Wyatt Callow, here he laid in front of me. Unceremoniously, in a casket not unlike any of the others brought back from the Capitol. Just another number, just another casualty to make up for the sin that was our rebellion, in days long since passed. It was sickening, not a single flower adorned his figure, there was not a single fragment of who he was as a person.
Perhaps that was the cruelest part of it all, he would not be recognized for who he was, the Capitol wouldn't recognize this transgression, no matter how cruel it was. In a few months time, he would long be forgotten by those that killed him, but he would remain in that arena forevermore. Future ripped away from his hands, from something as simple as his name being called.
I didn't recognize the person lying before me now. Though his face remained unmarred, death had clearly laid its hands on him. The color drained from his face, which had swollen up from the days since his death. This was not the Wyatt Callow I had grown to love, this was not the man that I had been promised a future with.
I wanted to touch his face—to reach out and watch his eyes flutter open, a tradition we had gotten accustomed to, with the many mornings we spent together. My body was wracked with fear; the thought of him being cold to the touch terrified me so. My heart, where did they take your soul? Why did they take your warmth?
The Wyatt Callow I knew was steadfast, yet so sensitive. He dreamt quietly, of nothing more than a simple life. To be more than his family, to be seen as his own person. Though never vocal, the distance he kept between himself and all of our other peers in district 12 spoke for him, silent apologies for taking up space. Belonging to a family of Booker Boys weighed on him heavily, the cruel nature of their business left their reputation abysmal. He never did understand why I lingered close, that sentiment conveyed to me with how he’d hold my hand tight, intertwined with his. Pressing bittersweet kisses onto the back of my hand, another expression of his regret. Wyatt, all you ever did was love me gently, I still wish he hadn't been so hard on himself.
To speak of his life in the past tense, because it had long since ended, pained me in ways that left my heart aching. Twisting and wrenching it apart, as if a piece of it had died alongside him then, on that first day. It was unfair, my mind stayed stuck in that moment as the sword pierced his abdomen, blood gushing out of his mouth, staining his clothes. I might as well have been there with him, with how piercing the pain in my own chest was. It would've been better, if I too was impaled alongside him. aAt least then, he wouldn't have had to die alone, at least then, our hearts could find comfort in how our pulse slowly weakened. Wyatt, it's no use to say it now, but I would've let that sword cut through me whole, if it meant that I could hold you as we drifted away together one last time.
Wyatt had never thought himself to be a kind one. How could he? He had told me once, when the nature of his business was so unjust. However his soul was as gentle as can be, capable of giving grace to others, in the way that he would never allow for himself. Weren't our dreams nothing but sweet, Wyatt? We were to age out of the reaping, and live with the other by our side, till death do us part, like you had said we would. You'd come home to me, I'd kiss your soot stained cheek and we'd eat our supper while exchanging stories of our days.
He had died a stranger to the people of the Capitol. Just another person, from the most hapless district of them all, unfortunate enough to have been chosen in the Hunger Games. Now, he will be buried a stranger too, even to me. For I could give him no comfort as he walked up that stage. For I was helpless as he was dragged away, not even being given the privilege of saying goodbye. For I could not accompany him and his racing thoughts, as he awaited his own demise, counting down the seconds. For I could not cradle him in my arms as he took his final breath. Up on that hill, on his family's plot, never to be with me again.
The days fly by, passing me by as I float through a life without you. Before I knew it, a year had passed, and now here I am, my dear. Back to your side once more. Am I foolish? I talk to you as if you'll respond, I decorate your grave with flowers every week, as if you're here to appreciate them. The past year without you has been despondent, we have too many years between us afterall. How could time ever heal the wound that you left behind? It festers in your wake, reminding me of all that I have lost. Hey, Wyatt? Can you hear me? Are you listening like you did before? I think I died alongside you in those games. It wasn't just your future that was ripped out of your hands, but mine too. After All, our lives are so deeply intertwined, what's one without the other? You were everything I held close to my heart, a simple life with you is all I ever wanted. I would have been content, just being by your side forever.
I press my lips against his gravestone, it wasn't anything extravagant. Engraved on it, was his name, and not much else. Beside it though, read the words: “Forever in our hearts.” Fitting in the most twisted way possible. Afterall, I held him so close to my heart, that when death came to take him, it took my heart alongside his soul. There is nothing, and there is no more to me than there is to you now, my love. We are nothing but empty husks, our hopes, our ambitions, our life together, having been taken as fuel for the fire for vengeance the Capitol holds. There is no life after love, especially not after you, who I love more than life itself. So forgive me, for joining you so soon. Soon enough, we'll be together once more.
Haeun wished Lilin owned him, that his every thought and move would be dictated by the other. He wanted to lay his life down for this man that had taught him to see the world in color. Haeun wanted to be demanded of the grotesque, to be asked of the worst by Lilin as proof of his dedication, as proof of the love that he held. He would happily throw away any part of his empty life with abandon, if the other had asked him to, to whatever he wanted.
However, that was the problem. Lilin didn't want. Lilin didn't crave the way that he did. Haeun has never felt real, he was only tied to this world as a concept fine tuned for his survival. Rough around the edges, with no real substance. Somehow Lilin was even less than that, it was glaringly obvious how he couldn't hold any opinions toward anything, how Lilin made it a point to constantly convey that there was nothing to find in him. He always felt like someone not of this world, a person so weightless that if Haeun let go of his hand for a single second, he'd disappear into the wind.
He would tear open his own chest, pull every organ out one by one and stuff it all within the expanse of Lilin's chest. If there truly was nothing inside of the other, then Haeun would fill him up himself. Tie him to this world, together with him, with the weight of his life. His heart, how he'd love to give it up to Lilin. Then he'd be the one keeping him alive, there would be proof engraved into Lilin's very being of Haeun's love. If his heart was the one beating inside of the other, would he finally feel love? Would it course through him like it did with Haeun, burning, branding every vein in his body with obsession, with devotion, with reverence?
By no means, did he find himself beautiful, like this, he laid bare the ugliest part of his being. How his selfishness creeped into every aspect of his life.
Haeun understood religion then. He found salvation in someone. It was through Lilin that he was saved, and he would spend his whole life fruitlessly trying to give back to him. Gods don't hold their devotees in their arms, gods don't respond to the cries, the agony, instantaneously. Gods are never within a human being's reach. Lilin was the same, and Haeun knew that. He knew he was an endlessly selfish person, who would ever try to tie down a god? However idiotic it may be, he would do anything to ground the other to him for even a second. Wasn't it blasphemous? To even want to shackle down a person whose being you worship, but Haeun wanted to let it be known, that he would be the one to offer up his life to Lilin, that he would be the one who'd piece him together. He'd worship a god, his god, in the only way he knew how to love.
On the eve of my 7th birthday, a beautiful gift presented itself in front of me. Meticulously wrapped in layers upon layers of delicate cloth and paper, all to ensure the pristine condition of what lay inside. Much too fragile for the stubby hands of a girl as young as I was. My hands knew not of the hurt that I could cause, and the hurt that I myself could experience. So recklessly, I peeled each and every layer off to the best of my abilities.
In the end, I had to ask my mother for her assistance, whatever it was that was inside—at the time, of course I had no idea what exactly “it” was just yet, towered over my small figure, and as it slipped from my hands, I knew immediately I could not muster the strength That I would require to lift it up. Ultimately, I watched in awe as a mirror was revealed from under all its binds.
It was a beautiful sight, when I first saw it, one could truly say that I was awestruck. A gorgeous mirror, framed with the finest and most lustrous gold that I would ever see in my lifetime. With every detail, you could tell it was handcrafted with a scrupulous hand. I couldn't possibly comprehend just how painstaking it must have been to carve every smooth glide of every curve that elegantly encircled a delicate mirror that reflected my complexion perfectly, just as intended.
Two brown eyes stared at me, I recognized them as my own, bright despite their dark color. I gave myself a wide smile, the eyes staring back at me wrinkling the way that they did whenever I grinned from ear to ear. To my mother, who was standing beside me at the time, it must have been a wonderful scene to see me appreciating so tenderly, the gift that many had crafted just for me. With a small smile of her own dancing on her lips, she knelt by my side, placed her hand on my shoulder, and gestured with her free hand my initials engraved into the gold, just at the top of the mirror, where it curved into an oval, seamlessly fitting in with the stylish grace the rest of the mirror embodied. All for me, handcrafted by several hands, all for me.
As I grew, the mirror had begun to carve its position into my life as my most prized possession. As I learned the intricacies that accompanied life, I was confronted by the true weight of owning something of such high status and value. Once something that could only weigh me down physically, quickly became an object that became the subject of my neverending torrent of thoughts frequently.
Not everybody had the opportunity to be gifted such an extravagant piece of furniture, was I truly deserving of it? Had I earned the right to be spoiled with something so lavish? Why would they ever entrust this to someone as young as I? Would it be a lamentable sight if I asked someone for assistance with its upkeep? What if they thought I was undeserving of it, not even knowing the fitting way to tend to it? These kinds of thoughts were all that circled my mind, despite all this, I tried desperately to ensure that I had earned it, both as affirmation to myself, and to those around me that I was the rightful owner. That nobody could ever take it from my hands.
On my knees, I'd scrub away at any speck of dirt that landed on my beloved mirror. The frame’s glow eventually became well known for its everlasting shine, something that I found pride in, wasn't it only once in a blue moon that you could find a mirror that sparkled even in the night? There wasn't any treatment or remedy that I hadn't, at the very least, attempted. I was determined to preserve the beauty of this piece for as long as I lived, no matter the cost.
So when the first piece chipped off, a decade after it had first been given to me, it felt as if my world shattered alongside it. It couldn't be true, not after I had worked so hard, not after I did everything that I could possibly do. Was there something that I missed? Where had my efforts become insufficient? I couldn't fathom it. Surely I had no shortcomings? I was so meticulous! Plentiful amounts of people rushed to my side, and I was quickly comforted, many said it was inevitable, and nothing could remain intact for all of eternity. That try as I might to preserve it all permanently, that just wasn't how the world worked.
Well, I found the world truly cruel for that. Surely it could allow for some leeway. The world is vast, I knew that even then. It could afford to not leave everything in shambles. if someone like I, who worked tirelessly my entire life just to maintain the condition of something so precious to me, was not deemed as an exception to the equal violence the world embodied, then it was so incredibly vicious in my eyes.
After that day, I would say that my efforts doubled, determined for that scenario to never repeat itself again, I became even more meticulous with the way that I looked after my mirror. Others questioned my actions, “Will that thing even follow you in death? It won't, you know, you can afford to loosen up.” A foolish statement, “Is that truly even worth that much?” An equally foolish question. What would other people understand about the effort that it took for me to maintain the quality of this model? They didn't even know how much I worked to earn this! To attain something so intricate, so extravagant! Why was it so wrong for me to care for it? Wouldn't it be all the more disappointing if I just carelessly let it shatter? Was that what they wanted? Wouldn't that be a waste of all my effort?
I didn't pay them any mind. Diligently, I kept at it. Day in and day out. Never, not for a single day since the moment I had sworn myself to this self-proclaimed duty, had I failed to embody patience and perseverance with my upkeep. That was until a particularly miserable day. Unnerved and infuriated, everything became the subject of my fury. Anger was never an emotion I liked to express, it felt unbecoming. I couldn't allow myself to spill, it wouldn't befit a person such as I. Not only would it be a pathetic show of emotions, I already knew for a fact that there was nobody that could ever understand the true depth of my emotion. So every drop of that emotion seethed inside me until it was ready to burst.
And burst it did, I didn't feel lucid, I didn't feel like myself, I felt like I had lost control of my own hands. It's funny how emotions can just rise to the forefront, suddenly the person that you had shaped yourself into can be disregarded because of it, now that I think about it, isn't it laughable, how fragile our lives are? When I came to, my looking glass was on the ground, covered in cracks. I—of course, was in shambles.
Years and years of hard work, all just gone in a single moment. Isn't it sorrowful, how life can simply turn out that way? No matter how much you try to fight. In this society that we have built, somehow, we have made it so just on an occasion that could've turned out in any other way, our lives can be turned upside down.
Maybe we're masochistic creatures deep down, is that why we build ourselves up this way? I think that I definitely am. I scrubbed away at those cracks for hours, it was a pitiful sight, I have no shame in admitting that now. In my frenzy I had rendered most of my materials used for maintenance useless, and all that was left with me were hard wire scrubbers, completely and utterly useless on a mirror, as you can assume, and yet there I was, going at it for hours, as if it would do anything but make those pre-existing cracks worse.
It must've been a while before I came to, my arms were sore, and I knew that the damage was done. I had done nothing but further secure the damages that my prized possession had sustained, rubbing the glass raw until some of it even scraped off. I was dumbfounded, that was truly it, all my life, spent on this, only for me to have nothing to show.
My exhaustion truly seeped in then, I couldn't do anything but laugh at myself, even now, I can't say if it was to ridicule myself, or if I just found the situation so pathetic, I couldn't help but laugh. I placed my forehead against the scratch covered glass. The skin reacted immediately as I felt pricks of pain from the shards that now found themselves on my head.
Left with nothing else, I simply stuck my tongue out and began to lap at the mirror. Unsanitary, a hideous sight, anyone could say it all, and I couldn't refute them. But in that moment, I didn't have anything left of what I had spent my whole life dedicating myself to. Could you blame me for not finding it in me to care?
As I looked down on the mirror, now clear although it was thoroughly shattered, I saw two unfamiliar eyes staring at me. She seemed to hold the same amount of despondence that I had quickly grown familiar within her, she was shattered, just like my mirror, and I felt sorrow for her. I pitied the melancholy you could find in her, and I wanted nothing more than to reach through the glass, and hold her close. That wasn't fathomable though, so I pressed my lips to the glass and watched as her blood dripped onto the remains of something I once found beautiful.
With my cheek against the broken glass, I remained like that for God knows how long, basking in the feeling of hopelessness as me and the girl in the mirror wordlessly licked at each other's wounds. I was exhausted, I didn't want to move, not anymore. What was the point? All I had ever done amounted into nothingness. So there I laid, bleeding profusely, alongside the girl whose deep brown eyes I could no longer recognize. This repugnant and grotesque scene was the closest to peace I had ever gotten, how ironic.
LAST UPDATED 05.08.2025 this section contains all of my writing from things written for my other ocs to fan fiction for any media under the sun (though i do mainly write about my own ocs)
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