Walker Thurston
Seventeen / District Nine
Walker Thurston has always been a routinely boy. He does things on a schedule, following a pattern, and for a good reason too— any sort of hitch in the process can ruin the outcome. Any little mistake in distilling barley into whiskey can lead to buckets of spoiled liquid, and a heap of wasted time and resources. He's learnt the process now and perfected it, and reaped the benefits of his work.
See, Walker always has his eyes on the prize. The results are dedicated and precise, for he has ensured it. He isn't going to let any other outcome happen. But of course, for this to happen, everything has to fall in order in exactly the right way, you know, the way it does every day. For the daily tasks to keep his and his mother's distillery running, he falls into a steady rhythm of completing them all day in and day out.
For instance: he has to leave the farmhouse at a certain time at midday to make it to the town square on Sundays, then leave the square to make it back before the sun begins to set. It is a decent travel time, after all.
Yet, when Walker tells this to the bar owner, the older man still does not get the hint to stop talking.
The owner gives a hearty laugh. "You seem to have it all figured out at seventeen."
"In post-war Panem, you kinda have to." Walker raises his eyebrows to accentuate his point.
This seems to amuse him even further. He sets down the glass cup he was cleaning with a wash rag and leans further into the counter. "Son, you weren't even alive to remember Panem before the war."
"Aye, sure, but that doesn't deny the fact that it's still difficult to get by in the Districts today."
"Hm, well ain't that the truth of it." The man begins to sort the cups underneath the counter. "But I suppose whatever you're doing is working. Your whiskey is my biggest seller— you're basically bringing me in all my money, boy."
A small smile spreads across Walker's face, full of pride. "Oh, really now?"
"Yessir, most of my customers specifically request that Beckett brand whiskey. Say nothing hits the spot like your stuff does. It's a damn shame you're not old enough to try it yet."
"Hah, I'm glad to hear it's goin' well for you," Walker says, and means it for the most part. But also he's getting antsy— his heel is tapping on the stool and the analog clock on the wall keeps grabbing his gaze. He needs to start going, but he dare not ruin his reputation with his best customer by running out in a huff.
"I assume the distillery's running well, then?" The man inquires.
"For sure." Walker nods quickly. "Barley's growin' plentiful this summer, production's goin' smoothly, makin' some good profits. I've worked hard to make it here, sir."
He gives Walker a particular look. "Hm. Your stepdad did leave you and your mother a hell of a business though. It's not like you came from nothing."
Walker raises his eyebrows and clamps his fist around his shirt seam, to keep his knee jerk reaction of hot anger at the mention of his stepfather at bay. "Yes, very true. But it's difficult work managin', y'know. It's not like he left us an instruction manual when he transferred the estate to us."
"Ah, no, that doesn't sound like Hayes to make anything easy. Not like I knew the man very well, this was just what I've been told." In a quick second, the bar owner gets a real sentimental look across his face. "I do hope they find him though."
"I fear they're not lookin' for him anymore. They haven't for two years now." Walker matches his tone, losing its edge and increasing its softness.
"'Bout as long as he's been gone… my sincere condolences, Walker."
"It's alright, truly. My mama and I are doing just fine without him." And that was the truth of it. They might even be doing better nowadays.
A silence falls over them— the vaguely awkward but also final kind of silence. The only sound now is the low buzz of chatter between the patrons, and the clinking of their glasses against the tables.
Walker takes that opportunity. "Alright, well—" he slaps his knees before he stands up, the stool creaking as he shifts his weight off of it. "— I best be going. It's a long trek home, y'know?"
The man nods. "I get that. Take care, my boy, and thank you."
Hayes Beckett is not a man worth missing.
Two years ago, when Walker was fifteen, the boy had to break the news that in the night, his stepfather had up and vanished. The day prior to that, everything was transferred into the Thurston's name— ownership of the business, the distillery, the farmhouse, his hefty savings, his whole life's work. Everything was given up in just one night.
Obviously, this could only be indicative of a coward. A spineless man who got too up in his head about the ups and downs of farming and the world of business. So, like a coward, he shoulders the burden onto his only family, his immediate ones. This was the only logical conclusion.
This is the story Walker had spread across Nine.
However, even post-mortem, Walker has yet to utter a word about how a decade of his life was spent with that man. Perhaps it's a sense of shame, or to protect his mother's honor, but nothing else ever got out about what went on behind closed doors.
Now, whatever Hayes threw at Walker, he could take on. When the verbal jeers and jabs at his ten year old stepson turned into physical beatings and belt lashing, he could handle that. Like any other prepubescent boy, he was about as breakable as diamonds. Headstrong and feisty, he raised his chin at Hayes when that man would come at him with the force of his temper.
But when that began to turn onto his mother? Walker began to understand that being a smartass wasn't going to cut it anymore. Hazel could never hurt a fly— never could, never will— she never deserved anything that that man brought upon her. The blackening of her life. The fear he invoked in their household.
The anger festered in the pit of Walker's stomach so strong it nearly made him nauseous.
Some years back, Hazel had promised that her remarriage to Hayes would fix their lives. This would be good, they would be warm and fed, and that man was a blessing on their lives. (Yet, coincidentally, she never took on his last name).
Walker's mama never deserved any of this.
When Walker was fourteen, cheeks still round with baby fat and brain foolish as any young teenage mind is, he took a few chunks out of Hayes's arms with a garden shear. It was a red rage that overtook him, and a hearty defense for Hazel, who ripped him off his howling stepfather.
He remembers that day vividly, the first time he saw fear in Hayes's eyes. Trying to staunch his own bleeding arms while his wife comforted her violent son, his stepfather realized he was outnumbered. He realized the true extent of his actions, if only for a moment. He realized in that moment that he had raised a powerful opponent of a boy.
Something shifted within their household.
It was clear then that there was a competition between the two of them. It became a game of one-upment, now that Walker had grown more into his limbs and found his strength. There was satisfaction in seeing Hayes lose more and more often, when his weakest victim wouldn't let that abuse happen without a proper fight anymore. No more being little and weak, Walker became a proper guardian of his mother and herald of justice.
But, all the might and willpower in the world couldn't change Hayes— he was a man too far gone. When that devilish man first decided to turn his hand on the powerless, part of Walker knew there was no redemption. Nothing could bring you back from that.
He knew the answer now. He knew what he had to do, and this time, he would get it right.
The knife in Walker's hands clatters to the ground.
In their living room, Hayes is gasping for air, begging for anything to filter through his tattered windpipes, but nothing but blood bubbles at his lips. His eyes flash with fear, perhaps replaying his memories through his dying mind, or believing that fixing his gaze on his stepson pitifully enough would convince him to save his life.
But, even if Walker were to be overtaken with a sudden surge of regret and rush to staunch the lacerations, there would be no point. The blood pools around Hayes's head and body like a gruesome halo, far past the point of no return, smearing against the hardwood floor as he paws at his chest, in a last chance solution to saving himself. But Walker ensured that the best doctors in Nine couldn't save him now.
If he were any other person, he would smile, knowing he succeeded. Knowing that everything was taken care of, and that his mother would never be stricken or talked down to again, and they would once again be able to call this house a home.
But his plan's not over yet, not yet brought to fruition. He checks off another box in his mental to-do list— stab your stepdad nineteen times— and then go over his next one.
Walker looks up at his mother.
As expected, her face is white as a sheet of paper, tears pouring out the corners of her eyes and her breath hitching like her dying husband's. Even from entire feet away, Walker can see her shaking and trembling like a leaf, and feels the cold hands of guilt clamp over his heart. He knew this would kill her to witness, but what other option did he have?
This is just how it had to be to ensure their happiness. This time, it's Walker's turn to say that "this is going to be so good for us", that this is going to better their lives, that they'll be free now, away from that horrible man.
Still soaked in blood, Walker crawls over to Hazel.
"It's okay, mama," he tells her, reaching out his bloody hand towards her shoulder. She doesn't pull away, nor stiffen up when he rests his palm on her. "It's okay, I've got this, everythin' is going to be okay."
"But— I—…" she tries to choke out words, anything, but they're lodged in her throat. She swallows hard. "But—"
"I promise you, I know what I'm doin', and y'know what? Look at me, look at me, mama." he moves in front of Hayes, to obscure her view of him. "I forged his documents. Everythin' is in our name now, everything; the home, the distillery… it's all ours, mama."
She stares at him, wide-mouthed and terrified, as if she struggles to take in this information. "Everything will be okay," he tells her again, to drill it into her head.
Her eyes drift from him back towards Hayes, and his body, and the blood… her chest starts rising and falling as another wave of panic overtakes her. Walker grabs her face, tilting her head away from Hayes and back towards himself, leaving her cheeks stained with blood.
"Look at me, I've got this all planned out." In fact, it's the next step in his plan. "They're never goin' to find his body, mama, you know why? …Because I'm goin' to throw him into the compost, leave him for the worms and the ants and the maggots like he deserves. Nobody will ever find out."
It's only then that it seems to make sense for Hazel. The panic slowly begins to release its grip on her body, and she can properly embrace her son in a powerful hug that shakes the both of them to their cores.
A sense of finality rushes over Walker. This is where their story concludes. This is their happily ever after. As long as he was around, nothing would ever hurt his mama ever again.
(And later, when people ask how his whiskey tasted so damn good, Walker shrugs and replies: "It's the Beckett touch, you know?")
Josey Hagle
Sixteen / District Twelve
In her full length mirror, Josey flexes her muscles, admiring her reflection.
Her hair is straight and brown, and her clothes hug her body like it belongs— not too tight, not too loose. She is fairly muscular for her age, her upper arms toned and defined from all of her volunteer work, and when she smiles at herself all of her teeth are intact and white.
Josey knows the truth; she doesn't look like the average Twelve citizen. Born into a well-off upper class family, she's lucky, fortunate, and gifted to be in her situation. Opportunities are around every corner, there's always meat on her bones, and healthcare is mostly at her disposal. Not many people get the chance to look like she does.
She lives in the rich neighborhood as far from the mines as one can get, built on the crest of a valley, with faces clear of coal dust and where healthy kids run around uninhibited and go to school and live full lives. Within their gated community, it's very easy to forget the nasty world outside, like the Seam sector. For the most part, everybody in their rich turf of Twelve never even bats an eye to the disease and grime beyond their homes.
But Josey doesn't. She remembers.
(It's hard to forget when smog clouds bog the same sky seen from the Seam.)
Pulling her jacket over herself, she leaves her room, flounces down the staircase, and steps into the kitchen, where her parents are waiting for her. Mother is frying eggs on a pan over the stove, and Father is sitting at the island, a piping hot mug of coffee on the table and a big newspaper obscuring his face. Outside their heavily windowed home, it's gray, a stark contrast between the bright white walls that surround them.
Father, hearing his daughter approaching, furls the newspaper and sets it on the counter, opting to grab his mug instead. "Mornin', Josey," he says before taking a sip. "Get a good night's rest?"
"Yeah." She sits on the chair next to him. "Did you?"
"I did." He smiles at her.
The Hagle family aren't different from any other family on their street. Without the tension that comes from poverty and starvation, they live happily, a tight knit community with neighborhood barbecues and dogs that run through and get fed scraps. According to her neighbors, they are a lot better than… (and she hates reciting this) … the "animals" that live beyond their gate, for that simply they don't have to stoop to such lows to get by.
Josey doesn't get it. The Seam class are humans too, are they not? To her it seems like a dangerous mindset to live by. After all, they were one unlucky scenario from losing everything: sudden death, job loss, natural disaster…
"I'm planning on helping with rebuilding again after school tonight, if that's okay?" Josey announces to her parents.
Mother looks back over her shoulder, a wicked look in her eye. "Again?" She huffs, setting down the spatula on a paper towel and leaning against the island. "You were doing that 'till sundown everyday last week too."
"Mom, we're so close to being done with this. We've just got to take some wooden boards from the merchant sector and nail them to the frame for support and—"
"I feel like I never see you anymore." Mother frowns. "You're always off 'helping with war recovery'—" she says with air quotes, "—but my love, it's been twenty years. If they wanted to fix up their homes, they'd have done it themselves."
"But they are doing it themselves," she responds, not as a protest to start an argument, but as a defense for her Seam friends. "It's just always good to have an extra pair of able hands to help. I'm a lot stronger than some of them."
Mother sighs. "I think you're sticking your nose too far into their business."
A sinking feeling drops in Josey's stomach— guilt. Mother is right; she's only home to sleep and get ready for school, and she's barely seen by her family otherwise. She feels partially like she's falling out of touch with her own parents.
Father chimes in. "No, she's doing it for a good cause, Sahara. Nothin' ever wrong with lending a helping hand." He stands up and approaches Josey from behind, setting his warm hand on her shoulder. "Now you need to start heading to school, or you'll be late.
After Father presses a kiss to the top of her head, Josey nods and grabs her backpack. "So, can I go help tonight?"
"Yes, you can. Don't mind what your mother says." Father waves a hand at his wife before she can protest anything. "You just go and have a good day today, okay?"
"Okay." She unlocks the front door and slips out. "Goodbye, I love you guys," she says, then shuts the door behind her.
As Josey promised, she helps haul the wooden boards all the way across town. She definitely feels out of place in the Seam with her clean clothes and uncalloused hands, but she's somewhat of a familiar face now. Everybody knows about the rich girl helping them, and she would say her favorable reputation makes her heart swell, but it was never about her.
Huffing, she throws the boards into the pile. In the years since the second rebellion war, Twelve was absolutely decimated— to have only the outskirts, the further reaches from the square still covered in rubble and debris is nothing short of an impressive feat. No one else has helped them, it's been just Twelve's own civilians (the ones that can be bothered to lend a hand to other people, that is. She hates to admit it, but empathy runs short around here).
Taking a break with a flask of water in hand, she sits on the front steps of the rebuilt house and looks around. In the distance, she can see her two friends approaching: Sonali and Taralyn. They're both Seam girls who live in this neighborhood, and she's grown to know them very well in the past year. Sometimes, she wishes she could take them home, show off Sonali's infectious smile and laughter and Taralyn's quiet wisdom to her family, but the looks she would get would be awful.
As they near, Josey notices something is off with them. Sonali walks with her shoulders hunched and her head bowed, and Taralyn has her arm around her, guiding her. Josey stands up and bounds over to them.
"Hey, what's the matter?" Josey asks.
Sonali looks up at her, her own eyes big and welling with tears. She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out, so she buries her head into her friend's shoulder.
"Her mother's sick," Taralyn responds for her, rubbing her back. "Miner's lung disease, terrible cough. Y'know how it is…"
"Oh, Sonny, I'm so sorry." Josey takes one of her hands in both of hers. "Is there any way I can help you guys?"
She sniffs. "I'm scared, Josey. What if she dies? We can't lose her…"
"Hey, Sonny, look at me. She's not going to die, okay?" Josey says, shaking her hand for emphasis. "People recover from lung disease everyday, it's a common disease— like, two in every three people survive."
"But what about that third? She could easily be the third." Sonali says, her voice quaking.
Briefly, Josey thinks about her mother at home: feisty, active, and healthy and alive. When was the last time Josey gave her a hug? Really, these types of things happen so fast… "Your mother is a strong woman. She's going to make a full recovery, I promise, okay?"
Sonali nods, wiping the tears from her eyes. Taralyn lets her go, flashing Josey a small grateful smile. It's a lie - she doesn't know that for sure, after all - but a little hope never hurt anybody.
"Here, take a sip of water." Josey offers Sonali the flask, which she takes and chugs until it's half empty. No mind, she's probably dehydrated from bawling her eyes out, Josey can understand where she's coming from right now.
"Do you mean it? She'll get better?" Sonali murmurs, as if it's too good to be true.
Josey nods. "With the proper medicine, yes, she can. If your family needs any help with anything, don't be afraid to ask me next time you see me, okay? I'd be willing to get you guys whatever you need."
She smiles, the corners of her lips still trembling. "Okay, thank you Josey." She hesitates. "…Can we, um, get to work? I want to take my mind off of it."
"If you're up to it, sure, let's go. I've got a few things we can do right now." Josey leads her back towards the house, trying to be gentle with her. She can only imagine the pain that could come from seeing a loved one like that, she doesn't want to push Sonali further than she can go right now. Josey is fortunate, quite lucky to not have to deal with that, to have all members of her family alive and well.
And she remembers that, everyday.
The sun is setting on Twelve.
Heavy-hearted, Josey bounds up to her front door, fumbling with her keys until she unlocks the door. Inside, Mother is waiting for her, sitting at the kitchen counter and reading a book in the dim light. She looks up when her daughter walks into the room.
"Hi Josey, how was your day?" Mother asks, softly, as if not to disturb the quiet silence in their house.
Josey feels tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. Why? It's not her mother that's sick. But right now, she's thinking about how it would destroy her family if it was. How it would destroy Sonali's if her mother really didn't make it. Her chest weighs down on her, crushing her lungs like she's being stepped on.
She runs forward and brings her mother in for a tight hug, burying her face into her collarbone. When was the last time she did this? It's been so long since they embraced each other. Maybe she is right, maybe Josey shouldn't be spending so much time with other people.
"I'm sorry, mom," Josey whispers, keeping her voice steady and swallowing back her tears before they slip down her face. She takes a deep breath, in and out, and then again.
Mother wraps her arms around Josey, bringing her closer. "What for?"
"I dunno…" she breathes out. "Not being home?"
She almost laughs at that. "No, Josey, it's fine. You're okay, I promise." She strokes her hand through her daughter's hair. "Don't worry about what I say. You just do what you want to do, whatever makes you happy."
Josey pulls away and looks her in the eyes. "You're not mad?"
"Why would I be?" She smiles. "You're doing something good for this community. I just miss you a bit, that's all."
"I can be home more often."
"No. You don't have to," Mother says, "You go out there and do your thing. Your father loves boasting about his helpful daughter to his friends down the road anyways. He's very proud of you. So, no hard feelings, I promise."
"Okay, okay. I'm sorry…" she laughs halfheartedly.
"You got to stop saying that."
Josey bites back another apology and nods. "Okay."
"You clean up and go to bed now. It's getting late." Mother stands up and moves towards the stairs. "I love you Josey, don't forget that."
Josey gives her mother a big grin, the weight lifting off of her chest. She wasn't planning on forgetting. "I love you too."
Devyn Marzana
Fifteen / District Seven
This morning, Devyn sits criss-cross on the floor, leaning against her mother while she braids her hair. The tugs on her scalp send occasional blinks of pain down her spine, but she doesn't mind. She melts into her mother, into her calloused but gentle hands, into her soft words of stories beyond.
And Devyn laps up every single word of it.
As usual, she talks about her work— her true work, not her days spent in the lumberyard— with a sense of pride, so glowing that Devyn can feel it deep within her own chest. And who wouldn't be? Sela's a noble person for what she's done, for what she's doing, and all her daughter can do is sit and pray that in time, such an undertaking will find her as it has found her mother.
"Do you remember that old grump of a foreman I used to talk about all the time, Dev?" Sela murmurs, as if speaking any louder would shatter the solemn peace, or fray the strands of hair from right between her fingers. This was a delicate moment, like ripples upon a pond's surface, or tiny droplets of water still clinging to her freshly-washed face. Soft, as if she were cautious of frightening her daughter off— as if Devyn were ever capable of taking fright to anything her mother would say.
"I do." Devyn thinks she knows where this is going.
"My coworkers agree, everybody at the lumberyard thinks he needs to retire. It's been years of this, Dev, years of being hollered at and worked to the bone. He never addressed any complaints we lodged against him. He never even tried to change" For a second, Sela places her hand on Devyn's shoulder, then returns to braiding with nimble, swift fingers. "I tried to give him a chance, my love, I really did."
Devyn winces with another tug of her hair. She swallows hard, then places the question gently. "…Is it done?"
Sela stops moving and lets out a heavy breath, as if a weight were removed from her chest and she was allowed the first clear breath in… a long time. "I'm just wondering why I didn't do it sooner."
"…How did you do it?" Devyn asks.
"Oh, my baby, I love how interested you are in my craft." She runs her fingers through Devyn's hair. She can't help but smile, beam ear-to-ear, knowing her mother was happy with her. "I used my leftover storage of amanita, but I'm sure he was sleeping before the effects reached his brain. Don't worry my love, it was a peaceful end."
"What kind of amanitas, mother? Muscarias?"
"The phalloides, dear. Very different colors." She moves to sit on the floor and face Devyn head-on, swiping her finger down her daughter's nose playfully. "No muscarias even grow around here… were you reading my book?"
Devyn smiles. "Maybe…"
Sela brings her in for a tight embrace, legs and arms wrapped around her in a big bear hug. "Ooohh…! You're so cutee…"
The thing about the Marzanas is that they're a clever duo. Sela lives her life sneaking around, putting on facades, tricking people, but all for a good purpose; and it was all she could do to keep her equally bright Devyn from figuring it out. She isn't dumb, she put it together why her mother keeps cabinets full of preserved but inedible herbs and fungi, or why the names she hisses before bed later turn up on the obituaries in the daily newspapers.
Upon approaching Sela with this, she was told one thing: "Only those who deserve it."
Devyn's heard the story a dozen times before, as a reminder, or perhaps as a theme to live by, slipped into their casual conversation. As a teenager, Sela had a friend— and that friend had a horrible beast of a father; so, really, it only seemed natural that he wasn't allowed to grace this earth anymore.
As for the foreman, it is the same situation; those who abuse and torment others have no place on this earth. When you forfeit your compassion, your good-will, your honor, it's as if welcoming death into your home with a warm meal and soft bed. You're all but beckoning for it to happen.
Those who die must have deserved it. That's the undertones to mother's message— Devyn's figured it out.
And when she thinks of it like that, it all begins to make sense.
When the coroners come, their words barely reach Devyn's ears.
She sits in the corner of her mother's bedroom, blankly watching the people in black swarm around the bed, murmur to each other, lift up Sela's limbs and investigate every inch of her sleeping form. Devyn wants to stand up, wants to shout— "leave her alone!"— but part of her is terrified of what they'll turn and reveal to her. As if, this time around, her mother's face will look deader than she did when first found two hours ago.
No… she's sleeping. Some sort of sickness must've swept over her in the night, turning her comatose but alive. A billion thoughts race through her mind, trying to justify the fact her mother is unable to rise from her bed. She's alive.
Check again, check again. Please, she's alive, you have to believe me. You're wrong, she can't be dead, that doesn't—
But she clamps her mouth shut and stays out of the way. She shrinks further into the wall for every person who merely sweeps their cloaks her way, flexes their leather gloves in her direction. And she watches, and she waits, for one of them to press their two fingers against Sela's arteries and find blood still beating through her body, or find that her chest rises and falls, imperceptibly maybe but still rising.
But what Devyn is waiting for never comes.
Instead, one of the coroners approaches her after a few minutes, and rests his hand on her shoulder. He asks her a question she can barely hear, and she just robotically nods, a sudden shiver descending down her entire frame.
"I'm sorry…" he begins, and that's all Devyn needs to put her head in her hands and release that tension built up in her chest and let out some horrible dying sound, as if the sudden sobs and wails that overtake her could bring her any closer to her mother's lost soul. It only succeeds in laboring her breathing and making her light-headed.
"We believe this to be a suicide, there are telltale signs of it," he explains, in a gentle but straightforward tone. "All signs point to self-inflicted poisoning via foxglove petals."
That's not right, she wants to protest, wants to shout out until her throat goes raw— you're wrong. But Devyn just nods and stays silent, even more so when they wrap her mother in blankets and remove her from their home with careful hands, holding precious and fragile cargo.
She slumps onto the ground.
Her mother didn't kill herself— she knows that as certainly as she believes the fact she has ten fingers and two eyes. Sela is a happy woman, lively as she is opinionated, combined with nothing but deep satisfaction for her purpose on this Earth and for her daughter. There's nothing that could've taken that spirit from her, not in just a night.
It's not adding up. There's no meaning to this story, no purpose that it's laying out this way. It doesn't make sense. An immediate conclusion would be that Sela had faced herself in the mirror and was met with an overwhelming guilt for her actions, the lives she's taken— as blackened as they were—, and could not bear to live within her skin anymore.
But even that didn't make sense. She only killed those who deserved it. She was only carrying out the golden rule, like a good servant of justice. There is no need for guilt about that.
Devyn's heart could split open at any moment.
What does she do now? Where does she go? What purpose does she have here if not to follow her mother; to harvest the flora from the woods behind their house and preserve and sort them into their cabinet; to lay in the same bed and curl around each other until they resemble pillbugs; to be her mother's other half. What is left for her?
Suddenly, nothing's making sense anymore.
Uncle Brayden is… certainly not the parent Sela was.
Devyn lives in his home now, in his cramped spare bedroom that doubles as their storage room. She sleeps between cardboard boxes and crazy dusty trinkets and the occasional spider. She doesn't mind them though, they're the only ones who keep her company.
She watches a fat black spider weave a web in the corner of the room, its appendages working swiftly, much like mother's fingers used to fly around fine details in her work. Uncle would want her to dust the webs off, keep the place tidy while he works his high-class management job, but it's not like the spider did anything to deserve its hard labor being destroyed. So she leaves it be, and they leave her be.
Devyn has… better things on her mind. Perhaps said things are haunting her, rattling her to her bones, but like a man gone mad she keeps returning to it. No matter how it twists her heart to pursue, day-in and day-out, she searches for her answers.
Who killed Sela Marzana?
This is the conclusion she finds— the only logical one in her head. Somebody must've found Sela out, thought her work was that of evil and not bathed in a white glory, and found it necessary to snuff her out. But how did they find out? She was always so careful with her every move— it's what Devyn admired especially about her mother— there would be nothing slipping through the cracks.
…Her uncle has no clue. He couldn't care less about Sela's work and what she left behind— the pieces Devyn is now picking up. He has no clue what this world has lost, that gracious woman taken by those chained to death itself, and he has even less of a clue of the daughter in her wake. Her and her uncle coexist in the same house, never address each other, never so much as glance each other's way in the house. Devyn likes to imagine this is because she embodies Sela's spirit so strongly that it's painful to witness.
Frequently, Devyn finds herself clawing at the blankets of her bed, reaching out to a soul no longer next to her. Without that warmth of her mother pressed against her, nothing is stopping that cold chill from seeping into her bones. Unbreakable determination finds her on these cold nights, watching snow drift past her window.
When Devyn finds those responsible, she will kill them where they stand. She is going to spend every waking moment scouring her mother's life, uncovering old secrets, following overgrown trails not traveled in years. Somebody has to pay for this. There's no other way, right? Those responsible have to die.
It's a solitary life, spending your entire time following somebody else's faded footsteps. Pieces that were laid before your time, glimpses into sides to people you never imagined possible... Lately, it's just her and memories to lay her to bed— which could be why she spends all night tossing and turning. There is no comfort in the deceased. There are no dreams she has anymore that could be described as welcoming.
But she's far from lonely. Not with her newfound purpose to keep her company.
Those who are bad have to die. Those who do ill have no place here. Devyn will swear on this until the world is beautiful and warm and gracious.
(So, why did Sela have to die?)
Thank you to Jade for Walker, Livi for Josey, and Moose for Devyn! And to Ama for betaing this :33
This wasn't my fault. Don't blame me.
Next up: Intros II with Pythia, L'maya, and Orion!