In The Core: Games XI
CW: Self-mutilation.
Warden's House - 6:33 AM
Aviv doesn't remember anything past the moment that Kasper' hand was ripped from his. He heard the floors creak beneath them, watched Nora's marred body sink unceremoniously beneath the concrete, and then darkness split just inches from his feet. Aviv didn't hear them fall. He didn't hear anything beyond the concrete welding back together. If there had been a way for Aviv to tear it apart again, to follow them both underground, he thinks he would have. He can't remember if he even tried.
All he knows is the room's gotten far colder since they left.
Aviv shivers on the ground, his knees pulled close into his chest and face smeared with blood and tears. He can't bring himself to move away to where the cement is dry. He doesn't care that blood has leaked onto the corners of his lips or matted his hair. He doesn't pull one of the mortuary sheets from the drawers to pull it around himself for warmth. In the darkness of the room, those small comforts don't matter. His body shivers, but he hardly feels the cold. Tears take breaks from coating his cheeks but Aviv doesn't notice.
Time means nothing. Respite from discomfort means even less.
Aviv has never felt so empty.
In the early hours of the morning, it felt like the world itself had stopped. Aviv lived in some strange inbetween where nothing existed except his own tortured form, not even human and certainly not alive. The air was thick and dark. The blood beside him smelled so strongly that every breath sat like iron in his chest. He cried more tears than should be possible, the later ones feeling more like glass shards than liquid. Aviv whispered for them, wished he could scream but didn't have the will for even that.
No one answered.
He would've normally taken some solstice in that fact. No one should be here. No one should live in a place so thick with grief that just changing positions feels like an impossible task. No one should know the pain of loss while guilt screams far louder in their ear. Aviv should be alone. He shouldn't want anyone else to feel what he does right now.
Grief doesn't make that kind of sense. Grief is selfish, thoughtless, and doesn't care for anything but the concrete filling the spaces between his ribs.
He wants them here. Aviv wants them to be here instead so that they can mourn him and live because he can't stand another second of missing them. His face contorts in pain and wishes it was Kasper's round lips or Nora's dark eyes instead.
For the first time that he can remember, Aviv wishes it weren't him.
He's always stood tall. He's always taken the world's punishments on his cheek and thanked god that it was him. He wished the best for everyone regardless of the fact that he's often had nothing. When his mother came home with her diagnosis, Aviv forced the tears from his eyes and told her that everything would be alright. When he was sentenced, Aviv promised to use the time to make whatever spare change he could within those prison walls. Breaking down was never an option; it was never going to change anything.
In Nora he found strength. She was independent, someone that Aviv didn't need to watch over no matter how much his nature begged to. She never asked for anything from him, not even in her last moments of life. There were no expectations with her, no responsibility to hold her together because Nora was more than capable of that.
She gave him laughter. She nudged him and smiled and made fun of his crush on Kasper. It was his first relationship that asked for nothing but him.
In Kasper he found safety. He was closed off, apprehensive, but when Aviv needed him there were no questions. There's not a scenario on this Earth where Aviv would be sitting here if it weren't for him. As much as Aviv wants to hate him for that simple fact, the shattering pain in his chest is out of love - maybe not the kind he wishes it was, maybe not the kind that leads to kisses and interlocked fingers - but love all the same. A place like this shouldn't allow it, and maybe Aviv is too young to feel it, but what does that matter when death is staring down at them?
Kasper was the first person to take care of him. Yet, when the time came, Aviv couldn't do the same. Kasper's gone and Aviv knows that he would shout at him to keep going, to not give up, to make it out.
In these early morning hours, as blood dries into cracked lakes on the floor and shadowed sunlight begins to peer through frosted windows, Aviv apologizes.
He knows he won't be making Kasper proud.
Aviv cranes his neck towards the small window as the first sunbeams crawl across the walls. He stares, watching them creep down the concrete for as long as it takes them to reach the floor. He uses shaking arms, exhausted and sore, to pry himself from the floor. Flakes of blood float back down to the floor from his tangled hair. When they rejoin the withered puddles beneath him, they almost look whole again.
One leg moves on its own, but he has to manually unlock the other. Aviv winces as the grinding in his hip loosens a wave of sharp pain. Laying down it was bearable, but moving is different. He has to stop himself from looking down to continue. His uniform pants cover most of the bruises, but the ones that peek through make his skin look like it's been stained with blueberries.
He grunts as he tries to get either leg underneath him. Aviv bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes iron, but when he opens his eyes he's still on the ground. He slams his hand down on the concrete beside him, heat immediately coming to his palm as tears fill his vision. He slowly lifts his chin and the stairs are just as far as last time.
Aviv curls one leg up as he collapses to the floor. Sobs jump in his chest no matter that he tries to stop them. He can't even do this. He can't get himself up to escape the very room he chose last night, the very one that murdered both of his friends while he watched. Aviv's clenched fingers claw at his face, half in an attempt at comfort and half to hide his sheer embarrassment. His friends are the ones that suffered, his friends, and without them he's been reduced to a sobbing, stationary mess.
He isn't this helpless. It's not fair to them for him to act like he is.
Aviv shoves himself forward, forcing his injured leg to bend against the concrete. He bites back a cry and crawls a half-step forward, allowing it to straighten while the other does most of the work. His knee hits the floor and it feels like another boot's landed flat against it, but Aviv refuses to allow himself to stop.
He reaches the stairs and turns himself around. Tears blur the room as every breath returns to him in gasps. All four of his limbs are shaking as Aviv pulls himself backwards up the first step. He braces himself for more pain as he gets far enough that his ankle lifts from the ground. Aviv throws his head back as agony pulls his leg into the air. It makes him pause, but it doesn't stop him.
Nothing does - not the pain, not the left behind blood, and not the shadowy darkness that surrounds him as the windows fade from view. It's like a suffocating sheet across his eyes, but it's nothing new. Aviv spent the night in darkness. No matter the sunbeams peeking through, the room below still feels pitch black.
Aviv emerges onto the dusty main floor and rests. He lays vulnerable on the far edge of the floor, his arms trembling too violently to bother covering his tear-stained face. He moves to face the windows, sheer curtains drawn but sunlight streams through to welcome him. Aviv shivers, the floor no warmer than it had been downstairs.
He swallows and lifts himself up on his elbows. Now that he's started moving, stopping feels more impossible. He needs to get there.
One more time Aviv needs to see it, to feel it.
He doesn't know why after hours of immobility that's suddenly so important, but his shivering body demands it. The basement feels empty without them. Aviv feels empty without them, his limbs reduced to frozen skin and tendons. Deep down he understands it won't help, he knows that nothing will, but right now that fact is too painful to face.
If he can feel the sun on his cheeks, the soft comfort as it warms the air running down his throat, maybe for one second he won't feel so alone.
Aviv drags himself on his elbows towards the door. Dust gathers on his arms and floats into his eyes but he keeps going. Pain pulls for him to stop, it catches his ankle against the leg of a table and sends a cry across his tongue. He doesn't. Aviv stretches for the doorknob and pushes his body against it until the door eases open.
Morning greets him, the same kind that he's always loved. It's soft spring, the air still chilly enough for a sweater but the breeze is warm enough to hide his breath. These are the ones he would walk the long route home in, a small defiance that no one would notice for those extra seven minutes alone. Aviv would close his eyes and tilt his head up to the clouded sky. The air would taste like sunlight and he would imagine that he could stay outside forever.
Aviv allows his eyelids to close and takes a slow inhale of the morning air. He can see the sun sneak through, but it's different. He opens them again, finding the light just as bright but it doesn't sink into his skin. It doesn't feel like a comforting hug before stepping inside his frigid house or rigid school.
He pulls his arms around himself. The warmth is gone.
Aviv lifts his head again and lets out another soft breath. He shivers and pushes one shaking hand in front of him. He turns it over, waiting for the sunlight to ribbon around his fingers. He watches them, keeping his hand extended as tears begin to tremble in his eyes.
It's gone.
Kasper took it with him.
He pulls his hand back in and wraps both arms around himself. The tears start slowly until his body is once again shaking with every breath. Under the sunbeams has always been his happy place. It's where Aviv could be him, where there were no expectations or reminders of all the things he hadn't done yet. Those few minutes to walk to school, to work, back home again - they were all he had to just be.
Here, his happy place wasn't a place at all. It was Kasper that made him feel safe. It was Kasper that wrapped him in warmth that should've been long gone with his freedom. Kasper became his happy place and in just a few days became the sun, his sun. The one shining above him isn't real anymore; it isn't safe like Kasper was.
Aviv covers his eyes and the sun disappears behind his palms. "Why did you have to go?"
His whisper goes unanswered by the calm morning air. He feels the door behind him, considers dragging himself back down to the basement but what would be the point? Kasper isn't there either. His safe place is nowhere. His happy place doesn't exist anymore.
The two people that looked at Aviv and expected nothing are gone. The one that had been willing to lift the weight from his shoulders is far underneath the prison. Aviv can run to where he was but he won't be there.
Aviv was never going to win. He's known that for a long time. He dragged Kasper down, searched for a person that didn't want to be found, and all the while he knew. Aviv hadn't been ready to die. It felt like there should be more, like he's lived so much of his life under mounds of crushing brick that none of those eighteen years were even his.
Maybe that's true.
But those first days with Nora, these last few with Kasper - those were for him.
"I'm the worst thing that could've happened to you here," Aviv whispers, the break in his voice so quiet that he hopes no one will hear it. This isn't for the cameras, it isn't for home. It's for two people he hopes will still be able to hear him even if his voice is barely a crack in the breeze. "But thank you."
Upper Grounds - 8:21 AM
Jules cringes as a shiver runs up his spine. The morning air is colder than it's been the past few days, much more so than the security room he'd fallen asleep in. He's not happy that his productivity was cut short last night, but when the announcements had roused him it'd made the most sense to call it a night. His eyes had burned more in those few seconds of trying to figure out what was happening than they have all season.
He pulls his collar further up his neck. Jules is no stranger to chill, but this is different from the ice rink. His tattered uniform too is unlike what he's grown used to. Thick velvet stretched tight over his limbs and chest beat whatever the hell material he's wearing now. Jules bets it's some cheap polyester and he couldn't be more unhappy with that understanding.
He doesn't have to jog far to his destination. Jules saw him on the surveillance cameras and figured he was already dead. That was, at least, until Jules recognized him.
He would've remembered hearing this name.
Jules slows to a walk as he approaches the house. It's the same place he first found the target, the place where Aviv and another boy managed to escape him and Celene. Jules would be lying if he said just looking at the sea-battered house didn't raise his blood pressure. It's nothing special, a two story with maybe a hundred square feet per floor. The outside has been bombarded with enough wind and sea spray to strip it of both paint and shingles in various places. He can't imagine anyone actually having lived here.
His hand cramps around the hatchet as he steps about the perimeter. Jules pushes lightly on the fence, testing to see if it could be toppled if need be. He's more than certain it would give if he leaned on it with half his body weight. He'd more than rather try and verify this assumption than jump over it. His clothes don't need any more holes than they already have.
Jules spots the target and ducks close to the house. If he saw him, there's no indication - he can't hear any running or gasps or doors slamming. He peers around the corner and sure enough he's still there. Aviv is half-sitting, half-laying against the open door. If Jules had to guess, he'd say he's asleep.
He marches confidently up to the door, the hatchet firm against his shoulder and a smirk on his face. There'll be no getting away this time. There's no sign of the other boy, there's no Celene to drag him down. There's nothing standing in Jules' way of making this final five into a final four and writing the wrong that never should've been allowed to happen. If he was ever in need of redemption, this would be it.
He searches for a rock to kick at him or some other way to wake him up. He's not giving Aviv the mercy of a dreamlit death. Jules' memory goes far too deep to even consider that. He remembers the bruise on his thigh that grew with Aviv's first escape. He remembers how many times Aviv got lucky in avoiding him, the hours that passed by, and the reward that was stolen from him.
He remembers the eager hands that held him down mere nights ago.
Jules can still feel the fingerprints that dug deep into his ankle. He can look up and see Aviv's pale face as his eyes refused to meet his own. He can remember thinking how much of a coward he was, the numerous times he's proved it, and yet he's still alive. It's an insult to everyone that's been honest in making it this far.
It's an insult to Jules himself to see Aviv laying here now, his head bowed and seeming to still believe that he's untouchable.
I'll happily be the one to shove him into reality.
He finds a suitable stone and turns in Aviv's direction, taking quick aim before something stops him. Aviv lifts his chin, red-streaked eyes landing on Jules but there's no cry of surprise. He knew Jules was here. He only has to wonder for how long.
And why he hasn't moved yet.
Jules kicks the rock hard in his direction and it hits the boy's shoulder with an audible crack. Aviv flinches and his arms fold into his chest, his chin leaning further into it. The door behind him remains open but Aviv doesn't move for it. He doesn't even look behind him. As Jules approaches, Aviv bows his head further towards the ground and away from the bright sun above.
A strange dryness coats the back of Jules' throat. It feels like a trap, but nothing around the house moves as he steps closer. Jules has more than enough escape routes if it comes down to that. The only thing standing in his way of running is that rickety fence. If this is a trap, it's the most pathetic one he's ever seen.
Jules brandishes the hatchet in front of him, holding it diagonally across his body. His chin lifts towards the sky, his eyes downcast towards Aviv as he searches for… anything. The longer he looks, the further the lump in his stomach sinks. He tries to pull it back, to strengthen his resolve so much that it shatters, but it only seems to grow.
"I thought it might be you."
Jules swallows, the sound of his whispered voice chilling his skin further. It's unsettling. He takes another step closer, raises the hatchet another inch further. He expects a reaction - a flinch, a plea, something - but all Aviv does is avert his eyes.
"Oh?" It's all Jules can think to respond. His confident posture stands tall but inside his mind has gone blank. What's wrong with him?
Jules cautiously scans the contestant, finding rips and tears but they're no worse than his own. There are more than a few of the familiar stains that mark Jules, but they're hardly a drop compared to the lake that floods his own uniform. The only thing out of place is an unnatural tilt to his leg where it shouldn't bend. The skin underlying the rips here is stained a deep violet.
Still, it's not enough. It doesn't make sense. He can remember Celene's last moments - her shoulder twisted so morbidly wrong and the blood that streamed from every pore of her paling face. Her hands still grabbed his mace. Her head still swung to avoid every blow until too much exposed skull prevented that. She still fought.
001 was different, as was the boy in the cell block. They didn't fight him but the boy had been barely conscious enough to try. He'd been injured beyond what Jules could've done to him; his blood streaked across the floor like a steady river and still he instinctively curled up to protect himself. 001 didn't do either of those things, but her eyes remained set dead on his as if too dignified to fight her losing battle.
She guarded her pride. The bloodied boy protected what little life remained in his core. Celene fought for the slight chance she had at beating him.
What's Aviv protecting?
Aviv sits on the ground with every soft area exposed, his legs extended in front of him and arms draped lazily across the ground. He stares down at the ground, a submissive dimness in his eyes that can only be described as apathy. He doesn't have a weapon. He doesn't run. He doesn't stare Jules down with the knowledge that there's no escape.
There's every escape. Jules is still three meters ahead, the house still lies empty behind him. His leg might be injured but that stops no one who wants it. Jules skated on broken foot bones and with rips between his toes. If you want it, your body finds a way.
Pathetic.
Jules' lip curls in disgust as he watches this person laying before him. He's made it so far in this game and yet he doesn't seem to even care. Does he realize the fortunate place he's been handed? Does he understand that at the end of this thing someone's going to win? Does he realize how stupid he is not to fight for it?
To see someone giving up shouldn't phase Jules, but it makes him want to coat his body in bleach to get rid of the pitiful scent. He's never seen this. He's never wanted to see this. Day after day Jules was surrounded by people that craved what he'd worked so hard to achieve. They wanted it more than their lungs needed air no matter that it was out of reach for so many.
Jules could never blame them for dreaming. He would always be better, he would always work harder but they should want what he's earned. Baptiste should have wanted to beat him, should have gotten up every morning and vowed to work harder. Who wouldn't want to be Jules? Who wouldn't want the life he's worked so hard to achieve no matter that it was filled with more icicles than flowers?
Aviv is stupid not to want this. He's stupid to give up. He's stupid to look at the person standing above him, the crown just days from forming, and not be afraid.
Jules has the power to take everything from him. Minutes from now Aviv will be nothing. Why doesn't that matter to him?
To Jules, the mere thought is enough to send a shot of pain up his limbs. He remembers the feeling on that dock, wrists and ankles tied together as the world crumbled around him. He'd felt powerless, like nothing he's ever done mattered because there was no escaping that instant in time.
He never wants to feel that way again.
Looking down at Aviv, it's all he can see.
"Get up," Jules snaps. The hatchet doesn't move from his grip, in fact his fingers only tighten around it. A rigid tension pulls up his back until his shoulders are forced back into perfect alignment.
"Why?" Aviv asks. There's little defiance in his voice as his eyes travel slowly to meet Jules'. "Aren't you going to kill me?"
"Aren't you going to act like you give a shit?" Jules barks without thinking. He bites down hard on his cheek to keep from continuing, to prevent the acrid words from leaving his tongue. Aviv doesn't deserve even those. No one who's so pathetic as to give up, who's not willing to so much as try when the game has so clearly favoured him, deserves even this much.
He deserves an axe to the chest. He deserves to bleed out slowly with the growing realization that this agony is his own fault.
He deserves none of Jules' pity.
Aviv only stares in response. His eye contact isn't menacing, it's not defiant like 001 or Celene's in their final moments. It doesn't hate Jules the way it should when every ounce of power between them lies solely in hishands.
Jules finds himself unable to step towards him. The hatchet twitches in his hands but he's unable to move it. He imagines the blade sinking again and again into his chest, each one too superficial to kill him. He imagines the blood spilling down the front path and promising no end. Jules imagines coming back after he's tracked down the remaining three and seeing regret in Aviv's eyes as he realizes what he could have fought for.
He sees himself spitting on Aviv's face, his cheeks drained of blood and as empty as the gaze behind his eyes now. It'd be the last thing Jules would have to do before getting out, and he would enjoy every second.
"Well?" Aviv asks, tears shaking in his eyes as he looks up at him. The fear is clear but Jules doesn't understand it. He doesn't have to give up, so why is he?
"You're a coward," Jules spits.
Aviv swallows and gives the slightest nod before his gaze returns. "I know."
Jules doesn't know why he keeps talking. He doesn't understand why he can't make himself move towards Aviv when none of this matters. So what if he's a coward? That makes it easier for Jules. It gives him more time today to hunt down the others.
"Why?"
The demand escapes before he can think it through. Aviv blinks, clearly just as surprised as Jules is that this isn't already over. "Why what?"
"Why are you giving up?" Jules doesn't like the gentle inclination to his voice. He doesn't recognize it.
Aviv nods and glances ever slightly behind him. The house is dim and Jules can't see inside, but he hadn't seen anyone else on the cameras. "They're all gone."
Jules' eyebrows furrow. "So?"
"I miss them," Aviv begins before pausing as another tear rolls down his cheek. "And I don't want what comes after. I don't want to look at what happened here, to remember them but not be able to make it better. I'm not giving up, this is just what I'm choosing. I don't know if you'll understand, but that's okay. This is my choice."
Jules swallows but that doesn't get rid of the uneasiness that peels down his back. His hatchet lowers ever slightly, barely enough to be noticeable to anyone but himself. He turns the words over and over, hoping to come to the same conclusion as Aviv. Jules doesn't want to understand.
Strangely enough, he sort of does.
Choices aren't something that Jules knows very well, but his brother certainly did. He's the one that dove first into figure skating, leaving Jules scrambling to follow. He's the one that announced he would be competing and looked their father straight in the eyes as he did so. André lived his life according to nobody's rules and Jules took them as gospel when his brother died. What else was he supposed to do? He couldn't just forget.
Truthfully, none of what's gone right in his life has been his choice. Jules got up at five for practice every morning because André used to do that. He took on a private coach and strived for the Grand Prix because that had always been André's dream. Jules worked hard and found success, no one can take that fact away, but it was hardly his choice to do so.
There was never another option, just like winning was the only one here. Jules couldn't make his brother proud if he joined him just six years later in whatever afterlife the Vaudry's ended up in. There's no choice but to live. Jules never even considered anything else.
He still can't. He still refuses to let his mind even wander in that direction.
His free hand lands on his right pocket but it's empty of the coin that once lived there. The only times he took it out were to skate, but even then it was never far. Now, Jules doesn't know where it is.
Blades to the ice and eyes on the prize. It always reminded him of André; he could feel the round of the eye or the lines of the claws and feel close to him again. It's been so long since Jules has thought of him.
His mind trails to his brother now, and it's hard to hold onto the anger that moment ago vibrated under his skin.
Jules nods but doesn't respond; he doesn't trust himself to. Aviv watches him for a moment and nods in recognition. He doesn't know how long they stay like this, Aviv on the ground and Jules standing above him. The air feels different, heavy but not with the frustration from before. There's a semblance of understanding between them no matter that they couldn't be more different.
The dock? The target hours? It's all forgotten in the silence.
"Can you make it fast?" Aviv asks, his voice trembling but it's hard to call it fear anymore. Jules' mouth goes dry, the weapon heavier in his hands now than it's ever felt. On the first day, he'd run with the first weapon that touched his palm. Now, a step forward feels somehow impossible.
Jules nods and is surprised to find that he actually means it. They both know how this ends, no matter what each one understands. Aviv has made his choice clear and there's been no sign he's ready to go against it.
Jules wouldn't let him anyways. It might not be his choice, but it's made up all the same. He isn't willing to let go of what he's believed so strongly belongs to him.
Not even if this is André's way of telling him it's okay.
Jules raises the hatchet to signal that he's ready. Part of him expects Aviv to cower away, to get up and run despite the conversation they've had. Maybe it would be easier if he did no matter the tired stiffness in Jules' legs. He would chase him down, take him to the ground, and bury the hatchet in his back. At that point it would be no different than the rest.
Instead, Aviv closes his eyes.
Jules swallows and crouches to the ground in front of him. His hands are shaking as they reach for Aviv, but a deep breath calms them. He doesn't look at his face and pretends not to see the tears that roll slowly down his cheek. As if knowing despite his shut eyelids, Aviv's chin lifts ever slightly.
He buries the hatchet beneath it before the end of his next breath.
Jules' choice can't falter. He wouldn't have anything left.
"Aviv Vasilevsky has been eliminated. Four contestants remain."
Upper Grounds - 10:35 AM
- CW -
Two hours pass before Vito is finally able to move.
He looks up from his curled knees, the morning dew gone from the grass and his thin uniform. There are no buildings within crawling distance, not that he believed himself capable until now. The moment Vito heard the announcement, he knew. The other pair is still downstairs leaving only one option.
Vito was too late once again.
He squints as he glances up towards the sun, the warmth of early afternoon beginning to settle on his skin. His eyes burn with the new light, the pupils lost without dimness to blink against. It's been days since he was last above ground, much longer since he saw the sun rise in the sky. He feels more exposed than in the past days, but it took until right now to realize that.
Three announcements in the last half-day. Vito remembers where Aviv and Kasper were headed. He saw Nora on the security feeds up here before he left. He doesn't have to imagine who's to blame for all three of them, he already knows.
There are no other option in his mind.
Vito forces himself to stand. He came up here for a reason, not to be frozen in a strange mixture of grief and fear that he doesn't understand. He needs to find Jules; he needs to end this. What he feels doesn't matter. The burning hatred in his chest when he catches a glimpse of skin in his periphery doesn't matter.
It's almost over.
It has to be.
Vito glances behind him, speeding his footsteps as the shadow follows close at his heels. The rising sun elongates it to his right, an extension of his hand when he allows it to fall to his side. Vito clutches it in tight alongside the hatchet. He doesn't want to touch it. The further he walks, it gets no further behind. His shadow continues, darker than the dimness underground and out for the entire world to see.
He swallows and his steps quicken as he approaches the nearest building. Vito finds that he remembers most of them from the early days of exploration, but this one even more so. The little house draws his attention beyond the rickety fence until Vito hops over it at the far side. His shadow follows without tire. Vito knows he can't slow but he wants to all the same.
He stops as he gets within view of the front door. The first thing he notes isn't the wide open entrance or the dim house behind it. No, the first thing Vito's eyes find is the blood and the imprint of thin legs that lies within it.
Vito pauses before continuing, his steps quiet and uncertain as he ventures closer. Most of it has turned a dark, dried colour by now but the stream that leaks into the entryway is still wet. He knows which name this puddle belongs to. It's the only one fresh enough not to have cracked.
He maneuvers carefully inside without disturbing it. Vito keeps the hatchet taut to his side, unwilling to drop it no matter the unlikelihood of Jules still being here. Still, it's the closest thing to a location he has right now. He has to be ready.
The main floor is untouched save for the trails of disturbed dust where people have walked. There are too many of them to even try and decipher, so Vito relents to adding his own to the mix. He approaches the stairwell, remembering the second story he explored many days ago. However, another door catches his eye first.
Something tells Vito to go downstairs.
He has no reason not to oblige that artful voice.
The stairs are not as well travelled as the main level, but he's certainly not the first. Vito keeps one hand on the wall and the second on his weapon. He can't hear anything below him, but that doesn't mean nothing's there. There's only one person he could run into right now and he needs to be ready.
All thoughts of preparation leave his mind as his eyes readjust to the dim lighting. Vito swallows and immediately tastes iron. Everywhere he looks, he sees more of it. There's one distinct puddle of it between the two metal tables, another imprint down the next aisle. Streaks and splatters fill the spaces between them until Vito can see nothing else. There's a soaked chain and a crooked pair of shears lying not far from where he stands. Even the walls have confetti patterns of red across the dull concrete.
Vito takes one hurried step back but misses the stair, instead finding himself landing ungracefully against the wall. He presses his back close to it, but one glance over his shoulder finds more blood. Vito jumps away, but his hand lands at the edge of a deep puddle. It's everywhere.
This is what I'm up against. Vito recognizes the voice inside his head this time as his own. I have to kill someone who can do this.
His hands shake against the frozen concrete. If Vito weren't already on the floor, he's certain that he would be finding himself there now. He can't beat this. Does Vito really believe that he can stand against someone that's capable of this much bloodshed, this much torture. He can trace the patterns of movement. Whatever happened here wasn't a slow death, it was chaos. The names that ended here - Nora and Kasper - they suffered. Vito doesn't know how Aviv managed to last until the morning, how he even got himself upstairs after this midnight horror.
I'm going to die.
When the realization hits, it feels like a bolt of electricity. He can't feel his hands through their incessant shaking, can't gather up the strength to pour into his next breath. Vito sits shivering in the middle of the floor, blood coating the area beneath him and still dried under his nails. He can't move. He can't think.
I'm going to die.
He knew before but the tone is different now. It's not that he's going to die after evening the playing field, after ensuring that someone so horrible never gets the chance. It's not that he's going to murder the shadow that keeps following him, the one that refuses to admit that it's his fault not Vito's. It's not that he's going to mean something, that the good in him will outweigh the horrible things he's done here.
It's just that he's going to die. Plain, simple, and absolutely terrifying.
He's not going to fix this. He's not going to write his wrongs or just even them out. He's going to die and he's going to be remembered for everything Vito wants to scream that he isn't. He's going to take Damien's crimes to a grave that shouldn't be his.
I'm going to die.
Vito pushes himself up from the ground, ignoring the trip in his step as he launches himself towards the stairs. He stops dead as the blood seems to stream out in front of him, blocking his path until Vito has no choice but to turn around. He tries to step around it and feels every sludging step as it finds its way under his shoes anyways. Tears blur his eyes, a mix of frustration and desperation caught inside. He can't stay here. He can't let Jules find him.
He can't die.
This isn't how he wants to be remembered.
He's trapped in someone else's horrible legacy, one that he can't imagine but that everyone else believes. The court didn't question his statement. The police didn't think twice before wrapping cuffs around his wrist. Damien didn't even care as he was led away, free to run home to his parents. Damien. Free.
Vito's eyes lift to the ceiling, away from the blood and the ungodly sight of his own skin that's still stained with so much of it. "This should've been you!"
Tears pour down his cheeks, choking salt into his every breath. His back slams into one of the tables, dumping it on its side as Vito scrambles away. It feels like he's drowning, his shadow climbing further and further up the wall. In the contours he finds his brother, the thin frame identical to his own but wrong. It's not him. This isn't him.
He's been trying to kill the wrong demon. The one that deserves to die isn't even here. He's so far out of reach that Vito put blonde in his place when this was never about Jules. Vito didn't want to admit that the true monster wears his face.
Everywhere he looks. Up, down, in the steely reflection of the mortuary cabinets - it's all he sees.
Damien, not him.
This isn't him.
"I'm not you!" Vito shouts at his reflection, the dried blood around his nostrils not enough to disguise anything. In the curve of his jaw he sees his brother. In the shallow bridge of his nose and wide line of his lips it could be either of them. They've always looked so alike; not even close family were able to tell them apart until they were young teens. It's the only reason Vito's irrational plan worked.
It's the only reason he's here.
He doesn't think about the hatchet until it's already there, its teeth pressed into the sturdy skin of his face. The blade lands across his nose, the tip deep in his right cheek while the other barely misses his opposite eye. Vito watches the person in the mirror and the blood that spurts beneath the blade. He sees the blade inch down to stretch the skin, further ripping it and forcing more blood to the surface.
The hatchet drops to the ground and Vito's hands immediately spring to cover his face. Stinging pain erupts across it as blood fills his hands and streams past his lips. Every breath seems to choke more of it down into his lungs. He presses his palms firmly against it until blood stops sprinkling the floor by his feet.
Vito furiously wipes the blood from the metal. He glances hurriedly back at the shadow, but it lays stoic against the wall as if it already knows. He's cleaned just enough away to see it by the time he turns back. The laughing voice between his ears isn't his own, but Vito knows it so well.
You can never escape.
This has always been you.
Cell Block A - 11:46 AM
Jared's fingers drag along the cement, pulling up more dried flakes the further they travel. His blurry eyes gaze around the rest of the cell block but it's all just as he'd remembered. For the first time, Jared was actually hoping that his memory had been playing tricks on him.
He shivers as he lifts one hand from the floor, streaks of long-dried blood filling the space under his nails. Jared remembers the first day like a recurring nightmare, one that he hasn't thought of in many months. That's why he had to come back. He had to know if it was true. Jared had to return to the place that this all started, the one part of the prison that might be able to prove what he already feels deep inside.
He sits here now, surrounded by more stains than his eyes are willing to follow, and the fresh tears are proof that he understands.
Lev was right.
He isn't coming back.
Jared thinks he's known for a while. The hollowness in his heart that's been there since Lev's name was announced, the way he's flinched against every announcement since, the tears that never truly seem to stop. They all point to one simple explanation that Jared barely feels ready to think about, but one that he can't refuse anymore.
Death terrifies him. He's never had to know death. It's that thing at the back of Jared's mind that he sort of understands but that his situation has protected him from. He can't remember ever attending a funeral. The only deaths Jared hears about are so far removed that he's never even met the person before. People die. It's not just a statement but a fact.
Lev is dead.
Jared buries his face in his shaking hands, not caring about the flakes that float from them to the floor. Tears don't come in waves, but sparse sprinkles that are barely enough to coat his palms. He's cried so much in the last days, held back so many tears that have only ended up leaking down anyways. His mouth is so dry there shouldn't be any moisture left to leave him.
He runs his hand over the ground again and swallows down the memories locked within them. Jared glances at his cropped pants and the fabric that's become more frayed as the days went on. He knew it wouldn't make the best bandage, but it was something. Jared doesn't regret it. He doesn't remember the boy's name but, judging by the emptiness beneath the table, he doesn't think the bandages worked.
Jared turns to the middle of the floor away from the table. He recalls the last time he did this same motion and found Vi sitting with their hand atop another girl's. That girl isn't here anymore either; Jared hasn't seen her since.
He swallows and blinks back more moisture. His body jerks with what should be a sob, but Jared's too tired to complete it. He doesn't have the energy to mourn like they do in movies. Maybe on the first day, if he'd known, he would have. If Jared hadn't gone through those first days desperately wanting to be blind to what this was, maybe they would've had a proper send off.
He doesn't know how he can give any of them that now. There are too many names, too many half-baked memories associated with them, and Jared's so tired. He wants to mourn Lev because that's what's eating him alive right now. He's wasted so much time wishing not to see what was so obvious that it feels like he's too late.
Jared doesn't remember him ever mentioning anyone else. There were no names or stories whereas Jared told a hundred in their time together. He doesn't know if there's family out there and desperately wishes that he'd known enough to ask.
He can't stand the thought that he might be the only one and it's taken him this long to understand. He's never thought much about what happens, but he doesn't want there to be a chance that he missed it. He never said goodbye, not to Lev and not to anyone else.
Can they still hear me where they are? Jared wonders, but there's no one around to answer him. He's never been good at being alone, but not even that bothers him as much as the crushing guilt that sits atop his throat. He doesn't want anyone to think that he forgot about them.
He never has. He never will.
If somehow Jared makes it out of this place. If somehow the world lines up to announce three more names while he sits here with dehydrated tears burning his eyes, he'll never forget. His mom used to help him with memory exercises when he was younger, but this is one time he won't need them.
Jared glances around and shivers again. He'll never forget what happened here.
He gasps as a sound plays behind him and whirls around to face the cell block entrance. He's still half-crouched beneath the table, his hands dirtied with rust and dirt. Jared's throat is dry as he swallows down his first attempt at a greeting. He scrambles out another foot before she starts to back away.
"Vi?"
They stand in the threshold, her eyes stuck between the hallway behind them and the person staring unwaveringly in her direction. Vi didn't expect to find anyone here. The hallways have been deathly silent around them since she left Jared last night. Seeing him now makes Vi feel more exposed than she has all day. They shrink into one side of the entryway and feel the loose bars poke into the middle of her spine.
Silence pulls between them with neither making another move forward. Vi finds herself afraid to, the familiar shake in their legs coming back no matter who stands in front of them. People mean danger. Danger means death. Death means she's never going to escape this place.
That's what Vi needs to focus on. Afterall, there's nothing else.
She's lost everything else worth worrying about. Clara is long gone. Lev's name has finally stopped stinging her memories hard enough to bring them to the ground. Jared might sit in front of her, but they find even that doesn't hurt as much as it should. Vi knows he's just as gone no matter that his chest still rises with deep breaths.
The only person she hasn't lost in this place is themself.
Even that is debatable.
Vi's nowhere near the person they were when she woke up in this cell block. There's no excitement in their stomach or worries trailing through their mind. She doesn't care about being alone, simply accepts it for what it has to be. The old Vi would have already sprinted across the room and settled into Jared's arms no matter what happened yesterday. The old Vi forgave everyone, it didn't matter if they deserved it.
If they stayed, nothing else mattered.
Because no one ever stayed for long.
The first tear carves its path down her cheek but no others follow. Vi doesn't have to cry today because what will it change? There are only four of them left, fourteen of them already dead. If someone were going to come to their rescue they already would have. If someone were going to take her under their wing and promise to protect them they already would have. Vi's alone and that's all there is to it.
She's alone and alive.
As much as Vi begs that to mean something, it's hard to believe. They don't feel alive. None of the things Vi loves about life are real in this place. Not even the simplest of pleasures, a walk with their eyes to the ground looking for lost trinkets, is possible here. She has to keep her eyes up. They have to be ready.
Ready to die. Ready to do whatever it takes not to.
She's not a person, hasn't been since that chain was wrapped around her throat and plunged them into broken consciousness. She's only surviving. They're only waiting for the moment when she no longer has to while praying that moment will never come. It's not a way to live, and they aren't living. Just because she can put one step in front of the other doesn't mean anything. If Vi could convince herself to give up, they would have.
The yellowing bruise around her throat is too constant a reminder that death is no easier to accept than whatever in between she now occupies.
"I'm sorry," Jared says. His whisper wraps around them like a vice, no matter how comforting it once was. Vi shudders away from it but the empty hallway behind them is no more reassuring. "You were right."
"About what?" Her words are raspy, whether from held back tears or disuse they're not sure.
"He's dead."
Vi pauses, allowing the words to settle in the air around them. She opens their mouth to reply but the wave of tears reaches her first. They crumple to the ground with their hands held tight to her cheeks. The sobs come all at once and she has no hope in stopping them. It's nothing they don't already know, but it sends a knife through her chest to hear it again.
That, and the relief is beyond description. Vi peers over their fingers to see him slowly moving closer and she falls back into the wall with a shake of their head. She doesn't want him to come to them. However, they can't imagine saying those words out loud.
"I'm sorry," Jared says again, his voice closer but when she looks up he's stopped any progress towards her. He sits with his legs curled in and facing her, not crossed like he used to. It's the slightest difference, probably meaningless in the long run, but it's enough to force their gaze away. "Please, I didn't want to leave you."
She knows he means it, but that makes none of this easier. "You didn't. I'm the one that left."
"It feels like the same thing."
They shake her head. "It's not."
Jared looks like he wants to say more, but she's one step short of cracking and can't allow themself to hear it. Vi puts a hand up to quiet him and it's trembling in the air between them before she can get a single word out. "I don't think we should stay together."
The air seems to leak out through his back until he's slouched fully over his curled legs. His brows furrow as he watches her, but Vi can't bring themself to take it back. She can feel every ounce of heartbreak in his expression deep in their chest, but there's no lie in her words.
There's only four of them left. She doesn't trust Jared like they used to. Every interaction they've had since Lev died has been caked in unimaginable anguish. They watched him give up. She almost watched him get himself killed without a care that they were watching. Where do they go from here? How do they deal with the fact that at most one of them will be alive by the end of the week?
The only answer that Vi can live with is a simple one - by staying as far away from each other as humanly possible.
"Why?" He asks.
Vi shakes her head once, then again. It feels like the only response they can give because any possible words feel inadequate. She loves him. He's disappointed them and put them in danger and scared her half to death, but she loves him all the same.
It's the trouble with Vi, they fall in love with every person they meet. She sees the good in every strike and the care in every misstep. They want everyone to stay so desperately that any excuse is plausible.
Ingrid just forgot to call her back. It wasn't because she didn't want to hang out, it was because she had homework even if they were in the same classes.
Briony stayed out late again because her friends needed her, not because she didn't want to see their rat's new (old) trick.
Jared left them behind in the cell block because it was safer for her here, not because in Lev's presence they were nothing more than an afterthought.
There's always a hundred excuses at the ready but Vi doesn't want to listen to them anymore. This isn't their life, but a precursor to death that she might be able to squeeze several more years out of. Jared won't be here if they do. Vi won't be here if she doesn't. No one matters. Nothing matters except the heartbeat in her chest because right now that's all they have.
It feels like Jared's watching her at double speed as Vi stands and runs back the way they'd come. He can't stand fast enough to stop her. He can't shove his legs underneath him in time to take even a single step before they're gone again. Jared's left staring at the empty doorway where they'd just been as his chest shatters where he stands. No tears fall, he's incapable of it. Every inch of his skin has tensed in a desperate attempt to hold Jared together.
He knows what she's asking. Vi said it so clearly that he wishes he could've gone deaf so he wouldn't have had to hear it. That's not possible. No matter how many knives Jared could shove into his ears, their voice would still echo.
I don't think we should stay together.
It's Lev's note all over again, the same hope of a promise that Jared simply cannot give. Except instead of a folded piece of paper that he can carry with him, it's just the ringing of her voice in his ears. Somehow it's worse. Jared's fear can't change written words but it can distort their statement into something he doesn't want to recognize.
He shakes his head and takes that first step towards the exit.
"I'm sorry."
5th: Aviv Vasilevsky, 18
A/N: Well, that was certainly something. I've come to the harrowing realization that this won't be getting easier. Joy.
Thank you Z for giving me the softest boy, in return I give you your rightful placement. Seriously, Aviv was too good for this place and you're insane for making him but I had so much fun. He got to learn to depend on people and created some of the strongest ties in the story. He was a key player of pre-games and a truly tortured soul past that. I've laid him to rest, so you can stop yelling at me now whenever you catch up thanks.
Four remain. This chapter being under 10k gives me hope for finishing the bulk of this story by the end of the month.
Until next time!
~ Olive