IN, OUT, IN, OUT. Gunfire blazing, ringing in his ears, hot flashes of heat flaring against his skin, wolves come crashing down on all sides. Deep breath in... hold four counts. A flash of teeth in periphery. One, two, three, four. Blood spraying onto the snow, hissing with steam, red rubies dotting the glittering white. Out... one, two, three, four. So much of it... gurgling from the throats of children, a river tearing a deep gash of carmine froth across the endless white. In... hold four counts.

Things fall apart before sunrise.

The world's getting too small. Closing in, swallowing the air. It's getting harder to breathe. Crumbling all around him, pieces to pieces, memory as sharp as a knife, slicing through his skull, flashing behind his eyelids. There's too much dark ebbing at the corners of his vision. Too much dark. Too much blood. Blood everywhere. Slashed across the snow, staining his hands... so much of it... a sea of blood and guts drenching the sky. Everything's red.

Somewhere in the world outside, a bird squalls like it's trying to wake something beneath the ground. Somewhere in the world outside, a girl is bleeding from her temple, bruising her knuckles on the baker boy's nose. Somewhere in the world outside, the rising sun bathes the snowy-capped mountains in an iridescent halo. Light pours over District 2, sending the night-shadows back to their hiding places, creeping through parted curtains, and with it, the weighted knowledge that this is another beginning where innocent children pay penance for sins that were never theirs to repent for.

Somewhere in the world outside, silver banners are being put up over the Square where the Reaping ceremony would take place later in the afternoon but Atlas can't hear all of that in his world of shadows and darkness inside the closet. Can't hear all of that as the murderous fingers of memory carded through his hair, staking into his scalp so every time he shuts his eyes all he sees is the blood on his hands and the same scene that haunts his fever dreams. Crouched at the bottom of his closet in the dark, knees drawn to his chest, hands clapped over his head, pulse roaring in his ears, heart pounding so loud against his ribs like it's threatening to punch its way out, every heave of his chest sending the pain piercing through his body, every panicked inhale feeling like he's losing all the oxygen in his lungs, every sobbing exhale feeling like the world is crashing down on him again and again. Rocking back and forth, back and forth—

Back in that fucking arena. Snow for miles and miles, all silver lining but no luck on the horizon with a sun that never sets. A snowstorm blowing in from the North, and with it, the girl from District 1. When the storm hits it is without mercy. When the girl closes in on him with her spear in hand, his feet are stuck in the thick snow, and they're the last two tributes standing.

In all his fever dreams before his helpless sight, she plunges at him. Guttering, roaring, choking on her own blood. White eyes writhing in her face, sagging like a devil's sick of sin, drowning in her own doom. He forgets her name, but he knows she's equal parts vicious and victim.

Back and forth, back and forth. It comes to him in flashes. The war cry tearing from her throat. Breathe in, hold four counts. The arc of her spear flashing in the unerring light. One, two, three, four... His blade knocking it out of the air. Breathe out, four counts. The girl lunging, a second spear in her other hand. One, two, three, four. His blade running through her ribs, slicing her in half. In, four counts. Blood and guts spilling onto the snow, writhing in a puddle of red. Out, four counts. The canon booming, signifying his victory. But there's so much blood he can't tell if he's dead or buried or both.

"Fuck this," Atlas grunted, slurring his words. Drawing in a shuddering breath, his chest trembles, and he shoves the closet door open and tumbles out into the bomb site of his bedroom, clutching at the corner of his bed and getting to his feet shakily, like a newborn deer learning the mechanisms of its scrawny legs. "Fuck this."

Forty-five and I'm still cowering in the goddamn closet like a kid about to piss his pants, Atlas thought, bitterly, as he staggered into the bathroom, half-collapsing against the sink. Drained of energy, he gripped the sink so tight his knuckles blanched as he glowered into the dust-speckled mirror as if his incendiary stare could melt the glass. More specifically, melt the man staring back at him in the reflection. Exhaustion etched in the lines of his age-worn face, the pallid discolouration of his cheeks, lifeless blue eyes, the gaunt features and the shadows pooling in the hollow spaces of his cheeks, the purple bags under his eyes indicating a chronic lack of sleep. Against his forehead, his dark hair fell limp and dishevelled. Atlas raked a still-quaking hand through it, watching as it falls into its usual parting. Tired and sad and defeated. This was not the look of a victor of the Hunger Games. This was the look of someone who belonged in a coffin.

I wasn't always like this. Atlas' jaw flexed as he ground his teeth. I used to have life, and now I don't know where it's all gone. I have a daughter who's just like me, and I had a wife, and I was happy. Or, I thought I was. Where'd that all go?

Except he does know what happened between the two different eras of his existence. A strip of space scorched black of life and escape, a rift carved between things that used to be and things that should be and things that exist now—and it's growing, every day that he wakes up and locks the demons away. If he could forget all of it, he would.

But today was not a day that would let him forget. Today, the Games takes him by the throat and puts him in its chokehold once more. Time and time again, it keeps him in shackles and doesn't stop electrocuting him with paralysing fear. These skeletons in his closet threatening to break free. Today was the Reaping ceremony for the 3rd Quarter Quell, and both him and his daughter would be sitting on that stage amongst the other victors of District 2. A pedestal of glorified killers.

It's with that thought that Altas violently flinches away from the sink. Away from the mirror and the man with blood on his hands and too many faces in his nightmares haunting him, and wanders in a sleepy haze of disconnect into the kitchen, pulling his jacket around him as the frigid morning air nips at his scarred skin. Even though he's still shaken up, step-by-step, piece-by-piece, he puts himself back together.

Shuffling towards the sink, Atlas fixes his gaze on the view outside his window. With the press of a few buttons, the coffee machine on the counter chugs and whirs to life.

From the kitchen window, they had a view of the mountains stretching across the horizon, separated from their backyard by a crystal-clear lake that rippled with the wind blowing through District 2. Atlas watched the sun rise between two snowy ridges, and inhaled slowly.

When he'd come back from the Capitol to collect his winnings, he'd personally requested for a house on the edge of Victor's Village, away from the other victor's houses. Away from the centre of the District and all its noise. After all that blood and too little room to breathe, all he'd wanted was open space. From there on, he'd promised himself he'd work it all out. When he turned twenty, he found himself a wife. When he turned twenty-six, Alecto was born. Normal. A long time ago, the Games, the glory, all of it, was everything he could've wanted. Wanted so badly he bled for it, hours spent skipping school just to practice shooting guns, throwing spears, enduring the cutthroat competition and the gruelling training in the academy to be the best, to be the top of his class. Back then, it'd all been blind devotion, false propagandising of the Games as something godly. Like all the other kids who didn't know better, he was naive, plagued by the delusions of grandeur. He hadn't known he'd sold his soul to the Games and now there's no getting it back. Despite the grandiose illusion solidifying into something corporeal and present, all that he'd wanted after achieving his childhood dream was a sense of normalcy. And to forget. Funny how things work sometimes. In hindsight, if he could go back and undo everything—erase the killings, unmake his Career mindset, keep quiet instead of volunteer for the Games—he would. In a heartbeat. And he'd undo Alecto's Games, too, if he had that power. Erase all of it. Live a normal life. Eke out a better existence. Poor was always better than traumatised.

Lost in thought, he doesn't hear the knock on his door as he pours himself a cup of coffee. Until there's a loud bang of someone pounding their fist against the slab of wood and Atlas' mind flashes back to the arena, back to the canon that sounded off each time a tribute died, and his world begins to spin out of control.

"Stop it," Atlas muttered savagely under his breath. He didn't trust his hands to keep still enough not to spill all the coffee, so, with shaking hands, he sets down his mug. He let out a frustrated sigh as he shuffled towards the front door, mild irritation tugging at his features. Stop it. You're not there anymore. You are at home. You are safe. Nobody's coming to kill you.

When he opens the door, the first thing he saw was Alecto, bruised and battered and covered in dirt, in handcuffs. Multiple cuts crosshatched her skin, as though she'd taken a tumble down a rocky slope, but the most prominent injuries were a bright red slash over her right brow and the bruising around her split lip. A river of dried blood snaked down her temple, staining a few locks of her dishevelled hair, stark against her pale skin and white-blonde hair, and her clothes were streaked with filth. Atlas' heart deflated.

The next thing he sees are the Peacekeepers flanking her on either side, a baton clutched in each of their hands. One of them lifts the protective visor on his helmet to reveal a familiar face wearing the same grimace Atlas has seen about eleven times. And about eleven times, in this exact same situation. Alecto seeking trouble, trouble seeking reckless impulse of some form, impulse inviting violence, violence involving Peacekeepers and the subsequent escort back to their doorstep.

"Morning, Heller," Hector, the Peacekeeper, greeted grimly. They were old school friends who hadn't quite fallen out of touch and had drinks together at the local pub on occasion to reminisce about simpler times. Each time he'd caught Alecto and brought her home, the punishment was always kept to a minimum as a favour for a friend.

Atlas scrubbed a hand over his face. Somehow, the debilitation weighing on the slope of his broad shoulders seemed to multiply tenfold in the time between now and since he opened the door. "Do I even want to know what happened this time?"

Despite the question being directed at her, Alecto said nothing. Her expression remained carefully blank, and yet, Atlas could detect the blazing traces of a lethal rage glistering faintly in her ice blue eyes. The same glimmer of rage that she had in her eyes each time she exploded into her violent fits of anger.

"We found her beating up the kid at the cheese stand in the Square half to death," Hector filled Atlas in before the silence could grow more hostile than it already was. "Kid said he didn't have any goat cheese. Said Alecto just lost it, went batshit and straight-up attacked him. Lucky for him, the healer was around, checking out the herbs stall. Healer said the kid broke two of his ribs, fractured his trachea, would've seriously punctured his lungs if we hadn't intervened in time. And that's only the two biggest injuries he'd sustained."

Tipping his head back, Atlas heaved an exhausted sigh. "Look, tell the family I'll cover the medical bill. Send them my apologies." He knew it wouldn't make things any better. Their kid was still broken. But bones healed. Bruises faded. At least the bill wouldn't take a chunk out of their family earnings if Atlas paid for it. Some families couldn't afford to fix their broken children.

"I'd say that's for the best," Hector said, nodding. Keying in a code on the chunky handcuffs securing Alecto's hands, Hector released Alecto, and let her go. The first time Hector had brought Alecto back to Atlas, he'd made the mistake of nudging her towards the door. One lethal fact about Alecto was that she didn't like being touched. That day, if Atlas hadn't been there to see the knife Alecto pulled out from under her clothes quicker than a blink, Hector might've lost his hand.

Hector watched Alecto storm into the house, brushing past her father on the way in without ceremony. When she disappeared out of sight, Hector sucked on his teeth pensively.

"She's getting out of control," he said, lowering his voice, mouth pressed into a thin line. "You gotta keep her in check, man, sooner or later I wouldn't be able to excuse her antics as accidents anymore. We can afford to be kind of lenient because I've been your friend since elementary school, and we do understand that she participated in the Games. We get that that shit messes you up bad, but... this is the eleventh time this has happened in public, Heller. Plus, she's nineteen already. She's not a kid anymore, technically. It's getting a little difficult to keep covering for her."

Pursing his lips, Atlas let out a long exhale through his nose. "I know. I'm... working on it."

Frankly, that couldn't be further from the truth.

Truth be told, Atlas didn't know what to do. Everything was so out of his hands, spinning and spinning out of control, gaining velocity and he didn't know how to catch up. The biggest mystery till this day was his daughter and that fractured, twisted mind of hers. Something dark had claimed her, spat this monster of a girl out on his doorstep, and nothing was the same. His world in shambles fell apart even more.

Hector fixed Atlas with a pressing look as he turned to leave. "Work harder."

Rolling his eyes, Atlas closed the door on Hector's face.

When Atlas wandered back into the kitchen, Alecto was washing an apple in the sink. But she's distracted, staring at something out the window overlooking their backyard. More than two years ago, before she'd entered the Games, he'd reprimand her for not paying attention to her surroundings. Always keep your eyes open, even when you're sleeping, he'd tell her. Now, easing slowly into her peripheral vision so he wouldn't startle her, Atlas reached around Alecto and shut the tap off without saying a word.

Turning her icy gaze on him, Alecto stared her father down, jutting her chin out in defiance, like she was challenging him to do something. To hit her. To scream at her. To do anything except demand to talk, which was what he had been trying to do since she got back from the Games. Since she shut her mouth and never opened it again except to eat and drink. But Alecto never wanted to talk. She wanted to hold onto her rage, sparking at her fingertips, to feel only the anger coursing through her veins because anger was better than pain and grief and fear. But her father had lost his sparks a long time ago. He never got angry. He was only stern and rigid when dealing with her.

Leaning his hip against the edge of the counter, Atlas regarded his daughter with a stern look.

"You can't keep hurting people like that."

Alecto stareed at him for only an endless minute before her eyes cut away, evidently disinterested in what her father had to say. She got bored easily.

Atlas grabbed her chin, forcing her head back to him so he could look her in the eyes. He bent down to her height, so he could meet her eyes on the same level. Instinct kicked in, and Alecto clamped a hand around his wrist in warning, but Atlas was stronger. If it were anyone else, he knew she would have no problem breaking their wrist without batting an eyelash. But he was her father. And he was also a victor. He'd earned his life. If anything, Alecto refused to take more from him. So she just left her hand there, fingers staking into his flesh with a warning of what she could do if she wanted to, but wouldn't. Teenage defiance she never grew out of.

"Look at me," Atlas said, gravely, looking her in the eyes. They were blue, just like his—the only physical trait she'd inherited from him. Everything else was her mother. Most people thought blue eyes were pretty. But Alecto's were not the charming cerulean pools people fell in love with. They were iceberg, hypothermia, a promise of a quick death, harsh and piercing and cold. Most people flinched away from her stare, as they did with his. He frowned. "Do you understand what I mean? You cannot afford to explode on someone like that again, alright? You keep doing that and Hector won't be able to save you. There comes a breaking point in tolerance and I don't think I like the idea of what waits for you on the other side of the glass. I can't afford to lose you, do you hear me?"

Alecto's jaw flexed, but she held her father's gaze. Since she'd emerged from the 73rd Hunger Games a victor, Alecto had her own house in Victor's Village. And since she was an adult already, she had every right to take residence in it by herself. But she'd chosen not to. She'd chosen to live with him so he wouldn't be alone with his demons. Even though she never spoke anymore—not even to him—Atlas liked to think the fact that she chose to stay by his side meant something. Meant that he wasn't as far away from reaching her than he'd thought.

"Will you say something?" Atlas plead in a broken murmur. Something inside cracked with his voice. "Please?"

Alecto swallowed. A shadow passed over her face—a convoluted wave of emotions flickering in her eyes, and for a moment so slight Altas thought he'd imagined it, the icy expression she hadn't stopped wearing since she got out of the arena turned liquid—but as soon as it was there, it was gone in a blink. Her features hardened into the indecipherable ice fortress once more. He's lost her again. Now, she looked back at him like he's the enemy. Shutting him out again.

Digging her fingertips into his flesh hard enough to leave bruises, Alecto wrenched Atlas' hand away, and, in a thundercloud of fury, turned sharply on her heel and stormed back into her room.

AUTHOR'S NOTE.
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