A/N: Hello everyone. This is a small piece that came to mind while listening to the song "Shattered" by Trading Yesterday. Don't know where it leads. Could be continued or not.

Warning: Drug and alcohol abuse. Might be triggering to some degree. Dark. Read with caution. Not beta-ed yet.

If anyone wants to burden him- or herself with being my beta, feel free to write me. I have high expactations, though.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, Veronica Roth does.


1: Yesterday I died; tomorrow's bleeding


Tick. Tick. Tick. The clock on the ugly concrete wall opposite to the blood and sweat stained mattress grinds his gears but lethargy and so much anger make him motionless – helpless really to stop the time. Is it a man's fate to find his bane in these measures? Seconds, minutes, hours. And all a rush of blood in veins. Pumping with exhilaration, with anger, with so much pain that sometimes the wish to stop is the only reliable thought left. The churning of the stomach, the clenching of the hands – time ticking. Tick. Tick. Tick.

With all the might there is and a bit more legs straighten and bend to push the body into a standing position. Muscles, hard and lean, flex and for a moment, just a drop of eternity he feels like the pieces click together. Good. Like something worth the time, the energy, the name, the breath coming in hard in- and exhales.

Thoughts more tumble than flow smoothly and with irony he thinks that maybe his thoughts should look to his blood and take up the pattern. Rushing blood, that itches under his skin, that begs him to shed it, to mix with other blood, to sooth his fixation with pain and broken bones and shattered dreams and emotionless eyes. Something to stop the time, maybe even turn it back because as of now there is nothing left.

A surge of tension and then he is calm again – as calm as a caged animal with no road left but one can be. Should he feel more anger for being pushed and bent and broken to fit this game the mighty and twisted play with people like him who have nothing left but a functioning body and destroyed mind? Maybe he should but the anger stays like an arrow ready to fly at the target a few yards away – the target is him.

A glittering catches his grey eyes and without a second thought and a grace no one – not even he himself – expects he picks the bottle up and drinks greedily like a man out of water. And it is whiskey really. He downs the alcohol, burning in his throat and feels like his heart beats in rhythm with the drowning thoughts. Numbness achieved and the crunch of a destroyed ampule under his heavy boots he strolls through his flat aimless, the one-room-heaven that is more like a cage without bars on the windows.

Glass shatters the clock, the room silent and for a second, scoffing, he thinks he wins the fight. When there is nothing to see, it isn't real. A child would think like that. He isn't a child – not in the normal way. But he is innocent in more ways than one. Guilty in more, too.

The amber liquid runs down the concrete wall, draws lines, vanishes in cracks, drops from uneven bumps. A memory tries to cloud his view, more than the alcohol already does. In a show of self-preservation he shakes it away, grits teeth and pulls at piercings until they burn and nearly bleed. He has to leave, but knows he won't ever be free. The thought jumbles through his mind, bounces of long lost feelings, grey remnants of a life he doesn't feel anymore. Detached in too many aspects, no red line to come to conclusions that would mean progress.

Rough hands find hair, pull at it, scrape the skull. Maybe an unconscious motion to build the person he once was. Uneven nails scratch at itching skin, need an occupation to not do something stupid, more stupid than he already is. Biting his lip, hissing softly in pain and sweet, sweet recognition. It's time.

He staggers for a while, ready to give in to the toxin floating through his blood but too stubborn and self-centered to allow it. A sheet of paper, crunched and yellow and stained with tears floats to the ground when his door closes finally. Three words: They are dead. If the paper means his dreams, his purposes in life he isn't sure and doesn't really care.

Boots against concrete, purposeful straights that belie the inner aimlessness. Face pulled into a wicked grin, baring teeth in an animalistic display of unhinge. Shadows pass by, if real or imagination doesn't matter. Light flickers, hurts the dilated eyes, the aching head and the buzz in the veins. He reaches his goal, braces himself against the metal bars, takes in the life beneath him like a scientist through a looking glass. His fingers cramp, hurt but beautifully. Then he moves on, not on himself but on instinct, on urge. Not even these decisions are his to make but programmed by nature. Such a coward.

Shoulders connect with people who never would utter a word of complaint. No one plays with an insane predator. He smirks because any other facial expression is foreign. And there is still this itch – like needles in his skin, fire under his feet, nails mercilessly driven into his brain. It gets more pronounced when his eyes single in on one person he always loved like a brother but could never love like an equal. Fascinating that this emotion isn't lost.

"Training room." He announces without a second thought, doesn't show that his own voice startles him and baths in the bated breaths around him. Grey eyes take in the circle of people – friends – and see disgust and grudging respect (for what he is not sure) and avoidance. Then he looks to the man, the number boy. Raised eyebrows meet his statements and then there is a short nod. If he would be another person he might have laughed because really – the Stiff and him, a Nose gone black, were known to hate each other.

Then his legs carry him away again, maybe because of shame or annoyance or knowledge. He ignores the stares burning on his back, through clothes and ink and skin and him. They recognize him for what he is. Loathing and belonging fill him equally, feed anger and the knowledge that he isn't enough. Not in any sense of the word. Dauntless.


Grunts and groans, the occasional hiss. Fists meeting barely hidden bone under reddening skin and bruises. High kicks, no one drawing the punches. They dance and their rhythm is off balance but beautiful as old as men themselves. Drops of sweat stain the mats, white with chalk and red from tears wounds cried years or just hours ago. Water drips from the roof above, meets heated skin and mixes with pain.

"It's enough." He says, forearm brushing away the drops above his brow.

"You get us both killed. What has you on edge?" His brother-in-arms and enemy asks and he hates the concern and care clouding that deep voice. He doesn't answer and just turns away, flexes his hands to feel the pain of freshly bruised knuckles, warm blood that is still not enough running along calloused hands and too empty fingers.

"See you in the morning." He throws over his shoulder and escapes the inquiring dark-blue eyes. What if he would stay behind? What if he shares the burden?

Pathetic. Weak. Get your shit together.

And he does just that, in the cage of his life, pulls the next ampule and is annoyed that the drops of the liquid need so long to leave their small glassy protection.

His muscles shiver, his heart beats erratic and there is life within him. Life and the urge to use his remaining brain and sharp tongue and working organs to do something with this excuse of existence.

Eyes sharp for once single in on the sheet of paper. A slip of fate. An evident to his downfall. He died yesterday. Looking at his knuckles – and he bleeds tomorrow.


Thanks for reading - review please.