Nights always began the same in that cold familiar shack of an apartment. Slowly the light would fade as the world readied itself to say goodnight, until tomorrow. All over the city, every single day without fail, the vibrant sea of lights and sounds would recede, allowing the realm of darkness to have its turn. There was something so sinister yet so comforting in this perpetual dance; the death and revival of a city, otherwise ignored by everyone. Everyone but him.
For him, it was impossible not to notice the transition. After mere moments, the candle that was his neighborhood went out, smothered by the breath of twilight which blew out its exhausted flames. Darkness would wash over the buildings, the sidewalks, devouring all remaining pockets of light before running rampantly among the streets, unreigned, unwatched. And in such a twisted kingdom, at last, there would be silence.Â
That was the problem, truly. The silence. As the blackness cleared the canvas of all discord and washed out the music of civilization, it created a void which beckoned oh so desperately to be filled. That's when the memories came.Â
With eyes fixed pointedly against the frosted glass which acted as a barrier from the malicious void, a sudden drumming begins to fill his head. Slowly, at first, like the stamp of feet in a far off forest - someone, ambling about, an adventurer among the trees. It mimics his heartbeat, or perhaps his heart begins to beat in rhythm to the infallible 'tam tam' of his mind.Â
The steps grow louder, marching forward, towards him. Yes, undoubtedly, towards him. The steps are light, however, soft footfalls that could not belong to an adult. With that realization, they quicken, doubling their pace, and the tam tam forces the blood through his veins, bulging against the all too small capillaries which surge in heated rhythm. His eyes fall shut, unable to carry the burden of the relentless pounding in his skull.Â
Cold envelops him. The breeze bites at his fingers and races along his exposed skin. Through sheer will he opens his eyes once again, and sweeps along the dark forest that surrounds him, a silent fog rising from the ground to lick at his appendages. Every spot his eyes focus on slowly begins to blur and the sound changes direction. Again he attempts to find the noise, the source of the drums, the stomps, yet it constantly eludes him, emerging from no one single alley of trees, yet encircling him within this resonating cage.Â
Then he hears it. Almost too faintly to be perceived, at first, but recognizable: the laugh of a small girl. A high pitched excited giggle which reverberates against the bark of the army of trees surrounding him, causing even their very leaves to quiver. His mind strains, for it sounds so familiar, but no thoughts could be had aside from the intoxicating drums.Â
The steps quicken and grow louder, occupying the space between his ears like a parasite. It feasts upon his sanity, only growing stronger in the process. Desperately, his eyes sweep again, overlooking the shadowed trees as he spins himself about. Yet every single spot he gazes upon barks forward a new voice, a thousand voices, all shouting in harmony from each direction. The trees themselves must be screeching at him! Infinite voices, an endless cacophony which nearly drowns out the running itself!Â
His body fails and he twists over, landing with his hands firmly upon the cold, wet bog earth. His fingers clutch at the sparse grass and grab at the loose dirt, searching for an escape, desperate to evade this torment. Tears begin to fall from his eyes and onto the floor. They hover momentarily in the moonlight, little silver droplets, before smashing violently against their end, splattering in pools below him.Â
The voices grow louder, a deafening roar, and he begins to recognize some of them. People, of course, from somewhere in his past. A life long forgotten yet never completely removed. He can see them, now. His peers, his friends, the random voices who have no names but merely faces attached. Dozens, even hundreds of them transform into their ethereal personas, ghostly figures conglomerating within the clearing, their somber eyes focused upon the bent boy in the center.Â
Madness overtakes him and the desire to escape becomes too great. The only solution seems so obvious, so simple, so maliciously enticing: remove the memories. Could it really be that easy? He throws his head back, cackling loudly as more and more apparitions crowd the area, his cheeks remain stained with the tears that once trailed upon them. His hands fly upwards, furiously ripping at the thoughts in his head. One scratch along his forehead is all it takes for the past to begin flowing out. A dark black liquid oozes forward, dripping across his face before falling to pool along the ground.
His wicked grin remains plastered as slowly the ghosts nearest him begin to disappear, their voices lost to the wind. Yet more keep appearing, an infinite store of lives which cannot be removed fast enough. Once more the glade fills up, and the ethereal specters move closer, threatening the very space nearest him. Desperation grips him once more as he frantically slashes at each hand, letting forward a gush of black liquid which colors his wrists grey before collecting beneath him. The pool rapidly grows larger as his eyes, weak with the strain, sweep about to watch his victory over the dead.
He feels himself emptying. His entirety now spilled upon the ground, all he ever was or thought removed from his body. Everything begins to fade, until even his name is forgotten. An anonymous corpse, strewn along the ground of a desolate forest, empty, but victorious.Â
Yet, the footsteps still sound against his temples. Those cursed footsteps which began it all, still running towards him after all this. Suddenly, they stop. Behind him he hears panting, the tiredness of a soul longing so desperately to reach him. He feels their eyes upon him, but he is too weak to care. It's over now, everything is gone.Â
"Ry-ki...are you...are you ok?" The voice pierces the atmosphere, shattering the calm he had so deliberately created in the glen. Frustration rises as this unknown person dares disturb his final moments, dare infringe upon the sanctuary of his final battle. His eyes shut once more in an attempt to end the clamor once and for all.
"Big brother, what have you done?"
Brother...
That voice... He... He remembers it.
The tears sting at his cheeks once more as the final thoughts flood through his open wounds. A small girl and her teddy bear. Raven black hair and eyes filled with the purity and innocence of childhood. But her name. What was her name?
He lets forth a scream as the thoughts elude him and for once he is truly empty. Desperately his hands scramble against the fallen memories, grasping at the dark substance in an attempt to undo his mistake. He cups his hands, holding onto what little of him he can manage to salvage  but it seeps through his fingers and back onto the ground.Â
No, it... it can't be happening. He can't leave her... Who? ... No... He can't forget her.
His body falls into the pool as his sobs break out more violently than before. He gasps into the liquid, unable to reverse his actions, slowly watching the world fade around him, the silence overtake him. The dark liquid seeps into the floor, lost forever. His memories, his life, everything he ever was subdued by the shadows, consumed by the world. And so the shadows, those opportunistic creatures, run towards him and envelop his body, but he is too weak to resist. His eyes begin to shut as their cold fingers wrap around his corpse and suddenly, there is silence.
Alone he lay upon the wooden floor, stained red in the blood which carried the memories of all those lives. Clutched in his hand remains the instrument of his end, a shining silver blade with the initials RF carved intricately in the handle; the only remaining testament to the identity of the boy who saved worlds, he who destroyed them.Â
//As you all know, I've been missing for quite some time now, and because of that my writing has decayed somewhat.
In a strange effort to practice once more - outside of dsop stuff - I invite any and all of you to fill my inbox with a scenario and I will write a short bit on it.
It remained there for a while, sat, waiting patiently for its purpose to be fulfilled until, at last, the small metal hinged door to the post box swung open. The letters were grabbed in a hurry and with no mind, taken inside, and placed upon the table. Only later that night was the envelope with the scratchy dark black handwriting opened.
--Dear Annie and Finnick (and Eli),
I'd like to preface this note by apologizing quite profusely for being so absent in your lives. You gave me nothing but hospitality and friendship and yet I was unable to return it. I missed your wedding, and the birth of your son, and I'm certain countless other important memories which you may fondly reflect on. For that I am wholeheartedly apologetic. I only pray you'll forgive me.
I did, however, keep true to my promises. I once told you, Annie, that I would get you a present for your wedding and a present for your child (then unborn). I've come through on that end, and I can only hope they provide for you the same warmth and happiness you lavished unconditionally upon me.
It was necessary to condense the two into one for the sake of envelope space. By now you have probably noticed the small black rectangle which accompanied this letter. This object is a holographic projector - one of my latest and most cherished toys. One side has a blue light, the other a red. If you would be so kind as to place it on a flat surface with the red light facing upwards and give it a little spin you'll unlock your first gift.Â
Voila! -insert fancy hand gesture here- These are your pictures from the wedding. I had a little talk with Finnick about getting them one day and I figured this would be a wonderful way of displaying it. All you have to do is run your hand through the hologram to move to the next picture. While I may not have been there to make the memories, I hope my efforts in helping preserve them will make up for that.
Now if  you flip that over and spin it with the blue side up you should see Eli's present. You always did call him Little Shark and Sharkie and, while originally I didn't like them (sorry for that), I must admit they did catch on. So here is his very own holographic shark. It'll swim around in that current pattern unless you put a finger into the space. Then it'll follow your digit around like a tame little puppy.
It was a magnificent pleasure knowing you and I only hope the best for your family. May little Eli grow handsome and strong, but also kind as I have come to know you two to be.Â
It was not calm within his sanctuary. The quaint flat he often retired to for solace from the world was a petulant cacophony. “Have the streets always been so loud?” he implored, as the cars made their presence known. Tires gnawed against the grainy pavement with horns punctuating the exchange. Off in the distance rose the swell of a siren, faint and far yet obnoxious in its tone. It was a harbinger of misfortune, bellowing the state of unrest to those who heard it. Tragedy had struck some poor soul who was yet young for this world, some unforeseen calamity – of course. Louder and louder it grew, more boisterous in its heroics, careening straight towards him; a herald of adversity whose epicenter threatened to swallow him whole. The noise ripped through the partitions flooding his ears.
“Quiet,” he murmured, his voice a rough whisper against the suffocating sounds. They enveloped him in their claws, forcing themselves against his very skin. He threw his arms around himself in an effort to shield his soft flesh from the onslaught, only to expose his ears to the deafening roar of the city. Oh how they hissed at the torture! How his mind writhed against the violent thrums!
His eyes shut, closing his body off against the world which lavished him with auditory lacerations.
There was no light.
The darkness welcomed him, though his mind rebelled. The shadows promised him peace. They beckoned him forward, arms outstretched, grins plastered upon their unmoving faces. Phantoms danced against a black backdrop, fluctuating in and out of existence, their spectral limbs intertwined, their movement coordinated to some unheard rhythm. How his body yearned to move in such a graceful manner. His untempered desire drew the attention of two illusory attendants who swam towards him. They locked their arms with his, heads inclined and bowed, gazing into the depths of his eyes, forcing a smile which mirrored theirs.
Forward. His footsteps were sentient, their rise and fall coordinated through some external divinity. It tugged at his limbs, pulling him deeper into the obscure horizon. His guides remained steadfast, their posture supporting him, their grip reassuring him. His clothes melted away to be replaced by the ornate garments of those around him. Upon his figure grew a suit emblazoned with white stitching, a silver pocket square resting right above his heart, behind him extended coattails which flowed against the misted twilight. The cloth ruffled as if shaken by a gentle breeze. The extravagant clothes extended in each direction, radiating grandeur and opulence foreign to his senses. Yet the new attire bore no weight. He felt as light as the air through which he drifted, anchored merely by those stoic arms which faithfully held his.
The figures before him parted, evaporating into the atmosphere before reappearing a few paces off, bowed or curtsied in reverence. Hundreds of ghostly bodies lined up as he passed in silent procession. His gaze swept over them, seeing only hues and fragments of fabric blended into a tapestry which itself was interwoven with the spotted darkness. One spot shone up ahead in contrast to the surroundings, approaching him despite the timidity of the others. She was more defined than they, an individual cusp of sea foam against the immeasurable waves. Her wispy blonde hair fell against her shoulders and her cheeks held the faint pink which betrayed her youth. The young girl, no older than ten, stood before him, head bowed downwards but a grin evident upon her face. He paused in his motions, halting the ethereal attendants, dropping to one knee and lifting a hand to her cheek. It was cold yet filled with the sweet warmth of life, the two forces entangled in a dance which left the blushed hue scattered along her jowl. He raised her face to meet her eyes with his gaze. Two stark black orbs looked back at him, shining with a glint which rivaled the moon. He stared into her eyes, seeing his reflection within those pools, finding himself at a much younger age staring right back.
She grinned even more wholeheartedly, the shine of her eyes sparkling with the movement. She then raised her hand, extending it to place a small rose within his. The flower was black as onyx, its petals indiscernible individually, existing only as one collective mass against his palm. The stem was equally dark, its edges lined with thick spines that threatened his tender flesh. His fingers weaved themselves about the points gently, twirling the flower carefully. As he looked back up again she was gone, melted once more into the nether. A slight sadness dawned upon him, a quick sweep proving unable to identify her in the crowd. With a short-breathed sigh, he rejoined his arms with those of his silent guardians and took flight once more, the rose clenched tightly in his hand, the soft skin going red when pricked by the striking spikes.
Ahead lay an object propped upwards directly perpendicular to the horizon. A large gray mass with a cubed base and a rectangular backing rose to an imposing height. As they approached, for their movement now seemed directed towards the strange thing, the image began at once to focus. The cube base was in fact a set of thick carved legs of a dark wood which stood brazenly upon the unreliable footing. Above them grew forth the seat of a faintly lighter wood overlayed with a burgundy fabric as dark and thick as the blood which coursed through his veins. On either side of the seat lay armrests elaborately detailed with spirals that began at the legs and morphed into the head of a raven whose beak was now only a few feet away. His eyes swept upwards to inspect the backing. What was once just a gray rectangle was now revealed completely in this dim lighting. The wood was intricately decorated with a mural spanning its entire height. Little people and figures frozen in time upon the grain of this carved plank. In spite of their diversity in action and appearance, their eyes all gazed in one direction: upwards. High up and centered upon the massive mural was a crown simple in design with only one inscription upon it: 13.
He stopped before it as his eyes dove through the masterpiece admiring every inch of it. As his rapture lessened he found his arms loose against his sides, his fingers draped against the black cloth of his pants. His head turned and behind him a few yards back stood his attendants. Their smiles were as bright as ever, their gaze placed upon him, unwavering. Then their heads swept to look at the chair before him and they bowed, dropping to place a knee upon the misted flooring. His head leashed backwards, understanding their intentions and his knees quivered in hesitation. His eyes locked once more on the thirteen emblazoned high above and thus he found his resolve. Onwards he went, and as he approached he noticed a piece of parchment folded upon the right armrest. He turned at last and lowered himself onto the throne, placing the rose down to his left and picking up the note on his right.
His eyes closed as he wrapped his fingers around the rough paper. When they opened again there was light. The soft rays of sunlight streamed in through the window illuminating the note as his eyes picked at it. He had read it several times now, he knew it by heart; the words which were written to him, which had been chosen specifically for his eyes to wash over, for his mind to know.
“Theo…” he whispered, as he unfolded the creased paper and ran a finger along the lines. He read it once more, though in reality he recited it from memory as his eyes became unfocused.
I hope this doesn’t do too much damage and that you find a way to be happy again. You deserve it.
The lines stopped him as they always did. The rest of the letter was heartfelt, yes, but this bit is what really got him. “At the end of it all, the last thing you thought about was me being happy, Curly.” It shattered him to the very fiber of his being, someone else caring about his happiness in spite of themselves. He placed the paper down feeling the pools of water beginning to grow on the outer rim of his eyelids. His back slid against the cold porcelain of the bathtub, his bare skin trembling at the contact. Through the liquid veil over his eyes he looked out seeing the light scattered hazily across his flat’s bathroom and reflecting haphazardly across the tiled floor.
“It wasn’t supposed to last this long,” he said out loud, speaking directly to Theo in spite of his solitude. “I had planned to do it ages ago, actually, but something stopped me.” The rasping of his voice betrayed his otherwise calm state as he continued speaking in a more hushed tone. “You did.
“For once I thought maybe someone could help me out. Maybe there was someone as utterly fucked up as me – maybe we could work it out, for each other’s sake.” The tears now began to drop slowly across his cheeks as his breathing hastened.
His eyes closed once more and he returned to the top of his throne. They were back. Hoards of them lay before him. Subjects, perhaps? People of the shadow domain extended in every direction with their eyes focused perpetually upon him. This time, however, they were not smiling. Their faces were frozen with large frowns painted upon their pale skin. His heart began to beat frantically.
“You do not deserve to sit there,” cried a voice from a distance.
“You are no king! We know of your past, villain,” chorused another.
All about him the silence was broken, the shattered pieces hurled towards him in the form of cries and outrage. The calm sea roared and the bodies raised their hands in protest at him. His hands reached for the armrests, gripping for support. The rose dugs its violent thorns into his flesh, forcing him to rear in pain, shutting his eyes as he pulled back his arm and raised his hand to his mouth.
The bottle lay open in his left hand, empty. The top was thrown against the white floor of the bath tub. At last, there was quiet once more, or so he thought. As he lowered the bottle resting his arm across his bent knees a sudden banging began. A loud knocking erupted from the door. Rhythmic. Pounding.
THUD, THUD, THUD
“LEAVE ME BE,” he yelled, the tears now flowing freely from his eyes and dripping onto his bare chest. “MAKE THE NOISE STOP,” he cried as he flung his hands to his ears and shut his eyes once more.
The protesters were before him again. Their faces were now twisted into visages of terror and pain. The yelling had been supplanted by screams of fright. Men, women, children, all crying out for help, for aid, stamping their feet thrice. He began to recognize them, then, as their faces took on shape. People he had seen before mixed with others completely foreign to him. Yet through their anguish they stared directly at him.
“Who are you demons?” he demanded, his voice loud and angry, overtaken by fear.
“We are not the demons, your highness,” they scowled collectively. “You are the demon which placed us here. Your loyal subjects.”
THUD, THUD, THUD
“What do you mean,” he cried, though suspicion and horror began to lodge themselves in his heart. They couldn’t be…
THUD, THUD, THUD
“Have you forgotten us already?” they mocked, the voices mingling into one dark grumble. “We are your neighbors and friends, your family and loved ones,” replied the voice, “we are district thirteen. We are the blood on your hands.”
THUD, THUD, THUD
His words failed him. He tried to speak, to deny the claims, but he knew it to be true. These were the ghosts of his past, the people whose lives he had decided. The repercussions of playing God.
“I…I… only meant the best,” was all he could manage to stutter against the crowd.
“The best?” they laughed, a low rolling noise which echoed in the chasm. “How could you decide what’s best? Who gives you the authority to choose our lives for us boy?”
THUD, THUD, THUD
The words froze. His blood solidified in his arteries. The memories began to flood him once more. So many people left to die. He had chosen this path. The factories had needed to be destroyed, they couldn’t continue the weapons program but… in making that choice how many lives had he damned? Now before him they stood, their judgements loud against the darkness:
“You killed us. You are no hero. You are a murderer.”
“I’m… I’m sorr—“
THUD, THUD, THUD
The mob yelled once more in pain, the giant beast thrashed in anguish. “How could I have.. killed them all? Look, there are children.” They danced their foul dance, splaying their arms as they begged for release from the torturous chains of death. “I caused this. I…”
THUD, THUD, THUD
“No. I did what I had to do.” He said, then repeated louder. “DO YOU HEAR ME, OH VICIOUS PHANTASMS? I DID WHAT I HAD TO DO.” He rose from the chair but they did not stop. He took a step forward, and then another, and soon he stood before them yet their wicked orgy did not falter. Sounds and limbs were thrown in every direction but their eyes remained ever focused, listening.
“It may not have been my place,” he conceded, looking out at them all, “but I made a choice. A choice which saved the entirety of Panem. The price I must pay now is to live with the burden of that decision, to carry the weight of all of you upon my shoulders, and I shall.”
THUD, THUD, THUD
The masses broke into a frenzied rage. They surged forward, breaking the invisible chains which had held them previously, wrapping around him and enveloping him in a vice of flesh and movement. They tore at him and buffeted him as the tears still fell down from his eyes. At last he threw his hands up in surrender.
“I am the destroyer of worlds and the creator of worlds. I am Ryker Flynn and I am from District Thirteen.”
Silence.
His eyes opened once more hesitantly, finding themselves in the light of day staring at the door of his bathroom. The battle had ended. The war was won. Finally there was peace.
THUD, THUD, THUD
The noise startled him as he stared towards the door, the source of the disruption.
THUD, THUD, THUD
It returned once more, louder and bolder. His hand quivered as he stretched an arm forwards, wrapping his fingers against the cool metal. His heart pounded against his ribs thrumming in perfect rhythm with the incessant knocking. The doorknob turned slowly as the white wood swung outwards.
“Ry-ki! What took you so long to open the door?” She flung herself against his legs, wrapping her arms around him and pressing her face as close as it would go. “I was so worried about you!” she scolded, though the relief and happiness were clear in her voice.
He bent down and wrapped his arms around her hugging her properly, his head resting upon her shoulder, a hand tangled in her black hair. The tears still welled up in his eyes as he held her against him, feeling the warmth of her body once more. He lifted her up and she giggled in glee wrapping her legs around his torso and placing her arms around his neck. Their eyes met and the familiar blue orbs mirrored each other, identical save for the tears which glossed his over.
She pursed her lips and then spoke, “Ry-ki, you’re crying.” The words held a depth and sincerity magnified by the innocent concern with which they were said. “Here, I’ll fix it,” she said, loosening an arm from its position and grabbing the silver handkerchief resting just above his heart and dabbing at his eyes, forcing a smile to blossom once more on his face.
She grinned, satisfied, and then exclaimed, “There! All better!” as she placed the pocket square back where it belonged. Ry spun her around before placing her upon the ground and taking her hand.
“Where are we going big brother?” piped the little voice inquisitively.
“I’ve got a friend I want you to meet,” he began as they walked down the hall. “He’s got this wonderful curly hair.”
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