Well, mother, what the war did to my legs and to my tongue
You should've raised a baby girl, I should've been a better son
If you could coddle the infection, they can amputate at once
You should've been, I could have been a better son...
Mama • My Chemical Romance
Calamus Velier • 20 • District Nine
Some people create their own storms, and then cry when it rains. Some people find a quiet place to watch the storms from afar, while others still find solace in the sight of clouds rolling across a blue sky. Watching the sky around him begin to darken with the oncoming storm, he realizes quietly that he is somehow all three of those people. The porch steps beneath him, as old and worn down as they are, creak as Calamus shifts his weight, leaning forward to rest his hands on his knees, staring vacantly at the surrounding landscape. He could go back inside, before the clouds opened up and soaked the endless fields of Nine. But his feet stayed on the dusty ground in front of him, and he remained seated on the porch, waiting with rapt attention for the clouds to move again.
He had long since stopped caring about the storms. In fact, they seemed to mirror his own mental state, as fragmented as it had become. The air began to grow cold. The sky grew darker still, and though he knew that his neighbors' lights had been on before, it seemed that no one else was home now either. He could see the light on in their kitchen window, but the rest of the house remained shrouded in darkness.
The wind picked up and blew against his face. His skin started to prickle and sting, but he did not shiver. It has taken three long years for Calamus to realize that he cannot escape from the nightmares, the horrors of his experience in the Hunger Games plaguing his every waking thought. He could see his district partner everywhere at first; the fields resembled her honey-blonde hair, the warbling of the songbirds resembled her laugh, and the sun reminded him of her youthful optimism, only thirteen when the Capitol had decided to take her away from her home. She should be the one here right now, he realizes. Not me.
Perhaps that's why he likes the storms the best, because they drown out the things that remind him of her.
It helps him to forget that she had to die for him to come home, though deep down, Calamus knows that it will haunt him for the rest of his life.
He sat quietly watching the storm, relieved when the clouds finally gave way, their gray bodies releasing torrents of cold rain down upon the earth. He stretches out his legs, wishing silently that he could feel the rain that bounces off of them, instead of feeling nothing at all. He supposes infection was the price to be paid for his victory, though it feels small compared to his life. Survivor's guilt, perhaps, he decides, staring morosely into the gloom. He allows the white noise of the thundering clouds to dull his senses, and hangs his head low, watching the rain plink off his metallic legs, making the ground beneath them muddy.
Calamus wishes for a lot of things. He wishes that his life could return to normal, the way it was, if there even was a before. It is hard for him to remember a life beyond the sleepless nights and the silence that permeates his home in the Victor's Village, his tongue stilled by the lack of companionship. His mother wants nothing to do with him, not after he came home with blood on his hands, her son's parts replaced by the violence he participated in, even if it wasn't his own choice. The only time Calamus manages to speak anymore is when he's giving advice to his tributes, but all three of them have died, leaving a gnawing feeling in his stomach that he isn't doing enough for them.
He puts his head in his hands, a scream building up in his throat, but he knows that if he were to release it, it would simply be lost into the noise of the storm. It wouldn't mean anything, not in the way he wishes it would. Maybe it's a good thing I haven't brought anyone home, Calamus thinks, the words feeling blasphemous. If he had known that the price of living would have been his happiness, Calamus might not have fought so hard to make it out of the arena alive. Doesn't matter if the Games kill us, Calamus reflects. We all go to hell, anyway. I'm living in mine.
The rain has made him thirsty, and with Nine's alcohol industry, picking up another bad habit was all too easy. For the most part, drinking serves as a good enough coping mechanism. It dulls his senses and makes him forget. It isn't something Calamus feels comfortable allowing himself to rely on, but his feelings have long since become meaningless to him so long as there's a way to drown them out. He picks himself off the porch, leaning a hand on the beam next to him. The surface of the wood digs into his skin, a texture that helps ground his thoughts in reality, instead of his tarnished memories.
He sighs and gives one last cursory look to the drenched landscape around him before heading back inside. I don't want to think anymore, he decides. Calamus does not stop to dry his boots off on the welcome mat; instead, he enters the forlorn interior of his house without any thoughts about preserving its integrity. Never one for clutter, it is eerily empty in his house. The only light comes from his windows, washing the inside of the house into a muted gray color. He trudges over to the kitchen, his eyes already adjusted to the dark, and ignores the broken glass at his feet. It crunches beneath his boot, detritus left behind from the last time he had gotten blackout drunk.
His hands fumble for the cabinet handles and pull them open, the creaking of their hinges the only noise to break the desolation of his house. He reaches for a bottle of scotch, and passes over a few glasses, deciding it's not worth wasting his time pouring the alcohol into one. He goes to sit at his kitchen table, unscrewing the lid off with tired hands, and he raises the bottle to his lips, scrunching up his face as the liquid splashes into his throat, a searing warmth trailing down his chest.
It gets better the more he drinks, he's come to realize. His mother would disapprove of the idea, but her words don't matter to him anymore. She gave up on you, he reminds himself. She doesn't matter. It hurts to think of what could have been: Calamus had been close with his mother, once upon a time. He had fought through the Games trying to make it back to her, and when she saw the atrocities he committed, she had renounced him as her son, deciding that she couldn't possibly be responsible for such a monster.
He raises the bottle to his lips a second time, and greedily gulps down the amber liquid, ignoring the way it burns his throat. He hasn't eaten anything all day, feeling too hollow to make himself a meal despite how often his neighbor - and the only other living victor in Nine - tries to remind him to. "It's not healthy to let yourself waste away, Calamus. It's not your fault, Calamus. Do you need my help, Calamus?"
He groans and slams the bottle down on the table, a crack spider-webbing through the glass. Some of the liquid sloshes onto the table, the sharp, pungent smell hitting his nose. He doesn't need any help. It's his own fault that he's stuck in this living nightmare, when he should have just let himself die in the Hunger Games. He should have been a statistic, not a name worth remembering. It's been three years and he has done nothing with his life, content to stew in the misery of his thoughts. He drains what's left in the bottle and tosses it back into the kitchen, the noise of it shattering helping to ease the silence.
Calamus folds his arms on the table and rests his head on them, tears beginning to well up in his eyes at last.
Hey everyone! This is my first SYOT, so welcome to Tears In The Sky! I've sort of been lurking around on this site for a while before I made my account, and since I'm on holiday break, I figure I have some time to finally start one! I'd love to hear what you think about this prologue. Since I'm not confident I'll get the full number of subs, I'm making this a partial, so whatever twelve slots get filled, get filled! The form will be on my profile and hopefully I'll get some slots filled so I can start writing! Thanks for reading everyone!