tw. the second pov implies physical domestic and child abuse, and the third pov depicts verbal child abuse and includes one reference to previous suicidal thoughts. if you would like either pov to be summarized, feel free to reach out to me. i don't want y'all relapsing from hunger games fanfiction.
viii. telltale
✦ ✧ ✦
indicating or giving evidence of something
jalen despres
sixteen / / district twelve
—
It's terribly late at night, but he can't go to sleep just yet. Instead, Jalen stands in one of the communal kitchens, boiling water in a rusty pan over a squeaky burner. He doesn't think he'll go to sleep once he's done, either — there's too much work that needs to get done, work that can only be completed now that everyone's done bugging him for the day.
The actual prisoners have a designated curfew, but because Jalen was born here, he doesn't. Because most of the people who talk to him are prisoners, it gives him a good few hours at the end of every day to do whatever he so chooses.
Not that he actually has a choice. His spare hours can't be occupied with anything but preparing food for the next day. Even if he usually isn't paid much, in Twelve, everyone has a purpose, and Jalen's is decidedly soup.
He adds a dented box of noodles to the water before stirring it with his favorite ladle. Technically, it isn't his spoon because material possessions aren't really allowed in Twelve, but it's a darn lovely utensil, one he still can't believe Mr. Fowler lets him borrow.
"You doing alright?" He asks Jalen, his tone slightly rough. Jalen wonders if Mr. Fowler is talking to him or the spoon — he does the latter sometimes.
So, Jalen doesn't say anything in response and continues to mix.
"I'm talking to you, kid."
"Oh?" It catches Jalen a bit by surprise, his hand shaking and a splash of boiling water hitting his fingers. "I'm fine, Mr. Fowler." He reaches back into the pasta box and grabs a small flavoring packet, which he sprinkles inside the food. "Do I not look fine?"
"You still don't need to call me that."
"I'm well aware I don't." But calling him Journey would feel so weird. After all, he's Twelve's only living victor — he ought to be treated with respect. Jalen takes a whiff of his pasta and smiles as the warm spices hit his nose. "Pasta is coming along great, by the way!"
"You don't seem fine," Mr. Fowler says, then ambles toward Jalen, slightly shoving him aside and stirring the pasta himself. "You're doing a good job with the food if that makes you feel any better."
It doesn't really. Jalen's been cooking soup and noodles since he was ten. It's just about the only thing he knows he's good at. Besides, he's fineeee.
"Like I already told you, there's nothing wrong." The stove knob creaks a bit as Jalen turns it, but eventually, it's completely shut off. "There's more that needs to be done now, so I need to get to it."
"You don't need to do anything," Mr. Fowler says. "Have you looked in the mirror lately? I hate to break it to you, but you look like shit. You're clearly exhausted. Please, Jalen, take the night off."
He can't do that. If he does, there won't be enough food for all the people Jalen wants to help tomorrow, and then they'll be disappointed. He can't let them down, not when he's the only reprieve from Twelve's cruelty that they may have. Cooking and helping is all that Jalen has, too.
"People need me," he tells Mr. Fowler, but he can feel his legs getting wobbly, his body begging him to get some rest. "If they don't have their soup or pasta, they'll have a terrible day, and it'll be my fault."
"Every day is a terrible day in Twelve. You can't change that."
His words sting, even if Jalen completely understands what he means. Nobody here has a chance. Even if Jalen gets released to another District on his nineteenth birthday — he'd probably pick Ten, not that anyone has asked. Settling down on a farm and seeing the sun and the clouds every day would be lovely — people there would pick on him. After all, why would they trust the son of a convict? Twelve is going to haunt Jalen for the rest of his life, so he might as well help the people around him.
"Can't I try?" He begs
"Not when the bags under your eyes make you look like a raccoon."
Dejectedly, Jalen hands the spoon back to Mr. Fowler and yawns. "Maybe you're right."
—
He's shocked to find his mother still awake when he returns back to their compartment. She's sitting on her old rocking chair, swinging back and forth, over and over.
"Why were you out so late?" She asks Jalen, who takes a seat at the edge of her shoddy mattress propped up by moldy wooden crates.
"I was cooking food for tomorrow," he says with a grin. "You know that I do this!"
His mother closes her eyes briefly, hums, and then dramatically opens them. "Right… and you know I don't like you spending time with the crooks you serve."
Jalen was afraid of the other prisoners for a long time, too, but he's found that the longer they're here, the more they mellow out. After all, they're stuck here forever — being sullen starts to turn into a waste of time.
Sometimes, when his mother says things like this, Jalen wants to point out, "Aren't you also one?" but he knows that'd be disrespectful. He used to ask her all the time—what did she do to get thrown in here? She's always refused to answer, so he's given up on asking.
It's strange, though — his own mother is just a ghost to him.
"Even if they're crooks, I do have to give them credit," Jalen instead says. "At least they're trying to change for the better." He wants to add "unlike you," but again, he knows better. "You should try my soup sometime, at least."
"You know I don't like soup."
Right, because stars forbid they be able to bond about the thing Jalen's most passionate about. "Mine is unlike other soup, though. I promise, Mother, you'll like it."
"I wouldn't."
"Okay then." Jalen sighs, then walks toward his own mattress. He doesn't even change into pajamas or wash his face before crashing on the flimsy piece of foam and letting sleep take him.
—
"How are you doing today, Mrs. Haberkorn?"
The middle-aged woman from District Nine plops down on the hardly-cushioned chair in Jalen's makeshift "office." He holds a bowl of chicken noodle soup, careful not to drop it, and places it on the large crate in front of her.
"I've been better," she admits.
"Oh dear. I'm sorry to hear that." Jalen doesn't sit down quite yet. "Would you like me also to brew you some tea?"
"This is fine."
He nods, mentally noting that he should still make some later if he has time. As fall turns to winter and wind seeps through the cracks in the wall, a glass of Earl Grey would be nice.
"Alright then." Jalen finally sits in his own chair, a wooden one that's falling apart and must constantly be duct-taped or nailed back together. "Tell me, ma'am, what's been bothering you."
Mrs. Haberkorn takes a small sip of soup first and smiles. "This is really good. Dare I say, your best chicken noodle soup yet?" Jalen nods, trying not to let the compliment get to his head. "Anyways, we're coming up on the tenth anniversary of everything, and I don't know how to feel."
Jalen reckons she should probably feel bad. As kind as Mrs. Haberkorn is to him, it doesn't change the fact she brutally murdered both of her parents with a gardening sickle. Still, she's human, just like everybody else here. She still deserves to be happy or at least to find a sense of peace.
"Anniversaries are always hard," Jalen says. "Especially the big milestones."
"It's so confusing. I don't regret what I did, but I wish I could somehow see my family again. My daughter is your age, you know, but I haven't seen her since she was six."
"That's really tough. What do you think she's like now?"
"No clue." Mrs. Haberkorn has another spoonful of soup, this time putting a small piece of pasta on her spoon. "I wonder if Rosette even remembers me or if my husband ever explained to her what happened."
"Would you prefer if he did?"
She shrugs. "Sutter has always been very prudent, for better or worse. It's why he turned me in when he saw me covered in blood. But maybe I did too much for him to be open about it. My Rosette is part of the reason I… you know, with my parents."
"Interesting." Jalen shifts back a bit, tapping on his chin. "You never told me, by the way. What led you to make the choice you did?"
"They were trying to take Rosette away from me. They said that I was too mentally unstable to raise a kid and that they should've forced me to get rid of the baby when I was pregnant. I couldn't stand them talking to me like that." Mrs. Haberkorn takes a deep breath and sighs. "And then I did the most mentally unstable thing I've done in my entire life."
At least she acknowledges the irony in that. Jalen tries not to be too judgmental toward the people who come seeking a safe space to talk from him, but he can't always be objective. It's just so hard for him to put himself in the shoes of a murderer so he can better understand her. His head starts to throb in his skull again, which happens when Jalen overthinks. Too bad so much of his world revolves around thinking.
"And you said you still wouldn't regret it."
"Of course not. I thought Sutter would be okay with it and even help me hide the bodies. This was supposed to help the two of us."
Again, Jalen can't really see things from her perspective, so he asks, "Do you understand why he was upset? And do you still harbor any resentment towards him?"
"Yes, I understand, and no, I don't resent him." Mrs. Haberkorn's already finished with her soup. Even though Jalen's rule is one serving per person per day, maybe he should give her more. "I just wish I wasn't born into such a cruel world."
Sometimes, Jalen feels the exact same way. His mother has openly told him that he was an accident as if it'd change the fact he's stuck in Twelve until his nineteenth birthday. Just because he doesn't want to die doesn't mean he likes what it means to be alive right now, though.
"Am I out of time?" Mrs. Haberkorn asks, probably noticing Jalen hasn't said anything to her.
He blinks his eyes rapidly to be more alert, then glances down at his watch, which is a gift from Mr. Fowler. "Technically, yes, but if you want, I can grab you some more soup and continue talking. I don't want you to leave feeling so upset."
"It's okay," she concedes. "I know there's a long line of people that are waiting to see you."
That there is. It's what happens when there are no actual mental health services here. People take what they can; for some reason, it's the time and care of a child who grew up too fast. It's okay, though. Jalen doesn't mind.
"I'll see you later then."
As Mrs. Haberkorn gets up and leaves, Jalen notices that she never even thanked him. People hardly do, but that doesn't stop his heart from wincing in pain every time. Mr. Fowler tells him the work he does is important, yet he's never felt appreciated.
It's selfish of him. Jalen knows that it is. Still, he can't help but wish somebody actually cared about his feelings and what's going on in his life, even if it isn't exciting.
At the end of the day, though, nobody ever will. Jalen has dedicated his life to helping others, not being helped. Even if his joints feel more tense and his head feels heavier with every passing day, he can't get overwhelmed or falter.
If he did, he might as well just shrivel up and die.
millicent kana
eighteen / / district ten
—
It's been a while since the house was this loud in the middle of the night.
Millicent knows it's not her place to speculate — a good governess stays in place and obeys orders with a smile — but right now, she just can't help it.
"It's not my fault you make this house seem like a cemetery," she hears her boss, Quinten Cammar, shout, his voice still loud and clear on the farmhouse's second story. "I don't get it — why are you so depressed all the time? How am I supposed to enjoy you when you never even smile?"
Millicent sighs, her back curved into the slanted walls of her quarters. This room has always made her a bit claustrophobic—there's nothing but her bed and a small table—but the shouting makes it especially suffocating.
"How can anybody smile in a place like this?" Quinten's wife, Allie, roars. "This country is hell. Even if we have money, we're stuck here."
"Why don't you want to be stuck here?"
"Our daughter deserves to know better than just our house. You don't even give a fat fuck about me or her — admit it!"
Even though she doubts Quinten will share them, Millicent knows his secrets. She was sweeping the floors downstairs the first time one of his mistresses snuck into the house. He held a brick up to Millicent's face and groaned, "You tell anybody about this, and you're dead. Understood?"
She had simply nodded. What else could she do?
Allie Cammar may act like she's the only prisoner here, but Millicent's just as stuck. She knows there's more to the world, more that she's capable of than this place her aunt dropped her off at two years ago, but she doubts she'll ever get to see it.
"You hate me," Millicent hears Allie continue. "You're cheating on me. " Ah, she's figured it out. Good for her. "You don't care about our daughter, and you're just the biggest piece of shit I've ever met."
"Stop talking to me!" The shouting only gets louder, so much so that Millicent covers her ringing ears yet can still perfectly decipher everything being said.
"Why? What are you going to do about it?"
What follows next is the sound of a piercing scream and then a thump on the ground. Millicent's stomach churns — did he really just?
It's a bit disappointing that she's not even surprised. Instead, she burrows her way into her bedsheets, closes her eyes, and prays that the past few minutes were just a dream.
—
They very much were not just a dream.
When Millicent comes downstairs for the morning, Quinten sits at the kitchen table with dark circles under his eyes and a stern expression.
Is it wrong that she expected he'd at least be somewhat conflicted over what he did? That his face would imply even just a fraction of remorse?
"Good morning, Mr. Cammar," Millicent says as if she didn't hear anything last night. "Can I cook something for you?"
He doesn't even make eye contact with her; instead, he focuses on the painted portrait of him, Allie, and their daughter, Kerry. "My wife and child no longer live here," he announces. "From now on, it'll be the two of us."
"Oh…" Millicent gulps. "Are they okay?"
"They're fine, they're just… elsewhere."
"Okay then."
"Please don't pester me about where they are—"
"I wasn't going to!"
"Good." Quinten finally turns his head to look at Millicent. "That's why I like you."
She doesn't say anything about that; instead, she walks over to the refrigerator and gets three eggs out. A part of her wonders what happened to Kerty, as she only heard Allie, but she does her best to block that out. Whatever the truth is, Millicent feels she won't like it very much.
—
"I'd like to introduce you to somebody important."
It's only been a week since Allie and Kerty's disappearance, but Quinten's standing proudly by the front door with a new woman. Millicent can feel her smile from several feet away. It reminds her of when Allie used to smile like that, but that was at least a year ago.
(Darkly, Millicent wonders if there was ever a time when she herself smiled with such warmth. She doubts it, unfortunately.)
The woman cradles a tiny baby in her arms, the two sharing radiant ginger hair and big blue eyes. "Hello there," she says, looking Millicent up and down. "Are you the governess Quinten was telling me about."
"Leave the introductions to me." He lightly chuckles. "Millicent, this is Lioan and her daughter Roenne. We will be getting married next month."
"It's lovely to meet you!" Lioan enthuses, still beaming.
"Lovely to meet you too." Millicent extends her hand toward Lioan, then sticks her tongue out in Roenne's face. "It's extra lovely to meet you!"
"She's great with kids," Quinten explains. "She'll take great care of the little one."
The way Quentin compliments Millicent has always left a sick feeling in her stomach. Considering she met him three years ago when she was just thirteen, she'd hoped he wouldn't do anything to make a move on her, but there are many things Millicent hopes for and never gets.
"I have no doubts that she will." Lioan lifts the baby and places her into Millicent's caring arms.
Already, she's a bit more at ease than she usually is. Being around young children is sometimes a blessing — they're so innocent and unaware of how terrible the world is. They're still full of curiosity and hope, eyes widening at every new thing they see.
Millicent wishes they could stay that way forever, but at the end of the day, everybody grows, and that's the greatest tragedy of existence. With age comes awareness, reality enveloping young minds like moss on a rotten fruit. There's so much Millicent wishes she wasn't aware of yet.
"Roenne is adorable," she tells Lioan. "What type of food does she like, and what are her favorite toys?"
"You can ask her later," Quinten interjects. "I want to help Lioan get settled — you care for the kid."
"On it."
—
A year into taking care of her, Millicent grows prouder and prouder of Roenne with every passing day. Even if she's still a bit younger than Kerty, Roenne is walking with only a little bit of help, and her blabbering is shifting into fragments of sentences.
"Chicken! Chicken!"
Today, Millicent's taken her to the animal corrals, something she's done a few times now. Roenne is adorable when she plays with them, always clapping her hands and jumping in circles.
"You see the chicken?" Millicent points at Loretta, a new addition to the coop. "Look at the chicken!"
"New one?" Roenne leans back on the fence, and her face shifts to something close to confusion. "Where Ranni?"
Millicent doesn't have the heart to tell Roenne that she ate Ranni for breakfast this morning, nor does she know how to explain that to a two-year-old. So, she doesn't, and instead lies, "That is Ranni!"
"Oh!" Roenne's face reverts back to a smile. "Yay for Ranni!"
"Yay for Ranni!" Millicent grabs her hand and helps her wobble on close to the bird, though her heart pangs. One day, Roenne will learn what actually happened, and even if Millicent isn't the person to tell her, it'll still sting.
For now, she's jealous.
—
"I'm sorry you're not feeling well." While Roenne is asleep one day, Millicent takes a bowl of soup to the main bedroom. "Hopefully this makes you feel better?"
"Thank you, sweetheart," Lioan says through sniffles. "You're so good."
"I try my best."
Over the past few months, Millicent has noticed something different about her. Her initial warm smile is replaced with a feeble grin, which seems to take a lot of effort. The area under her eyes regularly contorts to shades of blue and grey, and Millicent is too afraid to guess if they're from exhaustion or somebody's fists.
Either way, it reminds her so much of Allie in her last weeks. Her pale skin is even paler, almost like a corpse, even though Lioan swears it's just a cold. Millicent knows better than to believe that.
Now would be a good time for her to leave the room, but her feet remain firmly planted in the carpet. If she couldn't figure out what happened with Allie, she has to try now with Lioan.
"You can tell me what's bothering you," Millicent mumbles. "I won't tell anybody."
"I'm fine." Lioan's posture stiffens. "Just a cold, like I told you."
"Then it's just about the worst cold I've ever seen."
"I'm going to sleep now." She puts the soup on her bedside table, then pulls a string by her lamp, making it shut off.
Millicent nods tiptoes out of the room, and delicately shuts the door behind her. Maybe she was just making things up, growing paranoid for no damn reason, and Lioan really just has a cold. That seems too good to be true, though, and life is always too good.
Besides, Millicent has seen Lioan's expression of discontent without even a fraction of light in her eyes before. She sees it every time she looks in the mirror.
She hears Roenne whining and heads over to her room. There is no time for Millicent to dwell on Lioan for any longer. When she arrives, the kid stands up, grasping the rails of her crib. "Naptime is all done!"
Millicent lifts her up and then places her on the ground. "Yes, it is! No more nap time."
"Can we see the pig pigs?"
"Sure," Millicent says. "That sounds like a great idea."
—
Less than a week later, the house is once again way too loud.
Lioan screams like a broken record, "What did I do wrong?"
"You're horrible," Quinten repeats every time. "You're just so lousy."
This time, Millicent never saw other women enter the house. Either it didn't happen, or they've gotten more careful. Either way, she feels sick as she hides underneath her covers. She knows that she can't do anything to stop this, and it all but kills her.
"You're acting like I didn't do you a favor!" Quinten shouts. "I saw you, poor without a place to raise your child, and I let you into my life. The least you could do is put out for me. I don't even demand that much."
"You don't get to pick what I—"
Lioan's scream is even worse than Allie's. It's not as loud, but there's way more despair. She sounds like a wild animal being hunted for sport. To Quinten, that's probably all that she was.
Again, Millicent wishes she could be surprised. Instead, she wishes Lioan would've told her something a few days ago. Maybe then she could've done something, anything.
But she knows that isn't the case. She can wish on as many shooting stars as she wants, but the world will always be terrible. Millicent will stay on this farm until the day she dies, and nobody will think anything of her when she finally does.
claris varsenova
eighteen / / district three
—
She's not leaving this library until everybody is done with their homework. Claris already finished hers, of course, but she'd hate to watch the underclassmen fall behind. It's kind of silly to have to do homework even though she was already chosen to represent Three in the Games, but she doesn't want to complain about it.
Homework gives Claris the excuse to stay at the Institute long past her final lesson of the day. Staying late means she doesn't have to go home, and not going home means she doesn't need to see— ah, no need for me to think about him now. This place is supposed to be her distraction, after all.
As she sits at the head of a long wooden table, reading a book called, "The EncycloTEAdia: Panemian Tea from A to Z," a gaggle of younger teenagers flock to her, nervous expressions painted on their faces. When Claris smiles at them, though, any essence of sadness fades away.
"Do you need help with anything?" she asks the tall boy with blue hair closest to her. Does he not know that hair dye isn't allowed at the Institute? Regardless, Claris doesn't judge. She never does.
He opens his notebook on the table to reveal a crudely drawn skeleton. "Mx. Matsumoto said we need to be able to draw and label the entire thing by memory next week."
"Ah, I remember this," Claris says.
Admittedly, this was an assignment that she struggled with a few years ago, even if she understood its importance. Before learning how to break people's bones, it's essential to know where all the bones are and which ones could lead to the most catastrophic injuries. Claris remembers staying up almost the entire night before the skeleton exam, filling up a whole notebook of drawings. However, based on this boy's progress, he might as well buy two more notebooks to fill if he wants to do well.
"How did you do on it?" He puts his head in his hands. "Ugh, I mean, I know you did well because you're the best in your year now, but how—"
Claris' stomach twists. She didn't really have a choice in whether or not she'd do this assignment well. She never has a choice. It was either getting a perfect score or risking getting the bones she couldn't correctly label bruised by her father.
The Institute produces successful Tributes because it teaches that fear is the best motivation. Having that same motivation at home only made Claris better.
But she can't tell anybody that, much less this random stranger.
"Well I started by printing paper skeletons and labeling them," she suggests. "Once I knew where everything was supposed to go, drawing my own was a lot easier. Honestly—"
Claris' eyes flit to the corner of the room where Leda Gero, her future district partner, is silently reading a book and taking notes. They're the best medic the Institute has had in years and would probably have way better advice about this. She could refer her tutee to them, but Leda probably wouldn't want to help.
Not to be rude, but there's something off about them, and Claris has yet to figure out what it is. They're not quite miserable like most people are, but they're clearly showing resentment. She's honestly afraid of what they'd say if somebody approached them for help.
This could be a good chance to get closer to them since they will be spending six months together, but Claris doesn't want somebody to get bullied in the process.
"— Never mind." She sharply exhales.
The boy squints. "Pardon?"
"Just yeah, practice. I know how much this assignment sucks, but repetition is, unfortunately, the only way to get the information to stick. You can't really cut corners for this." Or for anything at the Institute, but hopefully, the boy is aware of that.
"Okay, I'll do that then!" He enthuses. "Thank you so much."
"The pleasure is all mine."
As he returns to his seat, Claris senses a newly restored sense of hope radiating off of him. He has a relaxed smile, and his posture is less stiff as he shows one of the people sitting next to him his notebook.
Moments like these are why Claris is so adamant about helping out her peers. Everyone in the Institute carries the same chip on their shoulder, but it becomes way less heavy when someone's there to help you lift it.
Just because nobody was there to help Claris when she had her own burdens doesn't mean she can't be there for others.
—
She takes the side door when returning to the Varsenova manor, the same way she always does. None of the lights are on downstairs, so Claris sighs with relief. Did she really get so lucky today?
Her watch indicates that it's 20:00, so the odds that her father is asleep are very low, but he isn't here at this very moment, which means Claris can finally breathe. She's quiet as a mouse as she journeys through the entry hall and into the kitchen, painfully aware that if she's too loud, she'll ruin her whole day.
Once she's in the kitchen, her usual sense of dread washes over her. She doesn't remember a time in the last five to six years when she was able to cook a proper meal here. When she was younger, her mother would let her help with cooking, saying that it was a science. Claris was always so eager to assist, and the food tasted twenty-five times better, knowing it was prepared with love.
Now, though, she opens the heavy refrigerator door, trying not to let too much light out, so she can grab leftovers of what the household maids prepared. Don't get Claris wrong, they're great cooks. It's just not the same.
(Nothing has been the same since the moment Claris' mother told her she had cancer. From that moment on, it felt like she was a ticking time bomb, about to explode at any given moment and douse Claris in misery.)
(It's hard for her to recall a time when she genuinely could smile since.)
It seems they've prepared a chopped chicken salad, thankfully not something that needs to be reheated. The microwave's beeping is loud, and she doesn't want it to draw unnecessary attention to herself. When she's at the Institute, Claris is allowed to beam with all the brightest colors in the rainbow. Now that she's home, though, she's forced to fade to shades of black and white.
She grabs the salad bowl, a fork, and a knife and makes her way to the stairs. She hardly ever eats downstairs anymore, and certainly not with people there to keep her company. Her only companion is her cat, Joule, and Claris tells herself that she's all she needs.
(But heaven's sake, would it be nice if somebody understood her. Somebody who was willing to sit by her side when times are hard and do whatever it takes to cheer her up.)
(It seems impossible. Claris has learned the sorry truth that she's the only person who can understand herself — anybody else is temporary, so letting them in would just make things worse.)
Once she arrives at her bedroom, Claris can finally turn on her light. It's the only place in this house where she feels safe — at least most of the time. Her curtains and duvet are her favorite shade of yellow, and the framed posters on the walls, advertising her favorite books and films, make her occasionally feel like she's not truly alone.
The room's centerpiece is obviously Joule, who starts running around in circles on Claris' bed as soon as they make eye contact. She sets her salad on her desk, then dives on the bed and strokes her fingers through Joule's soft gray fur.
"Did'ja have a good day today?" Claris whispers. Joule softly meows, so she takes it as a "yes" and continues to pet her. "Never change, my pretty girl."
Admittedly, she's a bit nervous about what will happen with Joule when she's in the Capitol. The maids swear up and down that they're going to take care of her, and they already do while Claris is at school, but she's afraid of what'll happen at night when they leave.
Would her father really… she shudders. Claris isn't allowing herself to think about this. It'll just make her want to double back on her decision to volunteer, and she, more than anything, needs to be able to follow through with this. It's the only way she'll truly be free.
She eats her salad in silence, occasionally shoving too much of it in her mouth so she can get eating over and done with. Then, she'll get to do some reading, hang out with Joule, and go to sleep so she can play the same avoiding-her-father game in the morning.
It's not one she wins often. As she chews, she hears familiar footsteps clobbering down the hallway, and her stomach drops. She covers her ears, bracing herself for impact, when her father swings her door open and shouts, "You're home later than usual. Don't tell me you were having trouble with your homework."
"I wasn't," Claris swears. "I was just staying late to help people. I finished mine within an hour?"
"So you rushed yourself?"
"No. It was an easy assignment since we're approaching the last week."
He scowls, not believing Claris for even a second, then leans against the wall. "You've got to stop with the helping your classmates bullshit. It shows that you have a soft heart, and that's not going to get you very far in the arena."
"But it isn't the arena. I'm just—"
"You think that Gero kid goes around helping people?"
"No, but—"
"Exactly," Father sneers. "That's why they actually have a chance in that arena. They're fighting for themself and not whatever selfish nonsense you're on about. That's why they're going to win, and hell, I wouldn't be surprised if they killed you in the process."
Claris feels tears forming in the corners of her eyes, but she doesn't let them fall. That would just mean letting her father win. "Leda and I are going to work together — that's what all the victors have agreed upon."
"Because they know they'd kill you otherwise. Could be what you deserve when you're so sensitive and probably not as smart as them."
She still doesn't cry. Even if Father has said things like this so many times, she is no longer willing to let it destroy her. Though enrolling in the Institute was one of his demands, it's helped Claris become strong enough to fight against him. As long as she can play the role of a trained killer for the next six months, it'll also be what breaks her free of this prison.
(But is that something she can do? Take another life, and do so without mercy.)
(It's her best, her only chance, so she's just going to have to.)
"Just leave me alone," Claris hisses. "You're not helping me, and you're not helping yourself."
He sneers, "I don't need to help you, you ungrateful brat. Why haven't you asked me about my day?"
"You never even gave me the chance to talk about mine."
"Because it doesn't matter, Claris. The only thing that matters is that you stop slacking off and treat this seriously. Do you want to die?"
Claris shakes her head. If she wanted to, she'd be dead already. She was in this very room two years ago when her father found her passed out in a puddle of blood. Sometimes, she wonders if he wishes he didn't.
"Then act like it!"
He slams the door, leaving Claris alone once more. Joule runs toward her from her usual hiding spot for when Father is in her room — under her bed — and playfully licks her ankles.
"It's all going to be over soon," Claris tells her.
Whether she comes back dead or alive, at least that's true.
Drastic tone change from last intros. Um oops?
Anyway, thank you to Miri, Guest, and Dyl for these three sad children, who may get happy first, but will probably be more sad in the long run. Again, I'm grateful and humbled by all the positive feedback I've been receiving, and I hope you enjoyed these three, even if "enjoy" probably isn't the best word.
Next week's chapter is called gumption, so it should be happier at least?
Q: What should I wear to the Sweat Tour next week? So far I have a cropped, bright green shirt that says Virginity Rocks and a black fishnet top underneath plus these really stupid sunglasses that look pixelated. What else do I need?
Linds. Laugh. Love.