It's a new day beginning
But there's a piece of me clinging
To all the memories and episodes
~ Kodaline
WARNING: Some pretty creepy/dark subjects are covered in this chapter, you have been warned.
INTROS IV
Anatole Bolonsky, 18
District 3 Male
Anatole kisses the girl beneath him, knowing he won't remember her tomorrow. What's more, he doesn't care.
He breathes in the scent of perfume from her, trailing his fingertips across her exposed collarbone as her hands run through his hair. Strand by strand, Anatole basks in the moment. Amy? Emily? He briefly tries to remember her name. She probably told him a few drinks ago but the flow of alcohol through his mind renders it fuzzy, and his head hurts.
Why is he even trying to remember a name that doesn't mean anything?
He pulls back, tracing her jawline with his eyes. A fan spins idly overhead, rendering the hot, sticky air vaguely bearable. At least, it would to be to anyone else. That's probably what the owners of this establishment thought, but Anatole isn't used to discomfort.
He's been able to ignore it up until now but now he can't. Not anymore, now that the fire of passion has bled out of him.
Hell- this isn't even a good nightclub, he scowls as he props himself up on the covers. The night is a blur: he remembers high-pitched laughter; he remembers burning liquor hot as it spills down his throat like a waterfall; he remembers a whirlwind of physical contact and half-breaths echoing in his ears.
"Ani?" The girl looks up at him, confusion swirling in his eyes.
"Don't call me that," Anatole grumbles, but there's no weight behind his words, and he twists his lips into a confident smile. Oh- if only he felt anything looking at her? A pang of regret tightens his throat - not for the first time. She's just a means of distracting himself from his true desire. If he squints, maybe he can imagine that she's somebody else, "I have things to do, as much as I'd love to stay. I can't," he drawls, softly.
"Of course." She says, relieved, "Come back again if you ever have the time. I'd love to get to know you better."
"I'll let you know if I'm in the neighborhood," Anatole lies. The words slip off his tongue like ribbons, silky and deceptive.
He won't.
He won't even remember her.
He gets off the bed and goes to grab his shirt and jacket; two disheveled heaps bundled against the wall. As he tugs his shirt on, the fabric sticks to the sweat sheen against his skin. Anatole rolls his head back and forth, trying to unpick his hazy and drifting thoughts, trying to drag the stiffness out of his muscles. His heart is still thumping with exhilaration in between his ribcage, and he grins at the feeling of pleasure that accompanies it.
He isn't looking forward to the hangover tomorrow, but that's tomorrow's problem.
The door is slightly ajar, and Anatole uses his shoulder to open it as he heads out, without a second glimpse at the young woman still putting her clothes behind him. The door leads into the bar, and the barkeeper glances up at him, on edge the moment he sees Anatole.
He can smell the spirits on Anatole's breath, which is unnerving given the fact that Anatole's eyes are still jarringly sharp and focused as he returns the barkeeper's stare.
"You still haven't paid for those drinks earlier- you said you'd do it before you left." The barkeeper speaks up, firmly. Unlike most regular people in the district, he's used to dealing with people like Anatole; womanizers who've never had to worry about going hungry (a trait that breeds resentment and envy in District 3), and addicted to cheap thrills and beauty.
It's another thing that Anatole doesn't spare a second thought for. He doesn't care about how other people view him; after all, he thinks, if the Capitol doesn't care about the lives of the people of District 3, why should he. Life's too short to waste trying to please everyone.
He pauses for a moment before going up to the counter and fishing around in his jacket pockets, eventually yanking out a fistful of coins which glint, lustily in the flickering electric lights overhead.
"There."
"Thank you, Mr. Bolonsky." The barkeeper says, politely.
"Don't mention it." Anatole rolls his eyes as he heads out the front door.
Faintly, he registers how long he's spent inside. The first rays of the morning are starting to appear through the dense factory fog that covers the skies of District 3 like a grey, unappealing, and permanent blanket; cracks of pinks and oranges dance amongst the dust particles above Anatole as his feet begin to guide him back to his house.
His mind isn't on it; for him, the pink sunrise isn't as beautiful as the flushing cheeks of the face etched into his eyelids: a face that he can visualize every second of every day. He drums his fingertips against his palms as he walks, in perfect synchronization with the name bouncing off the walls of his skull like the tolling of a bell.
Natalya. Natalya. Natalya.
For far too long, she's been an unobtainable dream, a forbidden fruit that he couldn't touch. Anatole's moral standards are low (to say the least) but he refuses to stoop as low as incest; the thought even makes his stomach curdle.
The blood that he thought they shared had felt like a curse, like a noose, choking him whenever he caught a glimpse of her wide hazel eyes and knew they'd never see him as another other than a half-brother.
He might have lived with that curse all his life, if not for the incident a few days ago that had flipped his world upside down. His mother, Helene, had gotten drunk, and careless with her words. She let something slip, something that had felt unreal to Anatole, who had been downing a bottle nearby. The solution to all his problems, fitting into a single, earth-shattering sentence.
Natalya isn't your half-sister
The explanation had been slurred. Anatole has always known that his mother, Helene, had another husband, Pierre before marrying Anatole's father, Dolokhov. Everyone assumed that Natalya was the daughter of Helene and Pierre, and Anatole was the son of Helene and Dolokhov (whispers about how he shares his father's materialistic view on life aren't uncommon).
But, from what Anatole had gathered that night, Pierre had another woman before Helene, who had died (in childbirth? Anatole isn't too sure). The whole thing had been covered up... for some reason. Anatole isn't interested in piecing together every single piece of the puzzle.
...
All he can think about is Natalya, and how he can finally have her.
Natalya Marya, 18
District 3 Female
As Natalya scrubs the kitchen table; she knows that the smell of vomit will linger for several weeks, at least. Given the state that the rest of her family had been in last night, she can't even hazard a guess at who this particular batch belongs to: it could be Anatole; it could be Dolokhov; it could be her mum. Unlike all of them, Natalya's never gotten a taste for liquor, so she'd gone to bed early with the sound of rowdy laughter and bottles being uncorked still echoing in her ears.
She's the first one up this morning, and that doesn't surprise her. Everyone else is probably still slumped in their beds, with alcohol still spilling through their veins like water from a tap. Natalya had stayed up late too, but that had been because she'd been buried deep in a book that she'd received for her eighteenth birthday, not because she was drinking.
As the candlelight next to her had guttered, she'd been too focused on the words dancing on the pages in front of her to register the passage of time.
She'd woken up with the book still in her hand, paper slightly moist with sweat, and the imagery it had conjured up still flying around in her head like a multi-colored swarm of butterflies.
As she heads over to the kitchen sink to grab another towel and to throw the used one in her hand away, she thinks of the story of Cinderella - one of the few well-known fairytales that date back before the dark ages. She imagines herself as Cinderella; waiting for her metaphorical ball, waiting for a chance to spread her wings and be free. A soft sigh of longing slips out of Natalya before she can help herself.
She's nearly finished with removing the last physical evidence of last night's spectacle. As her mind wanders, instinctively, Natalya checks the clock on the shelf. She'd agreed to meet up with her friend Sonya this morning, and, as she sees it, showing up on time is just the right thing to do. Just like cleaning up her family's mess is the right thing to do (she doesn't want them to have to deal with it when they wake up - they'll probably all have splitting headaches and so have other things to deal with).
Natalya debates leaving a note - just in case her parents wake up and wonder where she's gone.
She decides against it. She's eighteen, after all. Besides, Dolokhov and Helene have never worried about her when she's gone out in the past (it must be because they trust her). Her brother, Anatole, has been known to ask, but if he does, she'll just tell him when she gets back.
She exhales, gently tugging a stray lock of hair behind her ears, before heading out the door.
...
The overhanging buildings make Natalya feel like she's underground. People are already out at this hour - kids younger than her heading off to factory shifts, with their hair tied up into messy buns and braids. Ever the brightest golden hair looks dull in the murky shadows created by soot and smoke. Exposed cables crisscross, haphazardly, from one side of the street to the other.
As Natalya heads into the square, she keeps her eyes fixed on the ground, to avoid stumbling on the cables and cracks in the cobbles. Also, she's taking Sonya's advice. The young woman has warned Natalya - more than once - about meeting the eyes of strangers, to 'avoid attracting unwanted attention. Natalya knows Sonya well enough to trust her advice, and she keeps her hands stuffed in her pockets as she walks.
A shoulder bumps into her, roughly, headed in the other direction. Its owner carries on walking.
"Sorry!" Natalya calls out as she twists around. The other person doesn't even look back.
Natalya shrugs, undaunted. She quickens her pace, seeing the square up ahead. The bright yellow Capitol emblem on The Justice Building is a hint of color that stands out like a drop of blood in a snowstorm, in the bleak huddle of wires and factories around it. The central courtyard of District 3 is large, but the tall buildings around it still make Natalya feel cramped.
You're not cramped - you're just in a cocoon, waiting to emerge, the tiny voice in her head supplies. It's a constant stream of optimism for Natalya. Seeing the dark side never helped anyone, she thinks, as she scours the crowds for Sonya's familiar black bob.
"There you are!" Sonya's voice sounds next to her.
"Sonya," Natalya replies, with a smile. "You snuck up on me." Natalya doesn't raise her voice as she answers, despite the happy note in her voice. Raising her voice has always felt unnatural... angry, even, to her. She's seen how it makes other people feel bad, and that's the last thing she wants.
"That's not hard." Sonya teases, "You're always lost in your head."
Natalya flushes, "I mean- I wasn't- not that time."
"Either way, you should be more aware of your surroundings." The young woman says. Even though her words are light, there's a hint of seriousness there too. A trace of meaning, as she looks at Natalya. A trace of worry. Natalya brushes it off.
"I've survived until now, haven't I?"
"Of course, forget I said anything, " Sonya says, hastily. "Anyways, I'm assuming your family's been at it again. I can smell the vomit on you, and I know it's not yours."
"You assume right." Natalya offers up a sheepish look in response, "I think it was Dolokhov and Anatole, mostly. My mum's still holding off a bit; she got really drunk a few nights ago, and I think she's still recovering."
"Mmm." Despite trying to hide it, Sonya looks troubled, "Anatole takes after his father. I know they're your family, and I probably shouldn't say it... but Anatole scares me, you know?"
"I think he's alright."
"You always see the best in people, Nat. I'm jealous." Sonya shrugs it off, but it clearly still bothers her, "But even if you're right, people aren't thinking clearly when they're drunk. Anatole and Dolokhov could have hearts of gold, but I still think you shouldn't be around them - especially when they're drunk. They might do something to you."
"Like what?"
Sonya's mouth forms a hard line. "You're not a girl anymore. You're a young woman. Let's just say that."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Forget it," Sonya repeats, shaking her head as if she's had a sudden change of heart. "It's... nothing. Do you want to grab some breakfast? There's a new cafe on my road that you have got to try."
"If you say so." Natalya replies. "- and while we do that, I've got to tell you about this book I'm reading."
"Alright, sounds like a plan."
As she follows Sonya, Natalya's head is swirling with fantasies and bright landscapes and sparkling lights, and her and Sonya's conversation has already left her mind. Sonya's warnings have been left forgotten on the cobbles behind Natalya, just another cable, waiting to be tripped.
Ronnie Thornhill, 17
District 8 Male
The build-up is always the best part; the waiting, the planning, the watching-all-the-pieces-slot-into-place; the cold, slick sense of triumph as it all unfolds.
As Ronnie crouches against the wall, the uneven bricks rub into his back. If anyone else were to walk past (no one will, he and Maya have picked this spot for that exact reason) they would just assume he was one of the wayward kids that roam the streets of District 8: probably high on something; probably running away from troubled home life. Not that they'd be wrong, at least, not on that second assumption, he thinks. But he and his sister have found better ways to cope with their shitty family than with drugs and alcohol.
The wall behind him belongs to a factory, and so, it vibrates due to the moving machinery on the other side of it. There's another factory right next to it, and the two buildings are separated by a thin, shadowed alleyway between them.
If Ronnie turns his head to the side, he can see the dark entrance, but he dare not look in. He doesn't want to risk compromising the plan.
Maya has her part to play, and he has his. Right now, it's her time to shine. If their schemes were theatre performances, then Ronnie is backstage, and waiting for his cue with bated breath.
He trusts Maya to play her part right. Other than himself, she's the only person he can trust. There's not a glimmer of doubt or mistrust that she'll mess up in him as he lies in wait. Other people underestimate her. But not him.
Ronnie hears voices.
"Are you sure this is a shortcut?" A male voice breaks the silence. It's coming from the alleyway. Ronnie cards a hand through his thick black hair, heart thrumming with anticipation.
"Yes, I promise. It leads straight to my house. I'll tell my father all about how you helped me - it's rare for someone here to have such a good heart. I can't thank you enough!" That's Maya. Or rather, Maya, putting on a flawless facade of innocence and youth. Even Ronnie is impressed by the casual lie about their father. In reality, their father was a wife and children-beating pile of shit who died in a pool of his own vomit two years ago. But that's not important.
He knows what's coming next.
It starts with the sound of two pairs of footsteps coming down the alley. Then a beat of silence. Then a muffled cry, and the distinct, jarring sound of boots kicking into flesh, and a gasping, involuntary groan. It's like music to Ronnie's ears as he finally makes a move, slipping into the alleyway as smoothly as a snake.
As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he can see a writhing figure on the floor, and a short female figure standing next to them, driving the end of their boot into the other person's side over and over again.
"Maya!" Ronnie calls up. The short figure turns. His sister's piercing blue eyes glitter, cruelly, in the dim light. Her soft facade has melted away, leaving behind the cold, hard core that represents who she truly is. She grins at him.
"Welcome to the party!"
Ronnie smirks. Looking at his sister like this, someone else might see a monster, exultant in their own ability to bring down and cause pain to a person twice her size.
He sees his own reflection.
"Don't hog all the fun." He calls out as he quickly crosses the space between them.
"I would never." Maya arches an eyebrow in response as she steps back; an obvious invitation to let him join in. Ronnie accepts it without hesitating. There's a hot fire burning in his belly, warming his chest, and causing his lips to curl into an unconscious smile as crouches down and punches the young man in the nose. And again. And again. His knuckles come away bloody after every blow. The crimson liquid is art, and Ronnie is the painter. He's been the palette before - striped with thin ribbons of red by both his older sister, Kylee, and his father, more times than he can count.
He and Maya have both been painted as villains; that's the role they've been taught to play from early childhood, picking it up by watching their father and by nursing their own wounds in the late hours of the evening. Watering the buds of what their father planted inside them with silent, hiccuping sobs, at first. Until they learned to accept the pain and to use it as fuel.
Maya's voice breaks his chain of thought, "I think he's unconscious, now," she tells him.
Ronnie glances down at their victim, "you're right," he says, and (ignoring the blood dripping off his fingers) starts to shake the man down for valuables. He roughly pats the man's coat, shirt, and trousers down, checking for pockets - bingo. There's a lump against the side of his coat. Ronnie puts his hand into the pocket and pulls out a pouch of coins. He tosses it over to Maya, whose eyes light up at the sight.
"I didn't think he'd be rich!" She exclaims gleefully.
"You chose our victim well."
"Most people know better than to help a stranger, even a little girl. Someone would have taken advantage of him sooner or later." Maya shrugs. "I just got there first."
"Check if I've missed anything," Ronnie tells her, moving back to make space.
Maya conceals the pouch on her person before inching forward and copying Ronnie, checking under the folds of their victim's coat with small, lithe fingers. She doesn't find anything there but, before standing up, she tugs a silver ring from the man's finger.
"This should fetch a nice price."
Ronnie makes a vague noise of affirmation but doesn't say anything. They both know they aren't doing this for the money.
They're doing it because it's fun.
That's when Maya turns to him and raises an eyebrow.
"Now what? Should we kill him?"
Maya Thornhill, 14
District 8 Female
"Not this one. He'll be missed: you're holding his ring right now, Maya. If we kill him, his family might come looking for us. If we let him live, he won't tell anyone what happened. You know how it is."
Maya nods, even as disappointment curdles in her stomach. Ronnie's right - of course. Assault and robberies are commonplace in District 8, and no one cares. The victims just try to get on with their lives and pretend it never happened. The peacekeepers don't care, either. They only follow up on murders. As long as the victim can still form coherent sentences by the end of it, incidents like these are forgotten as quickly as a leaf lost in the wind.
Still, her blood is up, and every cell in her body yearns to cause more pain to the man on the floor. She's been ignoring such urges; had kept them suppressed even as she lured him in with crocodile tears and plaintive cries about how hungry she was. The victim had been drawn to her act like a moth to the flame. The loaf of bread he'd brought her sits in a stomach even now. With the promise of a reward if he came home with her, bringing him here had been a piece of cake.
"Maya, you alright?" Ronnie asks her; his voice is laced with concern. If anyone else used the tone of voice with her, Maya would bury them. Because it's Ronnie, she offers him a smile instead.
"Yeah- fine..." She shoots a glance at the unconscious, bloodied body next to them, "just a bit disappointed."
"Of course you are." Ronnie huffs, amused. "Is this not dramatic enough for you?"
"Something like that."
"Ah- well, There's always next time," Ronnie says. "Let's go - I don't want to risk being seen." He changes the subject and reaches his hand out to her. Maya takes it. She can feel the blood slick against his fingers. It feels warm.
It's a nice feeling, she thinks, as she follows him.
They head in the vague direction of home, using the back alleys of District 8, which they both know off by heart. She lets Ronnie lead her. He towers in front of her, so that his dark hair blots out the sun like an ink stain. Like an eclipse. Admiration for her older brother creeps through her bones like burnt honey, sweet, yet bitter. She had looked on, fascinated, as he had beaten their victim. Her brother's eyes are already dark but, in moments of passion, she's seen them go almost black, merciless and fathomless.
-and it's beautiful.
She's always been able to rely on him. The world around her had ignited her desire to cause pain at an early age; her father had sharpened her into a blade, but Ronnie has always kept her strong so she doesn't break. He's always been her partner. When they first started out she would distract their victims whilst he would pickpocket them. They never got it wrong - they knew each other too well to make mistakes. They've always been able to practically read each other's minds.
Eventually, it progressed to assault, after she'd had her first taste of blood during a fight at school (she'd dropped out soon after) and realized there was nothing like the feeling of hurting others. Call it sadism, call it a useful trait for survival, she thinks. Ronnie had shown her how to incapacitate people bigger than her (which is almost everyone), and how to bring them down effectively.
They've only made one mistake, in all that time.
They've always tried to keep the victims alive. Never punching or kicking them too hard, never aiming for vital organs. But once, they had calculated wrong.
At least it had been a nobody. No one had even noticed he'd disappeared. If Maya and Ronnie didn't remember, would anyone?
Maya's heard stories about the horrible feeling of guilt you're supposed to feel after murdering someone.
She hadn't felt it. Not even a shred of guilt. She hadn't felt any different than she did after a normal robbery where the victim was left alive, even after she'd pressed her fingers against his neck and heard nothing. Even in the days after.
Nothing.
The best thing?
...
That realization had made her feel free.
Thanks to HumanWiki for submitting Anatole and Natalya, and to wiifan2002 for submitting Maya and Ronnie. Both pairs of tributes this chapter were... interesting, to say the least.
A friendly reminder that I really do appreciate reviews and hearing what you guys think. Thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter, it really means a lot and massively motivates me!