Every time a man yells I am 8 years old. I am standing in our kitchen and I am trembling. There are shards of glass around me and pain trickling down my face. Bright splashes of blood on the floor, astonishingly red. All that brightness inside me?

I wanted to be the cancer and not the soft feast of flesh.

Occasionally, I will visit the graveyard in my heart, knowing that he was buried alive. The love for my father died within my chest the first time he hit me. Mother insisted he did not mean it, yet I was only a child. I was his son. His fists were larger than my own head and he hit me.

He hit me.

No one dares to touch me now. I am tall, I am strong. To some, I am him. Merely a duplicate, the living copy of a man who caused immeasurable pain.

He lives inside me, the same way I lived inside him. A möbius strip, a snake always swallowing its own tail. Mutually assured destruction, maybe, or mutual deification.

Mutual consumption.

A dead man is inside my thoughts, my brain, he dictates my life even after his stopped. He ruined himself and he has decreed to ruin me too.

Yet, I slave away, to ensure that I never mirror my father in any way other than appearance. Sometimes, it works.

You are supposed to look up to your parents, they are your reason for being, the calculated creators behind your existence, however when your existence has brought you nothing but immeasurable pain, what gratitude is needed?

The flowers Lysander planted have begun to bloom, they are scattered around our house, the soil receptive only to his deft fingers. Mother Nature herself blessed my brother, he has a way with the decayed roots that no one else seems to be able to master.

Brother of gold, son of warmth, I would go to the ends of the world for him. I pray that it does not come to that.

We still share a room, it's overlooking the garden he worked so hard to build. The window is often open, Lysander loves fresh air, he is a boy of sunshine, the rays of light encapsulated inside his olive skin. Then there's me. I share his complexion but I am ice, my flesh frozen, the heat of a corpse.

I often complain about his head being halfway out the window, lost in the dreams his head makes up, he's always been like that, I suppose. Aerial, he is made of fire.

I would fight any war to assist his achievement of desires, his heart is currently encased by a girl. I have caught him sneaking looks, his gaze burns with love. It's impressive really, how a boy created by so much hate, has moulded into a beacon of adoration.

Lysander Abernathy is a man like no other, at only 14 years old he is the apple of my eye. He is in my heart and I suffer. Perhaps it is jealousy, no, it is loathing. I hate that he is subjected to the same cruelties as I, that his name is in again and again. And once I am free of the pool of death, he will still be drowning; I will be helpless.

It must never come to that.

If I loved him less, I might be able to talk about it more. I am my father's son. Dismal and decayed, I am buried whilst breathing, a fate I wish on no man.

Mother has already left the house, and I can hear him stirring, he has always been a deep sleeper, a pleasure I have yet to enjoy. The quilt covering my tall body is patchwork, a combination of different felts. The floor is cold, hardwood, and I wince at the sensation. Trailing past my brother's bed, I followed the stairs to our small kitchen.

Rugged and shitty drawings done by Lysander and I adorn the walls, it adds a sense of familiarity to the small walls encasing our lost childhood. Father has been washed away, the lounge cleared yet remaining empty. His shadow foresures that the door is closed, the hurt hidden from prying eyes.

It will always be there of course, my insides are still black and blue whilst he remains entombed, 6ft under. Opening the fridge as if food will magically appear, the remnants of last nights supper creeps out at me.

I glanced at the clock on the wall, 11:18 am, it read. Almost time to leave.

In my opinion, I am a very calm person. Composure comes easy to me, Lys is the emotional one. Only he ruins me. Do not talk to me about him.

I pull on my beatdown shoes, the soles are rubbing thin, but materials are expensive and we aren't exactly rolling in it. As I shut the front door, part of me feels guilty about leaving Lysander alone. I am his unofficial protector, the shield between him and the reality of our world.

I move as quickly as I can, stalking my prey of the boy I intend to capture. After delivering dinner to my family last night, I had done some more digging on the man who provided such delectable meat.

He is nameless, nonetheless, I shall uncover his anonymity with a knife. If my suspicions are confirmed, he is the same figure that caught my eye, a man of ivy; a man of nature.

I can feel the gravelly path lacing my shoes, the fence is in eyeshot now. I may not be a coward, but what if he just got lucky. I do not love the idea of touching an electric fence and just fucking dying. That is not the way I will be going out, not today at least.

I walked faster when I passed the Daughtler's house. It was rundown, the wood chipping at the sides and the pain peeling off. Mrs Daughtler used to sit out on the porch, her shoddily made rocking chair holding her as she swayed, watching her kids as they played in the street. I can't remember how long it has been since I last saw her face. She is merely a shadow now, refusing to leave the haven of their home.

Anais Daughtler was reaped last year.

That went as well as expected.

She was their only child. She was 13. Her birthday was a week ago. Lysander had come home, his face empty, devoid of feeling. That was his first loss from his own class.

She hadn't gone quickly either, no that was the worst part.

We had had hope for small Anais. She was a lethal little thing, she made it to the top 12. Half of the tributes were wiped out and she still stood strong.

Strong was an over exaggeration. She was starving, her cheekbones starkly visible and she had vomited up bile most days she was in the arena. Her only ally, our other tribute, was a brute of a boy, Dean Cassidy, had gone rogue, left her and attempted to kill the careers to give them both a better chance.

Poor, stupid Dean Cassidy.

His demise was a hard watch, stabbed again and again, blood choked up and heaved out of any available crevice. He scarcely looked human by the time they were done with him.

Anais never stood much of a chance after that.

I can still hear her parents sobbing, they were torn away from the big screen in the District's centre, screaming and crying, begging for it not to be true.

The folk of our commune have become rather accustomed to this regime.

Every year two tributes are sent off.

And every year our two tributes die.

Some faster than others, I will give them that. But we have never had a victor, and I doubt we ever will. All the other districts are hungry for victory. We are too tired to care for such trivial things.

Ruins that are not ruins, but hymns of luminous memory.

Memory of war that none of us had any fucking part of.

Discussing our unfair deal is mostly looked down upon, we deserve this. We are animals, we hunt and we kill, our own kind mostly, but kill nonetheless. It's sad, yes, but it is our birth right. What is man but a weapon? That is what we are raised for, not lambs to the slaughter but soldiers.

If only the stars contained me.

I know I am not special, I live and one day I will die. But I am here and I will not lay down and die. Not yet. I have things to do, some important, some less so.

My priorities are often debated but that is nonsense. The sun comes out and I ache. That is the apparel of this world. August tastes of ashes, the games are usually over by then. Cremation is for the rich, we burn. They will one day be aflame. I hope I am the one holding the match.

On this day, I have only one ideal.

To find the man who brought the deer. And to maybe kiss him as a gratitude.

I am getting ahead of myself. First act of business, to brave the fence. Now, I am not a man who is afraid of many things. My biggest fear is dead and buried underneath our decking. However, I still cherish my unfortunate little life enough to not want to be electrocuted and found lifeless outside a place I am definitely not meant to be. That is not on my to do list.

Hence, my need for a large stick.

Now, Mrs Adler has never looked at me with quite such amusement in her old eyes, but she did not ask any questions. That's usually a given around here, if you're doing something illegal, the less we know the better.

Breaking the law isn't something I usually do in my spare time, but we all make adjustments when needed. I simply adapt to my environment.

So, with a very long stick that Mrs Adler insisted she needed back, no this is not some elaborate euphemism I am just hoping she has a dog or something, I made my way to where I found Foliage Fellow.

He looked to be quite a bit taller than me yet I have not got the faintest clue how he managed to fit through. Maybe I am underestimating the abilities of Foliage Fellow but how a, what looked like, fully grown man managed to weasel his way through a rather small gap will forever amaze me.

Today is the day that I get electrocuted. Time to make my peace with that.

...

Okay, peace made.

I got so close to the ground I swear the ants were swooning for my handsome face, and I shuffled through. Although not the most dignifying position, it got the results I was hoping for. Standing up, I smoothed my trousers and  stood up.

It could have gone worse?

The forest is not that far from me now, the vivacious oak towering over me, even from 50 feet away. Better now than never I suppose.

I moved through the grass, overgrown and unruly, a green shrub of life. It reached my knees, tall and wild I waded through. The outskirts of the trees had a musky smell of firewood and pine. Foliage Fellow was clearly a regular in the woods. I wonder how he never managed to catch my gaze before. I moved through the plants, toward what appeared to be a chopped down log. It wasn't new, the grooves indented into its curves made that clear, it was a makeshift bench, probably for Foliage Fellow himself.

I ran my hands over the wood, it was dry, which wasn't a big surprise, rain didn't come to us very often, probably because even the weather enjoyed fucking District 12 over as well, just another glowing recommendation as to why the coal community should be your top choice when moving out.

I go to sit on the log when I hear the leaves rustle.

The mockingjays have quietened.

Fuck.

As I shuffle my feet to turn around, an axe is thrown my way, narrowly missing my head.

Well that's just a bit rude.

I bend down and grab the closest object, a rock, not great, I turn and throw. I choose to not think of the consequences until after the small stone has left my palm. Oops?

Shit. Foliage Fellow is pretty. And I just threw a rock at him. Well, he did start it, and an axe can do a lot more damage than a measly little stone. Still probably shouldn't have done it.

His cheekbones are prominent, his face hollowed out. His skin is dark, compared to those of the seam, his eyebags are bulging, and his neck has a visible vein running through it. His eyes were deep brown, far murkier than mine. A beauty mark adorns the top of his cheek, just below his right eye, his lip has been scarred to the side, but what captivated me most are his hands.

They are huge, callous and strong, no wonder Foliage Fellow hangs out in the forest, he's ripped. He towers above me, maybe because I am sitting down, but he looks far taller than I noted from the rooftops. His hair is sombre, almost black, it's messy, like mine but it is longer, reaching his shoulders, tied in a gentle ponytail.

His eyes catch my own and I realise that I have been gawking at the man who just tried to decapitate me. Wow. New low, even for me.

His axe is buried in the tree behind me. He remained staring into my soul for a minute or so, and then he moved toward me.

I must've flinched because he grimaced.

"My axe," he said.

I nodded, keeping my eyes on him, and moved my head out of the way. He reached forward and yanked it out of the tree. Clearly I was worrying about the wrong way to die when I was trying to enter this forest.

He was strong, it was easy to tell, just from the way he moved. The coal miners are usually built like that, they have to be if they want to work there and not have their lungs collapse by the time they're 20.

His axe, now firmly in his hand, seemed a lot less threatening. Probably because it wasn't hurtling towards me any longer.

His eyes remained focused on me, glancing at the side of my head, I must have looked quizzical because he spoke again.

"Was seeing if I nicked you, didn't though."

"Oh." I said.

Oh? Who the fuck says oh? God.

He did that thing that all men do, he smiled a sort of half smile but then decided against it and ended up doing a half frown half "I'm in pain", sort of look.

"Sorry about that. The whole nearly killing you thing."

"Yeah. Me too."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.

"I mean, that rock was far more lethal than I intended." I murmured, staring down at his feet.

He laughed. He actually laughed at my stupid joke.

"Ah yes, death by rock, an increasing yet deadly fate."

"You can never be too careful," I answered.

"Well, Rock Boy, what are you doing in these woods? Did the large 'Do Not Enter' sign not deter you at all?"

I looked up at him, my eyes locking with his. He was finding this whole exchange hilarious. He appeared to have some sort of pouch available to him as the axe had disappeared as quickly as it had entered my line of vision.

"The deer." I said.

"What?", he asked.

"The deer someone brought to the hob." I said, "Just yesterday. I doubt any of us have had that kind of meat in years. I came to find the culprit."

That pleased him, for some odd reason. He smiled. Oh, he had a nice smile, his front teeth were bared, yet he looked so young and harmless. Innocent.

"Well, you found him."

I exhaled, "I suppose so. Rather anticlimactic really."

"Is that so?" he asked, incredulous. He has clearly never experienced disappointment at his presence before.

"Yes, I was hoping for something far more extraordinary."

"Just me, I'm afraid." He put his hand inside his pocket, reaching inside for something. Out came a flask, metal and small. He took a swig then offered it to me.

"Want some?"

I sniffed the bottle, "What is it?"

He smiled that charming smile yet again, "White liquor, got it off Sae."

I pressed my lips together firmly and shook my head. For a long time now I have not wet my lips with blood and I do not intend to start. Something of him chokes me, stuck inside me like a splinter. I could not tell if it were him or my father, a man of myths who plagues my very existence.

Either way, does it even matter? Show me your thorns and I'll show you hands ready to bleed.