia opens her mouth to continue, however is cut short as a large man stumbles onto the stage. He trips, large limbs flailing over each other, with a resounding thud!. Instantly, he rights himself, pulling a face at the cameras trained on him, giving Mara a proper look at his face. He's tall, enormously tall, and burly; his face has features just a bit too large to look ordinary. His face is marred on one side with a scar, and his left arm comes to an abrupt halt just before where the elbow would be.

                    Chaff, one of two victors from District Eleven, and a famed alcoholic. True to form, with his swerving walk as he stumbles towards the podium, he's drunk. He pushes Antonia to the side, and perhaps her expression would be funny were it not the reaping. Addressing the entire nation of Panem, Chaff only has a few words to offer: "Fake!" He shouts, leaning heavily on the podium. It's hard to tell if he's talking to the crowd, or if he's taunting the Capitol.

                    He vaguely gestures to Mara and Avens behind him, wearing identical bemused smiles. "They're . . ." he searches for the right word, face falling into a frown. "Real! More than you at least!"

                    Come to think of it, she's never seen Alec like this.

                    That concludes his eloquent speech; Mara's mild amusement only increases as he hugs Antonia, who pushes him away, embarrassed. He kisses Seeder on the cheek, and sits on the Mayor's lap. It's comedic, she supposes; the Mayor's scandalised face and Antonia's mortification almost bring a smile to Mara's features.

                    The escort is dying inside and internally begging to be bumped up a district, to one where there are no drunk victors who make a mockery of you in front of the entire nation. The Mayor is quick to shove Chaff away, resuming his haughty expression, nose upturned. He finds his seat, sobering quickly as Antonia gives her final remarks, desperately trying to regain some sense of professionalism.

                    "Everybody give it up for the tributes of District Eleven, Mara and Avens, competing in the Seventieth Annual Hunger Games!"

                    She finally catches Avens' eye, and finds she has to look away. Those are the eyes of a friend; not any more. They're going to be forced into an arena, and will, in all likelihood, kill each other. There will only be one victor. And, she'll be dead in a month. Fate is mocking her, wickedly grinning, saying: now Mara, it's your turn!

                    Her face is blank, revealing nothing as a gloved hand leads her away. She is careful to wipe away any shred of emotion, patching up all the cracks in her mask ─── because if she doesn't, it'll shatter beyond repair, and she'll fall apart. And it's better, isn't it, than sobbing uncontrollably and looking like some kind of weakling? It's better than pretending that everything is okay, and holding her head high ─── only to die in the bloodbath, another disappointment to add to the list of fallen names.

                    It's better than succumbing. She knows her every move will be watched eagerly, therefore she must choose how she wishes to appear ─── until then, she will model herself as a statue, unfeeling and untouchable.

                    The white, armoured hand firmly forces her away from the crowd, the stares, the whispers ─── soon, they reach the deathly silence of the Justice Building. She didn't see the Peacekeeper come up behind her, and a curling fear ebbs at her. Their soulless helmets haunt her dreams, cold and impassive, filling bodies with lead. It's hard not to fear them. Resisting the urge to turn around, and run away into the endless corridors ─── the larger, smarter part of her knows that would be futile ─── her feet move for her, forcibly guided by the Peacekeeper. She follows along, too numb and yet feeling too vividly.

                    Dead in a month.

                    The Justice Building is the richest place in the whole district, and it shows. The walls are a dark oak, and lined with gold-framed portraits of past mayors, strangely similar to the current one. There's a surprising amount of them, and Mara supposes it's not a long-term job. The floors are covered in thick, emerald green rugs, with brown tassels, the colours of the district. Elaborate chandeliers hang from the arched ceilings, each holding electric candles. The whole building is ornate, but without any taste. It nags at Mara how rich the Mayor is, and yet how starving he's willing to let his subjects become. It's becoming easier to hate him.

                    It's only when she distantly hears a door slamming that she finally comes to a stop. She and Avens have been left in a small room branching off from a main corridor, one even more dull than the rest she's seen. It's decorated mostly in various shades of brown ─── the walls, the table, the sofas. The two couches face each other, with a coffee table between them; the two tributes sink onto them respectively. Mara feels the supple leather, briefly considering how much more it cost than her entire home.

                    Leaning back and swallowing hard, she takes in the rest of the room. Shelves line two of the walls, filled with books that no one will read, cast-iron lamps attached to the walls, giving off a warm yellow glow, and no windows. They wouldn't want their prime source of entertainment escaping, would they?

                    There's even a fireplace, which is a show of sheer wealth; it's useless in the climate, where the water is always lukewarm. The chimney leading up from it, unused, is adorned with framed pictures ─── black and white at the top, then changing to colour after the first few. Each depicts two people ─── rather, children ─── ranging from young children to new adults. Despair is alight within their frozen eyes, identical misery upon every face.

                    Mara realises, with a jolt, that they are the tributes of years past. She wonders when her picture will be there too, the last trace of her.

                    Dead in a month.

                    "So," Avens says, voice wavering, tapping his knee nervously. He licks his lips, unsure of what he wants to say. What is there to tell, other than impending doom? "It's . . . you and me."

                    "You and me." She echoes hollowly. Meeting his eye, he gives her a look she can't quite decipher; it could be deep dread, sorrow, or regret for what will happen. They aren't friends any more, even if they were a bit closer than that ─── now, they are enemies. How Mara wishes Antonia had called out someone else's name.

                    "We'll win this, you know." He says.

                    Mara notices the we, and adds it to the list of lies she's been told. "Ave," she leans forward, exhaling, sorrow written across her features. "There aren't any cameras here. You don't need to pretend."

                    Actually, that's only another lie ─── there's no way that the Capitol would risk missing any gossip to feed their excitement ─── but she doesn't bother to amend her statement.

                    He frowns, brows pulling together. "I'm not."

                    Dead in a month.

                    "Either you're lying or you're stupid." Mara says, harsher than she should be. "Which is it?"

                    There's a lengthy pause. "Neither."

                    He's then led away to another room for his goodbyes; no doubt there are more people to see him than her. She's left all alone. The metallic voice of a Peacekeeper disrupts the silence in the air: "You have ten minutes."

                    Mercy looks far more aged than ever ─── the lines on her face deepen, her frown becomes more miserable, and she drags Alec behind her with what Mara knows to be an iron grip. She hobbles over and sits beside her; she forces Alec down with considerable force given her thin frame.

                    "Girl," she says sharply, leaving no time for feelings or farewells. Her eyes flash darkly as she tells her: "You get in that arena and you run. You run as far as you can from them all. You find water and food and outlive them all."

                    No tears, just advice ─── though the way she says it, they're more like instructions. That's what they are. Maybe Mara just wants to know she cares. It's a sorrow of its own kind, and she forces it away to where she won't feel it as she nods, eyes downcast. "Edible plants and the like?"

                    "You know what's good and what's not." Mercy says. "Stick to that. Don't kill, don't engage. Survive."

                    She does her best to ignore Alec, who has been watching the scene play out before him with more intensity and alertness than she has seen in years. His eyes, which were once cold and empty like the halls of the Justice Building, have something simmering beneath them. It's not fair; he doesn't get to be there now, when it's too late. He lost the opportunity long ago.

                    "Water is your best ally," Mercy continues, not sparing a glance to the slowly reawakening Alec. "Not anything else."

                    Or anyone else.

                    "And you mustn't get on anyone's bad side, or───"

                    "Gran," she interrupts, cutting her off mid sentence. "As great as your advice is, it doesn't matter. I can't win."

                    Mercy pauses, her weathered expression unreadable; she seems lost for words for a moment. "Don't say that. Don't you say that."

                    "I won't!" Mara is on edge, teetering at the side of a cliff. She glances below, the sea speckled with scars, where treacherous rocks jut from the water, laying in wait for when she falls. The wind calls to her, rustling her hair, whispering words she'll never understand, but she does; she knows, and she knew as soon as her name was called. The wind at her back, carrying her, she jumps, and relishes in the freeing feeling. "I can't."

                    "You know what it'll be like. Okay, say I make it to the actual games without losing my mind ─── and sure, maybe I get past the bloodbath with enough luck, but then what? I run and hide and hope they don't find me? They're smarter than me, and stronger and faster and some have been killing since they could hold a pencil. What do I have against that? Oh yeah, good aim and I can go for ages without eating. And if, by the tiniest odds, I win, then I know who won't."

                    Dead in a month, and it might not be her.

                    Mercy exhales, rubbing her temples, refusing to meet her eye. "Don't go talking like that, if not for me, then for yourself. Believing you'll die will only make sure of it. Look," she says, drumming her fingers on her walking stick. "You're a lot of things, and my granddaughter is one of them."

                    Mercy has never openly said that before. It's so minute, but it stops Mara in her tracks.

                    "My . . . family, I suppose. If you're gone, then I'm left with this lump." She jabs a bony finger at Alec, who seems rather vacant ─── and, more closely, a little offended too ─── but more alive than in years. Mara, of course, doesn't notice, her attention solely focused on Mercy, taking in every word as if it's gold. It is, if she's honest.

                    Mercy looks distinctly uncomfortable, but carries on. "And," she says, choosing her words with great care, "It's hard to hear you talking about it this way. You remind me of me, and I want you to try."

                    There's a stunned silence, in which Mara can't tell if she's in heaven or in hell. She swallows the lump in her throat, almost unsure if she's heard her correctly. Careful not to overstep, she pulls her into a hug, relishing in the most affection she's had since too long ago. The old woman doesn't quite know what to do, yet doesn't push her away, gently patting Mara on the back, awkwardly ─── but reciprocating nonetheless. Even if her death is quickly approaching, she feels a little lighter.

                    "Okay." She whispers.

                    It only takes one glance at Alec to ruin the delicate moment. Her heart hardens once more. "We haven't got long left. Are you even gonna say anything?" She secretly hopes he has nothing worth saying ─── does it really take the reaping, of all things, to bring him back to her? And if he speaks, Mara couldn't care less about what he has to say. Only, she does, very much.

                    Oh, why can't she hate him, even when he remains silent?

                    She scoffs. "Figured as much."

                    Words will not save whatever remains of a relationship they have, and nothing will go back as it was. Both have been burned by the flames, and no amount of sweet talk will ever fix that, nor will time patch things up completely. They are ruined, brought upon them by his episodes stretching months, years, and maybe he wants to forget it all. If he could ignore it, it would be easy, but it would also be a lie. What he's done, he's done ─── but he can show that he at least cares. 

                    He looks to her plaintively, deep sorrow scarred into his aged features. It's something, more than nothing. It's ugly, and she doesn't know exactly what it is ─── but a small, very small part of her rejoices; her father lives. And it's real, it exists, just like herself and the lamps lighting the room.

                    That small spark of joy is quickly stamped out; she begins to wonder what took him so long. Why wasn't he there when she needed him, when she needed a father? Why does he only come back when she'll be dead in a month? Alec isn't stupid: he knows that whatever he says will only make her angrier. He's caused her enough pain already.

                    Instead, he takes her hand in his, smaller and more calloused. He holds it softly, as if too much force will destroy it. Mara doesn't know if she's imagining it, but he physically feels warmer, like blood has begun to flow through his veins once more. He takes something small from his pocket and slips it into her hands. It's metallic and circular; withdrawing curiously, she holds it on the flat of her palm. It's a small, simple metal ring, crafted by two wires wrapping around each other ─── no beginning, no end. It's worn and scratched and rusted, but she recognises it instantly. Her mother's old wedding ring.

                    Alec has brought it to every reaping, but has never had to give it to her; he'd hoped he wouldn't have to.

                    "My token?" She asks, turning it over in her hands. Tokens are one thing each tribute may take with them from their district while competing in the arena, typically holding some sentimental value. This one holds enough to make it heavy, despite weighing almost nothing. It's a better send-off than she would've thought.

                    Alec nods, the corners of his mouth drooping down; he knows that time is running out. She's sure that Sephone would approve ─── she can almost imagine her smiling sadly down at them, from somewhere up in the sky, an afterlife where she is forever at peace. She doesn't know what to say.

                    "Time's up."

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 :
( 4,815 words ! )
ah,, avens has been reaped😫 && we learn
who he is to mara and vice versa ─── they
have been friends for several years . in very
early versions of inured (before publishing)
the opening scene was conversation of him
and her,, but that was quickly scrapped as i
wanted to  focus on mara's family  dynamic
then him second. the flashback  has always
been awkward to write ─── i have no idea
how eleven year olds would actually talk in
that situation ─── but i'm pleased enough
with how it's turned out. i  wanted to leave 
the friendship  mostly hinted & implied ( as
well as other  events in the cayden family's
past).

avens is an oc of mine that was once, tbh,,
 just  there for emotional  shock value ( sue
 me, i was preteen when i came up with the
basic ideas  so they were  rather lacking  in
any real depth. ) but i wrote his story,, and
started to expand on his own thoughts and
backstory and way of thinking, i really have
grown to love him as much as he has grown
as a concept in my mind !  their dynamic is
loosely based off katniss & peeta, but i was
 limited with how much i could show this as
they're being reaped, which takes up a lot
more thoughts. more interactions to follow!

&& finally, before i yap too much, we have
a little development  with mercy  and alec
which does warm my heart writing it but it
is sad how little it takes to surpass mara's
expectations of them. particularly with her
father alec who's complicated and tortured
and dealing with his own problems - but it
doesn't excuse his emotional absence ! he
has brought that ring to every reaping but
to me, that's only a small gesture compared
to the much wider issue he is. but still mara
can never bring herself to hate him.,even if
she has every right to ─── why write smut
when complex dynamics are right there🤲

anyways,, thank you for reading, don't
forget to vote and comment <3