#a policeman shot his wife dead a few streets over from my place
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Just Close Your Eyes, You'll Be Alright
Written by: @alliswell21
Prompt 154: Soulmate au where your soulmates injuries and scars show up on your body tinted in their favorite color. Katniss through the years as she discovers new marks, pondering what it could possibly be, finally figuring out that her soulmate is being hurt way too regularly and in very specific places. Do her parents figure out Peeta is being abused? How do they find and “rescue” him? Or does Peeta live his whole childhood being abused before turning 18? Does he runaway? How do he and Katniss find their way to one another? [submitted by @lovely-tothe-bone / @peetamewllark]
Teen and up
AU- Modern setting (but like without cell phones). One Shot.
Warnings: Canon typical violence, Language, child abuse and neglect, injuries, implied (non-descriptive) underage smut. Nobody dies! Unbetaed.
-lyrics of Safe and Sound by Taylor Swift, Feat. The Civil Wars - Songs from District 12 and Beyond (2012)
Author’s note: Thank you to @lovely-tothe-bone for her inspiring prompt and to the organizers of EFE, for bringing the challenge back so faithfully, you ladies rock!
KPKPKPKP
“Look at her!” Papa screeched at the policeman, lifting the back of my favorite pink polka dotted shirt. “You have to do something about this, Sheriff Cray!” Papa demanded, angrily.
The man just watched, like he didn’t care. Then sat back down lazily, “There’s nothing much I can do, to be honest. Unless you can produce the child sporting the actual bruises, my hands are tied.” Said the policeman.
I had no idea what the problem was, I felt fine, but ever since my 5th birthday, every time Mama helped me out of my day clothes for my bath, she wept and held me close to her chest, whispering “No child deserves to be treated so poorly,”
Papa too always made a face and looked sad and angry when Mama showed him my back after my baths.
It was funny how bath time could easily be my favorite time of day, but it made the grown ups upset somehow. I just liked that mama would rub ointments on my back, bottom and thighs, carefully and without fuzzing about the time she was spending away from my baby sister, Primrose. Is not that I didn’t like Prim— I thought she was as lovely as a doll— I didn’t mind sharing mama’s snuggles with her either, but it was nice to just feel mama’s warm hands caressing me to sleep every now and then.
Either way, I wished someone would tell me what was so wrong with my behind that had the grown ups acting so weird.
They were starting to scare me, really.
“There has to be something we can do! There are genetic tests to determine matchless people, couldn’t we use the same technology to find the markers matching my daughter’s counterpart to identify him?”
“Mr. Everdeen, I’m not a geneticist. I wouldn’t know about anything like it… and who’s to say we could use it to find your girl’s soulmate? Then we what? It’ll open an unknown Pandora’s box situation, people would start tracking soulmates illegally or something less than honorable. It’ll certainly set a precedent we cannot foresee the ramifications of!”
“You’re telling me that there’s some kid out there, somewhere, getting beaten week in and week out, and you’ll do nothing about it?! You’ll allow the abuse to continue uninterrupted?”
The man nodded slowly, “You said it yourself, Mr. Everdeen. The kid’s ‘out there, somewhere’, we don’t even know if he’s local, or his age. In any case, I only have jurisdiction over District 12, and I can’t very well launch a country wide investigation on an alleged case of abuse, specially if we have no victim,”
“But my daughter’s soulmate is suffering! Who knows what permanent damage this poor child may have as an adult! It’s my daughter’s future we’re talking about!”
“Most unfortunate, sir. I don’t wanna seem unsympathetic, Mr. Everdeen, but unless your little girl can figure out a way to communicate with her soulmate, find… an address— at the very least a name— there isn’t anything we can do to help.”
Papa huffed, his nose flared, “Fine. Thank you for your consideration…Sheriff.” Papa put his big ol’ hand on my shoulder and guided me away, “Come on Katniss, it’s time to go home.”
I looked up at Papa and reached for his hand. I smiled at him, “It’s okay, Papa. Mama says to give grumpy people time, and they may be nicer the next time we talk to them.”
Papa smiled at me, but it didn’t crinkled the corner of his eyes, like real smiles did, “That’s nice sweetie… although, that usually only applies to people just waking up from naps, like you and me,”
I giggled when he picked me up and tickled my tummy.
Papa kept talking to grown ups about my back, but nothing was ever done about it.
———————-
I was 11 when our world pitched upside down.
Papa was one the foramen on shift at the town’s coal mine when the earth shifted and an entire tunnel collapsed.
Prim and I were in school when the sirens went off. There’s nothing worse than to hear the end of your world being advertised so loudly and without mercy.
I grabbed my sister’s hand and rushed to the mines; we found our mother there, clinging to the yellow tape cordoning off the site.
I should’ve known something wasn’t right when I was the one seeking Mama out, trying to comfort her, instead of the other way around. It was the first time the concept of a soulmate stopped being an abstract notion, and became a reality, because my mother stopped functioning altogether the moment she realized Papa had been hurt.
I saw how much a soulmate could affect you. It wasn’t only the marks on the skin— those came without conscious pain— it was the fear of knowing that someone you loved was hurting, sometimes badly, and not being able to do anything about it.
Mama’s left leg started glowing pink from the shin down at first, and the color began to shift to a darker red the longer Papa laid underground.
Unbeknownst to us, my father had been pinned under fallen rock and dirt after pushing a man to safety, risking his own life. The sharp end of a pickax perforated Papa’s leg in the cave-in. The pickaxe worked as a plug, keeping him from bleeding out while he waited for the rescue crew to reach him.
Papa laid on the floor of the very last lift to surface with rescued miners. He was unconscious. Had suffered extensive blood loss. The lone medic in the rescue crew couldn’t fix him up right away, but Mama was a nurse, and like a switch flipping on, she ripped off the bottom of her skirt, and tied a tourniquet around my father’s thigh, saving his life at the cost of his limb.
My father lived, but his leg had to be amputated.
He couldn’t work in the mines anymore, and what little money we got as compensation from his injuries, were put into paying off the mortgage, because Papa decided that having a roof over his family’s heads was far more important than having a leg.
The rub was, a roof didn’t fill our stomachs or put a coat around Prim’s shivering shoulders. Mama put a hold on her nursing career, obsessing over Papa’s care, despite his protests. Someone had to pick up the pieces, and that someone turned to be me.
I started selling everything I could carry out of the house in my arms: tools, kitchen appliances, small furniture, etc. But we never had many possessions to begin with, so my wares ran out soon, and I turned to our closets for their meager treasures.
I sold my parents best clothes, along with my sister’s winter boots that didn’t fit her anymore. I looked at my own shoes with longing, but put them into Primrose’s shoe rack, deciding I could manage with Mama’s boots, if I stuffed them with newspaper. Mama never left the house anyway. Neither did Papa for that matter, but he wasn’t dead, just convalescencing, so I left him a pair of footwear just in case, and sold his work boots and his Sunday loafers.
The day I was down to the last pair of clothing, we had been slurping on mint tea for the third day in a row from a few old leaves I found in the very back of the pantry. It was the last of our food, besides Papa’s bland diet, but I refused to let on on how precariously stocked we were, until absolutely necessary.
But, nobody wanted the hand-me-down baby clothes I had for sale, nor the slightly beaten stroller I was pushing around with my ‘merchandise’.
Icy cold rain, soaked me to the bone. I was so tired and downtrodden, I ran to the first awning I found, unwilling to go back home to Prim’s sunken blue eyes and chapped lips, asking for something to eat, while my hands were empty.
I tripped and fell face first on the umbrella stroller, breaking it irreparably and soiling the few onesies I’d been trying to sell.
With my wares ruined, and winded by a sharp pain shooting through my elbow, I limped towards a scraggly apple tree a few feet away. I recognized the place as the alley behind the town’s bakery, just by the smell alone.
I cupped my elbow, wondering if I’d broken it or merely banged it up? That’s when I saw the dumpster.
Big ugly thing, dirty and smelly. I climbed a wooden crate to dig for anything edible inside, but before I could lift the lid, a screeching voice shouted at me.
“Get out of there, Seam brat!”
I jumped off the crate, startled, and cowed behind the dumpster when I saw the baker’s grumpy wife sneering at me from the warmth of her kitchen’s back door.
A boy about my age— I recognized him as one of my classmates from school— peeked his towheaded face around the woman, and although they were a good five yards away, I could see his blue eyes widened as he took me in. The boy slipped back inside, as his mother spewed threats of calling the police on me and whatnot.
I started debating whether I wanted to trace back and drag my broken stroller over; pretend I was merely trying to dump it in the garbage, while inspecting the trash for food… but the baker’s wife was nicknamed the Witch by all the neighborhood children for a reason.
Before my mind was made, a loud, metallic bang resonated into the street from inside the bakery. Yelling ensued, then the sound of a meaty hand against a small face.
A few seconds later, the witch was chasing the boy out the back door, “Toss it in the trash, you stupid creature! Nobody will pay money for burnt bread anyway!”
The boy scurried by with his head down.
My eyes stuck on the bread in his hands, was probably the reason I missed the shiner under his eye. He stopped right in front of the dumpster, but instead of throwing the ruined loaves in, he tossed them in my direction.
I didn’t wait around to ask if he meant for me to grab them. I just scooped them up and fled like a bat out of heck.
When I got home, Mama gasped in horror. She grabbed me by the shoulders and pressed me to her chest. “Oh no! It’s getting worse. They don’t even care to hide the bruises anymore!”
Mama lathered my face with all the medicinal herbs she had at hand, while apologizing profusely for abandoning me and Prim to our own devices. She vowed to find a job, and to take better care of us.
“No child should ever suffer like this!” I couldn’t tell if she meant Prim and I, or whoever my soulmate was.
Mama interrogated me about my whereabouts and how I came upon the bread in my arms, but she seemed to rest easier after a while.
When I was finally able to look at my face in the mirror, I was horror struck by the deep orange bruise swelling under my eye. It took three days for the bruise to go away completely even with mama’s careful fingers.
Coincidentally, the baker’s son didn’t show up to school for the next four days. By the time he did, I had lost any confidence in myself to go up to him and thank him for the bread that fed us for a few days; the loaves were perfect! Only the crust had been charred, but I had a hunch the boy knew that when he threw the bread to me; I was also convinced he burned the bread on purpose, I was just too chicken to ask him why? Which made it even harder to hold his gaze when we crossed each other in the school hallways.
All I knew was that because of the selfless actions of the boy in my year at school, my mother seemed to wake from her single minded obsession. The boy with the bread gave our family a sense of hope, despite the fact that it would take some time for Mama to find work and produce enough money for the family. Papa’s medical needs had to be met as well, and he was due a new leg.
While those thoughts churned in my head, my eyes focused on a bright yellow bloom across the school yard. The first dandelion of the season! I picked the cheerful blossom, and the idea on how to feed my family until Mama was back on her feet, came to me.
After school, I took Prim’s hand and a clean bucket in the other; together we scoured the yard and the woods nearby for all the dandelions we could fit in the bucket. That night, we gorged ourselves on dandelion salad, and the next day, I pulled from under my parent’s bed, the only thing of value we had left in the house, Papa’s hunting bow.
“Are you sure you can handle it, pumpkin?” My father asked, watching me carefully.
“You taught me how to do it,” I said, trying to hide my nerves.
“I taught you with a smaller bow,” he pointed out, “why don’t use yours?”
I shouldered the heavy bow, and took a few loose arrows in my hand, “I sold it. These are all we have left now,”
After a handful of days practicing, I actually shot something worth eating. Seeing my mother’s blue eyes pop in surprise when I dropped the dead rabbit on the table, was priceless.
——————-
One early morning, right before summer break, I happened across another hunter… a trapper, to be precise.
A lanky, scowling boy, with three fat bunnies tied to his belt, and a fourth hanging in the air by a simple— yet elegant— wire snare.
I’d seen his traps before, his prey with their dead eyes and lolling tongues, just high enough off the ground to keep other animals from taking off with them. Papa told me that hunter etiquette was to be observed; if I happened across a trap that wasn’t mine, I was not to touch it, out of respect for my fellow hunters. That still didn’t discourage me from looking! After all, the snares looked like works of art, and I had no idea how to set any on my own.
“Stealing is a punishable offense, you know,” Snapped the boy, and suddenly I realized just how tall he was.
From up close, I could see the beginning of some stubble under his chin.
“I wasn’t gonna take it…” I stepped away from the twitching bunny, with my hands raised in surrender. “Admiring your work, that’s all. By the way, I’m Katniss Everdeen, what’s your name?” I asked, trying to be friendly.
“Name’s Gale. Hawthorne. So… you know how to use the thing hanging from your back, Catnip, or is that just for show?” He practically bumped me onto my butt, stepping passed me while pulling a knife from his belt to cut his kill down. He turned to watch me, smirking. “That thing looks bigger than you, are you sure you can lift it up?”
I scowled at him, wondering if he was expecting to see me squirm or something. I was smaller than the average 12 year old, but I was fast and scrappy.
“My name is KatNISS. I can shoot my own food thank you very much,” I held my bow aloft and moved so he could see my quiver full of arrows, “my weapons aren’t props or fakes,” I said, haughtily.
“Yeah, well, it still looks bigger than you,”
I rolled my eyes, fed up. Any other time I’d meekly shy away, and let him be; but I was feeling stubborn and confrontational, so I pulled my bow, nocked an arrow and let it fly, all in a fluid motion.
Gale gaped with a hint of fear in his gray eyes.
I felt smug and satisfied.
I wasn’t aiming at anything in particular, I just wanted the obnoxious boy to shut it, but by a stroke of luck my arrow pierced a falling leaf, and imbedded itself deep into the knot of a gnarly looking tree trunk.
“Wow! That was amazing, Catnip!” Gale said in awe.
“It’s Katniss… I’m okay, my father was better,” I said, puffing my chest a little, “I haven’t managed stealth yet, not like Papa before the accident, anyway. He doesn’t hunt anymore.”
Gale frowned. “Was your dad in the cave-in?” He asked grimly.
I nodded.
“So was mine. He almost didn’t make it.”
“Same.”
He just stood there, staring at the ground for a moment, then I tried to play cool, “Hey, I’d be willing to spare some shooting lessons, in exchange for some snaring techniques,”
Gale watched me, intently. He finally nodded and stuck his hand out for me to shake, “Deal!”
I smiled. Papa always said that good hunting partners were hard to find, and while I didn’t want a new hunting partner— I already had my father!— I could always exchange knowledge with a fellow hunter and improve my game.
——————-
Papa was fitted with a basic prosthetic leg. He couldn’t run or swim with it, but having the ability to walk without crutches gave him a “new lease in life”, as he called it.
He found work doing odd jobs for Haymitch Abernathy, a hermit drunk, with more money than he knew what to do with, and no family to spend it on. The man needed someone to talk to every now and then, and seeing as he and my father were close in age, they developed a strange rapport between them.
Still, Papa wasn’t completely confident with his fake leg, no matter how many physical therapies he attended; he still walked with a pronounced limp. Yet, he always had a word of comfort for Mama.
My mother often blamed herself for Papa’s disability.
He’d tell her that she did the right thing, that it was thanks to her torniquete he was still alive, and she should never doubt her own healing skills. But every now and then, my mother would catch a glance of her permanently grey skinned leg, and silent tears would slide down her exhausted, pretty face.
By then, I was old enough to know that the soft orange marks hidden under my clothes, meant a kid somewhere in Panem, probably my age, was getting beaten on a regular basis. It was sad to think about, but I’d grown so used to the marks, they felt like a distant happening without a meaningful connection to me. The bruises were there… just shy of a shirt sleeve, or around mid thigh, where they could be concealed by shorts; the way I saw them, they were like oversized freckles that came and went. A nuisance. That’s why watching my mother weep over her shadowy leg, was always unnerving and a little odd.
Was I supposed to despair the same way she did over my own soulmate marks? Was I broken or heartless if I didn’t feel as strongly?
Until I saw my mother’s grief over her soulmate’s leg, it didn’t register to me just how much the orange bruises were supposed to affect me.
I started to think if I wasn’t any better than the person dispensing the punches.
One day, I was leaning on my parents bedroom door, watching Mama applying soothing oils to her gray leg with the utmost love and care.
“Why do you rub so much medicine on your leg? It doesn’t seem to be bringing back your normal color,” I asked, staring where her fingers massaged into her flesh.
Mama stopped and called me over, to stand on her side of the bed.
“Papa is fast asleep, do you see?” She pointed out, kindly.
I looked past her shoulder, where my father was sprawled on the mattress on his stomach, dead to the world.
I nodded.
Mama smiled, “Do you remember all we’ve told you about soulmates? I’m sure they’ve taught you at school other stuff as well,”
Again, I nodded, just a little puzzled. “Soulmates have a very strong bond. They can’t feel when the other hurts, but they can see the marks, tinted in their favorite colors. That’s how we identify our soulmates, because we match and they can see themselves reflected back.”
“Exactly.” Said my mother, beaming. “Now, your papa and I are soulmates, and we love each other very much. When Papa’s leg was separated from his body, my body reflected that loss, despite still retaining my own leg. We match. The one thing most people don’t seem to realize, is that the connection goes both ways. I may not feel the physical pain Papa does, but I can still do things to my leg to help him feel better.
“For example, when he feels phantom itches, I scratch and his itching sensation goes away. When he can’t fall asleep because he’s uncomfortable without his leg, I massage lavender oil on mine, until he relaxes and goes to sleep. Everything I do to heal my body, and take care of it, helps my soulmate feel better.”
“Is that why you put lotions on my marks? To help my soulmate feel better?”
Mama’s lips thinned out; she didn’t like talking about the orange marks on my body.
“Katniss,” she said very seriously, “I tend to your bruises because I love you. I worry about your soulmate, because I love you. I try to keep you as healthy and happy as possible, because that will help your soulmate heal faster… because I love you. I can cure your soulmate’s body through yours, but I cannot protect his heart, mind, or feelings. Right now, you both are too young to feel the pull of your bond, but one day, when your bodies have matured, you’ll have this… yearning, to find one another, and then, I just hope, whoever your soulmate is, knows we tried to help.”
I cocked my head, “Should I be sad every time new marks show up?”
Mama inhaled a deep breath, “We should feel sad every time a child is mistreated, darling, no matter how we’re related,”
From that day on, I paid close attention to every child in my class for bruises matching mine. I also kept pomades and tinctures in my school bag, in case I ever saw another kid getting hurt. I wouldn’t say I started to develop deeper feelings for my soulmate after that, but I did feel deeper empathy for my classmates… I just couldn’t stomach big injuries, gore or vomit, but smaller cuts and bruises… those I could manage.
————————
“Silver Anderson figured out her cousin was dating her soulmate!” A girl in my year was telling a cluster of other 15 year-old girls in the locker room. “Do you remember how Silver has been wearing a turtleneck for the last two days with this darned awful heat?”
The other girls hummed their yeses.
“Well, is because Silver’s soulmate had a hickey on the throat, given by Silver’s cousin, who was his girlfriend or whatever. But apparently the cousin went over to visit Silver with her boyfriend, and one look at the guy’s neck, and Silver recognized the mark!”
There were gasps all around.
It wasn’t rare to hear of soulmates having relationships with other people before finding each other, but it was almost unheard of a relative dating somebody’s soulmate so close.
I finished tying up my shoelaces, and started rebranding my hair, making a mental note to double shampoo, to get all the sweat out.
“What an idiot! Who gets hickeys from their ‘whiles’?” Snorted somebody.
I wasn’t much for gossip, but even I had to agree.
‘Whiles’, weren’t permanent romantic interests, they were just to pass the time while waiting to find your soulmate. ‘Whiles’ were people to satisfy ones curiosity about dating and that kind of stuff, with no strings attached or substance; ‘whiles’ had a bad connotation associated with.
“Oh, the boy had never gotten one mark in his body that wasn’t his, so, he assumed he didn’t have a soulmate, and the cousin has already been confirmed to be a matchless.”
A big “Oh!” Swept the room.
Matchless were born without a soulmate, which meant they could choose to be with whoever they wanted as long as they were matchless as well, or with nobody at all.
Sometimes I envied their freedom to choose, but other times I felt a sense of safety, knowing there was a person somewhere in the world meant just for me and me to them.
Soulmates were genetically evolved to complement one another, but some just wanted to experiment before settling down. Lately, though, matchless births were growing in number, and that upset people for whatever reason, as if the freedom of choice was scary or a curse, then again matchless were usually whiles and those were looked down on.
“That’s awful!” Said a girl.
“I knew Silver’s near freakish obsession with keeping her skin pristine and hidden would bring her issues finding her soulmate someday,” Declared another.
“I don’t think she wanted to find him,” whispered someone else.
“Oh well, they did find each other! You can’t hide from your destiny. That’s just silly!”
“Either way, I feel bad for the cousin, because apparently she and Silver’s soulmate were talking about marriage, since they thought they were both matchless.” Informed the first one.
I lost interest in the conversation when it turned speculative, and stood up to shove my P.E. uniform into my locker.
Someone suddenly called, “Everdeen, how about those orange blooms on your arms?”
My eyes widened, and immediately, I dropped my arms, pulling my sleeves as far down as they would go to cover my soulmate’s private marks.
“Oh… um… yeah. My mother thinks my soulmate might be an athlete,” I stuttered; Mama had only said such a thing in passing once, when a couple bruises appeared that didn’t match the usual ones. “Also, he seems to work with his hands. Lots of nicks and scrapes.” I wiggled my fingers in front of me. That much was true, my soulmate probably wore those marks freely.
“Oooh!” A girl, Delly Cartwright, reached to take a closer look. “Could be a carpenter. Or a locksmith? Maybe a farmer!”
“It could be the blacksmith’s son! Doesn’t Silver have an unmarried brother?” Asked another girl.
“Yeah… a kid like 10! Ugh, Everdeen, I really hope he’s not your soulmate… can you imagine being so much older than your soulmate?!” Interjected the same girl that spotted my bruises.
I scowled. Age was a stupid thing to complain about. It wasn’t out of the ordinary to have an age gap between soulmates… my father was six years older than my mother, and Mrs. Sae from the Soup Corner at the market, was a handful of years older than her soulmate.
Still…
“No. My soulmate is most likely my age. I’ve gotten his marks my whole life,” I shrugged, absently rubbing my arm, where the brand new bruise appeared that morning.
“Oh… at least that’s something. Knowing that your soulmate isn’t so much younger than you, and that he might at least have an apprenticeship somewhere,”
“Right,” I said, turning away, wondering if it was awful of me to wish for a boy who never got marks on his body, like Silver’s pristine skin? At least that would mean my soulmate was safe and treated fairly.
———————-
Papa and I shared many qualities. I inherited his coloring: olive skin, gray eyes, dark, straight hair, our penchant for singing mountain ballads, and the same quickening of the blood when we got a kill during hunting. Prim favored our mother more closely, with their fair skin, blonde wavy licks and blue eyes, they also were more skilled as healers and more soft-hearted towards animals.
The day Prim brought home a half dead cat, riddled with fleas and missing an ear to be patched up and adopted into our family, my first instinct was to drown the orange pelt and be done with it, but Prim got upset and worked up, and I just couldn’t stomach her cries over what I considered to be the world’s ugliest cat… his face was flat, like it’d been smashed against a wall…
It took a long time to calm my sister down, and Papa made me pinky promise that I wouldn’t kill the fur sack and pretend it ran away, which I only did reluctantly, because I loved my sister and didn’t want her to be crossed with me.
Papa asked me to walk with him into the woods, afterwards, which I did readily.
Before he lost his leg, we used to go hunting all the time; everything I knew about hunting and foraging, I learned from him. But after losing his leg, we’ve only gone to the woods to hike and get him used to his prosthesis in the uneven terrain.
It was good exercise for him. The fresh air seemed to lift his spirits too.
We didn’t hunt together anymore. Papa’s tread wasn’t feather-like the way it used to be, prey scattered away before we even saw it.
It was alright. We enjoyed being out there together, and he still had lots to teach me about edible plants. Sometimes he’d find one of his old spiles, and then it would hit me: all his knowledge would’ve been lost if he’d died in that cave-in. I would’ve never known where to look for those spiles; I wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to harvest sap and turn it into syrup.
Sometimes, I had to sit down and catch my breath when those thoughts knocked the wind out of me.
I was having one such moment, when out of the blue, my father spoke in a low, calmed tone.
“There’s a new chief of police,” he said while sitting on a log, next to me.
“I heard.” I wasn’t trying to be snippy with him, but every time a new chief or sheriff was appointed to our district, Papa wanted to run back into the precinct, and demand they look for my soulmate.
Appealing to the police never led anywhere. It didn’t matter if they had new staff, they always gave us the same spiel: can’t investigate an abuse case without a victim. They couldn’t go looking for a person without a name or an address.
After a while, one just started feeling like it was an impossible task, to help one child feel safe.
Papa sighed. “We could try ourselves. I’ve been saving some money, and we could—“
“What? We could what?” I snapped. “We could go door to door visiting every little town in Panem until we find the bruised up mutt matching me?” I was at the verge of tears.
Mama said that once my body was matured enough, I’d start feeling the pull. Well, I kinda felt it, calling desperately. It started around my 14th birthday, when I started having a regular cycle, and puberty was at its summit.
First, I was curious about my other half and began cataloguing all the soulmate marks I could see easily. Suddenly I had whole maps of my hands and arms, and legs. Mama suggested I keep track of my hidden marks too, just in case. The curiosity persisted and evolved into an incessant wondering: where was he? How was he getting along? How could I help him protect himself?
“Haymitch may have a way, sweetheart. He knows people, and he likes you… he says you’ve got spunk,” Papa smirked.
I’d met Haymitch Abernathy countless times. He was rude and sarcastic. I usually responded to him in kind, earning myself a host of reprimands from my parents— although Papa still couldn’t hide his pride, despite trying his hardest.
“What would he know about soulmates anyway?” I muttered.
Papa shook his head, standing up, “Haymitch lost his girl, mother and brother all at once during a special outing. There was a car crash. Haymitch was badly hurt, but survived. His family didn’t. His soulmate was 16, so was him. The government paid him excessively for damages and the loss of his soulmate, because it was proved the city had skimped on roadside safety that caused the accident. But money didn’t fill the void of losing his loved ones. Haymitch never recovered.
“He told me once that losing a soulmate is akin to drowning. Except you’re still breathing without filling your lungs with oxygen…” Papa picked up the bucket we brought to collect sap, and smiled sadly at me. “Katniss, I may be exaggerating by hounding the police about your soulmate, but sometimes I worry that if we don’t find that kid soon, you could very well share Haymitch’s fate. Believe me when I say that I’d do anything in this world, to keep that from happening to you.”
I turned 16 that spring.
I started carrying a small mirror on me, to try and look over my shoulders into places I couldn’t reach, obsessing over every little mark that sprouted anew on my back.
I wasn’t sure if the all consuming watching, and the doubts that kept me up at night, not knowing what was being done to my soulmate, wondering if he’d survive another day, was the pull Mama talked about, or simply terror at becoming the next Haymitch Abernathy. Either way, I became more vigilant for injured teens around me, but a sinking feeling in my gut started nagging at me, that my soulmate was an expert at hiding in plain sight by now… how would I ever find him if he was as adept at camouflaging as I suspected?
—————————
“This spot is perfectly in the middle of the turkeys’ path.”
I crossed my arms over my chest to glare at Gale, “You just spilled a bunch of blood there. No critter is gonna come this way anymore with that stink.”
“Turkeys aren’t that smart, Catnip,” Gale looked up from his belt after securing his new catch— his pants were covered in gore from where the rabbit nearly cut its own foot off trying to fight the snare’s grip. “I’m more than confident that if we set traps here, we’ll catch at least a fat Tom…more if we set up a system wide enough,”
After a somewhat rocky start, Gale and I learned to respect each other’s skills, even joining forces for certain seasons, like deer and turkey hunting. We also fished together on occasion. It was safe to say we had a friendship after three… almost four years of partnership in the woods. At 18 Gale was less obnoxious, but still a stubborn ass.
“And I’m telling you, the path is tainted now. We need to put feed on the other side of the bushes, to keep them in the area.”
“That’ll take weeks!”
“Then you shouldn’t have let that bunny bleed to death in here!”
“Listen here, Catnip—” whatever he was about to say, died in his throat.
“What?!” I demanded, angrily, when he just stared at me horror struck.
“Your nose!” He roared. “Your eyes!” He tumbled forward, and squished my cheeks in his one, long-fingered hand. “There’s more coming!”
I yanked myself away from him. “Cut it out!”
“I think your soulmate is getting the shit beaten out of!”
I grunted and brought my fingers to my face, as if I could feel the changes.
Gale had seen some of my bruises, enough to be sure I had a soulmate, but not enough to realize my soulmate was being abused.
I rubbed under my nose, and the tip of my index came back bloody.
I gasped. That had never happened before.
“How bad is it?” I asked Gale, frantically.
“Um… orange keeps popping up all over your face. There’s some running up your arm right now.” He sounded careful, but frightened. “It’s like… burn marks,”
I looked down, where indeed, long, fat tongues of intense orange glowed up my left arm. I’ve seen glowing marks before, but always in the tip of my fingers or the sides of my hands, I never connected the glowing with fire— burn marks— but it made sense. I guess my soulmate must handle fire regularly.
“What’s happening?” I pulled my little mirror from my pocket, to see my face, and nearly sobbed at the sight.
One eye was completely covered in orange. Burn marks ran all the way from my elbow up to my cheek, and part of my forehead. My nose had a tiny, bloody smear, and my lip had streaks of orange here and there.
Whatever happened, was bad.
“Fuck… Do you know where he is, by any chance?” Gale winced.
“No… but I’m about to find out!” I looked around for a place to sit, then pulled my small knife out of my boot.
Once seated, I examined my forearms. The flaming marks started at the elbow on my left arm, and went up on that side, my right arm was free of injury, except for my palms. Both were glowing orange, but not too bad.
“Okay… here goes nothing!” I gritted through my teeth, placing the tip of my knife to my arm, I traced the word, “WHERE?” crudely, and just deep enough to break the skin.
Gale made a face, but crouched closed by, staring intently. “Do you think it’ll work?” He asked dubiously. “He might be unconscious for all we know,”
“We’ll see.”
The minutes rolled by and no answer came. I was starting to panic; all I could think about was would that be the day I became the next Haymitch Abernathy? At least he got to meet his soulmate and have a relationship with her before she died; I had no idea who mine was. Was it worse that way, knowing them and then losing them, or was it worst to never meet them at all? Would I become soulless? Would my entire body turn gray? Would I ever find another soulmate? Haymitch never said if he ever looked for another, but I knew it was possible to get a secondary soulmate if enough time went by.
“Look!” Gale shouted.
A shaky “D12” appeared under my message.
A relieved gasp left my mouth.
“District 12! That’s good! He could’ve been all the way in District 4, and then what were you gonna do? Call the authorities there?” Gale muttered, clearly invested in what was happening to me.
Tears stung my eyes. I wrote: “ME 2”
We’ve been in the same district the whole time, and I still had no idea where to find him!
I turned the knife back to the first word, and traced a line under it “WHERE?”
The answer came back faster. “S H”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I moaned, “What kind of abbreviation is that? Ugh! I’m trying to help you!” I screamed at my arm as if my soulmate could hear it.
“Seam House?” Gale mused… “No, there are hundreds, if not thousands of houses in the Seam,” he said.
The Seam was the poorer part of the district, where people like us lived: low income families, miners, laborers and the such.
“Ah! Ask if he means Slag Heap? If I was trying to pick a fight with someone, that’s where I’d go.”
“He didn’t pick a fight!” I snapped, defensive and angry. “He’s been beaten every other day, since I can remember. My parents used to go to the police station every year to see if they could do something about it. Nobody ever did! They always said we needed to figure out a way to communicate with him… well, I’m doing it now!”
Gale frowned, “That’s shitty. I’m sorry to hear that. The Slag Heap could still be it, though. Many people go there to be alone… if they’re running from someone, there’s plenty hiding spots,”
That sounded logical, “Okay… but the slag heap isn’t exactly small, and there’s some woodsy area to consider too,”
“Mmm… asking has been working so far,”
“Yeah, but the whole mutilation part is getting to me…” I glared, he wasn’t the one cutting his arm, “I’m starting to get woozy,”
“You’re a hunter, Catnip! Blood is nothing,”
“Animals, Gale! Not my own blood,”
“There’s no difference,” Gale cupped my face in his hands, to keep my eyes on his gray, steely ones. “we’re all animals. We all bleed the same. Your soulmate needs your help, if I knew who mine was, and I knew she was in trouble, I’d be rushing to them… you can do this, Catnip,”
I took a deep, cleansing breath, and nodded. “I’ll ask him. As soon as we know where to go… could you please fetch my father? He’ll know what to do,”
“You got it, Catnip!” He let go of me, and I felt renewed courage after his weird pep talk.
Once again, I trace the tip of my knife on my skin, “SLAG H? WHERE?”
“YES NE”
“North East! I told you it’ll work!”
“Yeah,” I grumbled, spelling making one last message: “W8 4 ME”
“K”
With half a plan in motion, Gale rushed to find my father, and I made a mad dash to the slag heap, where years and years of dumping dirt and rocks removed from the mines had formed small hills and mounds at the edge of the district.
“Hello!” I called out loudly. “Can anybody hear me?!”
There wasn’t a whole lot of vegetation in the slag heap, only hundreds of disturbed soil pits and little mountains… some were tall and wide enough they’ll easily conceal a person or two looking for privacy.
“Anybody here?” I called again.
A weak cough answered in the distance.
I rushed in it’s direction, hoping it was my soulmate, and not a couple trying to steal away a few minutes alone.
“Please, tell me where you are!” I called before another round of coughing reached me.
“Here to finish me off, sweetheart?” Came a weak, raspy voice from behind me.
I turned around but saw nothing besides dirt, and sticks, and moss on rocks.
I swallowed, “Where are you?” I stepped closer to the heap in front of me, and then…
“Well, don’t step on me!”
I jumped back and looked downwards, and finally saw dirty pieces of flannel and denim, incongruous with the area, and under all the debris, I realized a person had dug a little wedge at the foot of the hill, and thrown the stuff he’d dug out back on top of himself. The disguise was clever, camouflaging himself into the terrain.
I gasped and dropped to the ground, pulling handfuls of earth out of the way. A jolt of recognition hit me when a pair of bright blue eyes blinked open and shut, slowly, as if fighting off fatigue.
“Don’t go to sleep!” I warned.
“I’m sorry, but it might be too late for that already. There’s an angel hovering above me, and I’m not sure I’m not dreaming it,” a row of white teeth appeared from the soil.
My knee-jerk reaction was to chuff and roll my eyes, but if he was throwing me those cheesy lines, it meant he was somewhat lucid, and it was imperative to keep him that way.
“How do you know is not a nightmare?” I countered.
“Because Katniss Everdeen coming to my rescue, and being my soulmate could never be a bad dream. On the contrary It’s only my deepest, most desperate hope, really…” he trailed off, and closed his eyes again.
I was momentarily frightened.
“Keep talking,” I ordered, brushing dirt off his head. Some of it mixed in with his blood and sweat, turning into a thick mud. I could see more of his battered face; my heart beat erratically against my rib cage, there were so many bruises. “Peeta, keep talking,”
His untouched eye opened slowly, a lazy, sideways smile greeted me, warming me up. “You know my name?”
I chuckled, startled, “You know mine,”
“Everyone knows you, Katniss ‘the huntress’ Everdeen!” He reached up, tentatively, and touched the tip of my braid, whispering under his breath, something that sounded like: unreal.
Just saying his name felt otherworldly; like breathing for the first time. I’ve never uttered it before, for fear of bringing forward memories of that awful day in the rain, by the bakery’s scraggly apple tree.
“And you’re Peeta Mellark, the boy with the bread. I’ve known your name for a long time, baker’s youngest son, whose kindness saved my entire family from starvation,” I cupped his injured face in my hands, and I couldn’t help the slight tremble in my voice.
He seemed to melt at the sound of my voice; then his hands came to touch my face. “I can’t believe it’s you. I can’t believe you found me!” He said, an edge of incredulity and awe colored his tone, but then his face fell, “But, your sweet, beautiful face… it’s all…” a fat tear rolled down his muddy cheek, while his thumb gently caressed my temple and the side of my face. “I’m so sorry, Katniss… I never wanted you to look like this! I always tried to shift positions, so you’d never had to see how bad it got. I’m so sorry,” he was crying so hard, he started to shake and cough.
It took inhuman strength not to cry myself; I knew he needed me to protect him, and there would be time later to fall apart and feel emotional.
“Shush, I’m here now.” I knelt next to him and locked my arms around his head, pulling him against my chest, so he could hear my heart beating only for him. “I’m going to take care of you.”
“I really hoped it was you. I really did…” he heaved into my neck, his arms wrapping gingerly around my waist, “thank you for finding me,”
“Of course I found you… I’ve been looking for you for ages,” I whispered, finally giving in, shedding some tears, relieved that the tension, fear, uncertainty, and frustration were finally gone. My soulmate was in my arms, where he belonged! “My parents started looking for you when we were little. But we’re together now,”
Peeta calmed down some, but he was still breathing too fast, “Now that you have me… what are you gonna do with me?” He asked meekly.
I smiled down at him, “I’ll put you somewhere safe, where you can never get hurt again,”
He closed his eyes. “I’d like that…”
“Peeta, you can’t go to sleep just yet, okay?”
“I’m so tired, Katniss,”
“I know,” I cooed. I had no idea I was capable of speaking with such softness. “My father will get here soon, and then we’ll patch you up real well.”
“I can’t go back to my house though—“
“You ain’t going there, kid!” Papa said from a few feet away. Gale and two police officers followed closely.
I must’ve been completely enthralled with my soulmate, because I never heard them coming,
“Even if it’s the last thing I do, I won’t let you go back to that place!” My father stated.
And that was that!
——————————-
“Tell me what happened,” Officer Darius asked in a soft tone, trying to be encouraging.
My soulmate inhaled; one eye was so swollen it was completely shut, his other one roved around the room nervously. Peeta locked his gaze with mine, beseeching, and I offered my hand in support. He clung to it like a lifeline.
“My mother asked me to burn a pile of leaves and branches in the backyard that had been there since fall, but the branches were damp and it was taking me a while to fire it up. Since it’s the last week to burn stuff, my mom got impatient. She screamed at me, called me incompetent and useless… the usual stuff—“
“Does your mother call you names regularly?” Asked the officer.
“My mom calls everybody names. I guess that’s how she was raised. Her mom used to call her names too…” Peeta shrugged.
“That’s no reason to keep the cycle going,” my mama grumbled quietly, so only I could hear her.”
“After insulting you, what else happened?” Prompted the police woman, Officer Purnia.
Peeta scowled. “I told her I’d pour some lighter fluid on the pile and let it soak for a few minutes, but she wouldn’t hear it. Said I was doing it wrong, I was too stupid, I would never accomplish shit if I couldn’t even light up some dead branches… and, well. I got fed up. I told her she could start the fire herself if I was doing such a lousy job… my mom… she—She doesn’t like to be talked back…” He sagged on his hospital bed, and turned his face away.
“What do you mean?” Asked officer Purnia, taking notes, trying to keep an impassive mask on.
“The first slap landed across my ear because I dared to move away from her flying hand,” Peeta said tersely, “She didn’t like that either, so she took aim again, but with the bottle of lighter fluid on her palm. She practically smashed it against my face.” He stopped to gasp for air, while his good eye filled with tears. “I think fluid squirted everywhere, I smelled like my hair and clothes had been doused in the stuff,” he raked a shaking hand over the singed hair at his temple.
I caressed his arm to sooth him.
He smiled gratefully at me, and faced the officers to continue. “I’d just put a piece of burning cardboard into the pile. I guess the leaves caught fire during the squabble with mom, and I must’ve lost my balance after taking a plastic bottle full of liquid to the face, because next thing I know, I’m bracing my hands on the ground, on burning sticks, and then I’m on fire myself.”
Peeta sustained first degree burns on the different spots from his left forearm, up. Luckily, his wounds were managed as soon as we got to the emergency room, and his treating doctor said he would recover, with minimal scarring.
“How did you end up at the Slag Heap?” Asked Officer Darius.
Peeta sighed, “My mom kind of freaked out when she realized I was on fire. She picked up a rag from somewhere and started hitting me with it…” he paused, “in retrospect, I think she may have actually been trying to help me, but… I just saw it like she was still trying to beat me, so I ran off. I tripped, fell, then rolled on the ground, she started calling my name, coming closer to me. I was scared. I took off again and didn’t stop until I fell at the foot of that mound of dirt in the slag heap. That’s when I noticed my soulmate’s note.”
Officer Darius quirked up a reddish eyebrow, “Your soulmate’s note?”
“Yeah… these,” Peeta tried to peel back the bandage over his arm, but my mother put her hand over it, and shook her head.
“Here!” I said, immediately shoving my own arm in front of the officers.
Both examined my arm. “How did you think of doing that, Miss Everdeen?”
“I was inspired by your bosses actually,” I snarled.
“Katniss!” Mama chided, and then politely addressed the officers. “You see, my husband and I have come to the authorities for many years, urging them to find a way to locate our daughter’s soulmate. You see, she’d started exhibiting her soulmate’s bruises from a very young age, which in my professional experience, were inconsistent with normal toddler scrapes and bumps—“
“The chief of police always said to find a way to communicate with him, ask where he was… so I did,” I interrupted, haughtily. “I got you a real life victim to investigate. You’re welcome.”
The officers stared at me, flabbergasted.
Mama made a dismaying noise in the back of her throat, but Peeta’s face— burnt, bruised and swollen— lighted up, with the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen a person direct at me.
Mama interjected, conciliatory, “My husband and I believe, your department should have enough evidence to investigate Peeta’s case, now?” My mother’s searching blue eyes seemed to x-ray the officers.
“Well, Miss and Mrs. Everdeen, Mister Mellark, I think we have everything we need for now. Thank you for your cooperation. We’ll be in touch.” Said Officer Purnia snapping shut her notebook.
“Mr. Mellark, your case worker, Miss Trinket, will be in as soon as the matter of your emergency custody is settled.” Informed Officer Darius, right before wishing us a good evening.
Peeta frowned, “Are they sending me to like a home or something? What about my brothers? They can’t stay home with my mom… she’ll go nuts on them!”
“No, no, Peeta,” Mama spoke softly, “Miss Trinket is already on it. Haymitch Abernathy has offered his house for your brothers to stay at for a few days while things get sorted out. You’re welcome to join them, of course, but your injuries need supervision and several cleanings daily, so Mr. Everdeen and I feel it is in everyone’s best interest if you stay with us, at least until you’ve healed enough.” Mama hesitated, and then patted my soulmate’s hand, “I hope that’s okay with you, but if it isn’t—“
“It’s absolutely great, ma’am! Yes, I—thank you,”
Mama nodded, “Well, I’m gonna go get some stuff taken care of, and check on that case worker. Then they’ll hopefully let us go home… Katniss, I’ll need your help with something before we leave, alright?”
“‘kay.”
“Mrs. Everdeen…thank you,” Peeta said meekly.
Mama just stood stoically by the door, “You’re family, Peeta, it’s the least we could do for you.” The door clicked shut leaving me alone with my soulmate.
We were both silent for a minute. Then Peeta said half amused, half shyly, “I think the guy cop liked you. I caught him smirking a couple of times after your ruthless answers.” His smile was crooked. Boyish. I almost swooned.
I shrugged. “I don’t think he cared that much,”
“Are you serious?” Peeta laughed, “Katniss, you have no idea the effect you can have,”
I scowled at him, and he just shook his head. I couldn’t tell if he was teasing me or complimenting me. He changed the topic before I could decide which.
“So, you’ve been looking for me then?” He sounded nervous, and a little uncertain, “isn’t it weird…we are soulmates, but the only thing I know for sure about you, is that your favorite color is green?” He rubbed his fingers together, then showed me the tips, where he had dark green spots, exactly on the same place I had permanent calluses from pulling on my bow string.
I bit my lower lip, studying the thin spidering of green nicks and scratches, were I surmised my own marks have appeared after my daily trips into the woods.
“Your favorite color is orange. Not bright, but muted…”
“Like the sunset,” he finished for me.��
Mind bonding wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities between soulmates, but my understanding on the matter was, that the bond had to be physically sealed before a pair could develop those empathic connections, where soulmates shared perfectly synchronized thoughts, as if they had one mind. Peeta and I weren’t there just yet, but it felt like we understood each other pretty well already.
He just stared at me in fascination, before his face fell, “I hope you don’t get permanently disfigured, if my burn scars don’t go away completely… you are so pretty.”
I rolled my eyes, pleased that he thought I was pretty, but not really knowing how to respond graciously. I’d never been called pretty by a boy before, not that it’d have the same effect as when Peeta said it… “You’re just saying that I’m pretty because I’m your soulmate,”
He smiled sadly, “No… I really mean it. I’ve had a crush on you since I can remember. I just new I belonged to someone since I was like 4, when I saw my first soulmate scratch on my knees. Your favorite colors back then were teal and pink. Your marks were always swirls of the two colors. I liked them. I liked that I belonged to someone who enjoyed colors, like myself… I wondered what your marks looked like, but then, I hoped you never had to see my marks. I was ashamed of them.”
My chest tightened, I climbed onto his bed, and pressed my side right against his, “Hey… I’ve like your marks.” I stuttered, “my parents never let me see the ones on my back until I was older, but I liked the ones you got in normal places. Yours appeared as rainbows where we were little.” I held his hand in mine. “I don’t care if we stay fire mutts forever, Peeta, the important thing is that we are together now,”
“Thank you for finding me,”
“Thank you for leading me to you,”
We leaned our heads together, and fell into an easy silence.
“Katniss…”
“Mmm,”
“We are soulmates.”
I tilted my head away, to look at him, “Yeah. We already established that,” I said suspiciously.
Peeta smirked, “You know, we’re supposed to be madly in love…so, it’s okay to kiss me whenever you want to,”
I snorted and rolled my eyes, but he was right. In any other circumstance, I’m sure we would’ve already progressed into couple-y, lovey-dovey stuff.
“If you’re already fishing for kisses, that means you’re healthy then!” I kissed his forehead. “But let me tell you right now, cheek and sass won’t take too far, sir,”
“It won’t?” he pouted, “then I’ll just have to swoop in when I see an opening,” he leaned into me, and I let him plant a peck, full on my lips.
My first kiss ever, and all I could register was how chapped his lips were… besides the small fluttering of butterfly wings in the pit of my stomach, of course.
“Well, time for a sip of water, and you should rest some too.” I said feeding him the straw in the Styrofoam cup full of icy water by his bed.
After he drank, we gravitated towards each other, meeting in the middle. Our second kiss was short, sweet, and full of relief.
I liked it. In fact, I wanted another, but Peeta was drowsy after the day we’ve had.
“I remember you used to sing, so beautifully, even the birds would stop to listen,” Peeta said, shyly… “would you… mind singing for me?”
“I don’t sing all that much nowadays, but if that’s what you want…”
He stared at me expectantly, so I had no other choice. I combed back his freshly washed hair, and started.
“Just close your eyes;
The sun is going down.
You’ll be alright;
No one can hurt you now.
Come morning light,
You and I’ll be safe and sound...”
When Mama came back, Peeta was asleep, and so she took me outside while my father sat in the room with the case worker, signing in my soulmate’s release papers, waiting for him to wake up.
“I want you to take these,” Mama produced a packet of medicine from a white, pharmaceutical baggie.
“Birth control?!” I groaned, embarrassed.
“Don’t look so scandalized, Katniss,” Mama rolled her eyes, “You and Peeta are healthy, newly acquainted teenaged soulmates, who will suddenly coexist together in close quarters. Papa and I agreed that starting you on contraceptives is the right thing to do,” she fixed me with a stare that broker no protests, “That said, we are not giving you carte blanche to act on pure hormonal instincts, Katniss. While we aren’t so naive to believe you won’t explore intimacy with your soulmate, we fully expect you to use caution, and make responsible decisions. Is that clear?”
I nodded, and snatched the pills from Mama’s outstretched hand. My face was burning with mortification, but I was grateful for my parents’ wherewithal and openness.
The next few days proved harsh and blissful at the same time. After 11 years pestering the authorities, Papa finally got the law to prosecute my soulmate’s parents for abuse and neglect. To call it a victory, was understatement.
Peeta’s father was declared another victim of the Witch’s abuse, but court ordered him to see a therapist and get evaluated by a professional, before he could come back home to his sons.
Mrs. Mellark was charged with endangering a child, battery, abuse and arson. She was court ordered to seek anger management and psychological counseling. She had been abused as a child too, and after watching her son in fire, it finally clicked in her head, that she needed to put a stop to the cycle… late as it may be. She went willingly when the police served her arrest warrants.
Since Peeta and his middle brother were still minors, they were temporarily placed under their eldest brother’s care; but the eldest brother was only 19 and had no idea how to be a father figure, so strange as it was, my parents insisted on having them all bunk in our tiny house, which was comically insufficient. Thank heavens Haymitch Abernathy was still willing to help.
The grumpy old drunk invited the lot of us to stay at his place for as long as we needed, and after cleaning up all the empty bottles and general messes around his huge house, we could enjoy the place at our leisure.
The boys kept working at the bakery, since they needed a source of income, and something to keep themselves occupied. Mama said they needed the normalcy of their business to cope.
It was a good thing Haymitch’s house was so big, since Peeta started having horrible nightmares after his mother was released from holding, after making bail; her trial was still pending, but my poor soulmate suffered severe PTSD from the events that brought us together. Neither of his brothers wanted to share a room with him at night…which allowed me to slip in when I heard him crying out desperately and fearfully.
Peeta would only go back to sleep after I laid beside him and sang, while carding my fingers through his sweat-damped, ashy blond waves.
“I’m not okay until I can see you’re safe,” he told me once.
After the third night in a row of this happening, I just stayed with him in his bed. My parents didn’t exactly approve— we were still 16— but there wasn’t much they could say to stop us. After all, our soulmate bond trumped any other familial bond; we just couldn’t legally get married and apply for housing until we were both 18.
Peeta still woke up in cold sweats at night, but my arms were there to fend off the terrors, and so were my lips.
On the night I felt a hunger so consuming and devastating, gnawing at me from my core, radiating to the tips of my being, I was glad my mother put me on birth control.
My soulmate gently, but steadily joined us together, cementing our physical bond for the rest of time, while branding his love and adoration to me into my very skin, with fevered lips and shaky hands. We gasped and whispered vows of devotion to one another, and then an explosion of feelings and emotions went off… I couldn’t tell where his life force started, and mine ended. We were one. Sharing a single soul.
After, we laid tangled together, our hearts beating as one. Peeta kissed my knuckles, and asked.
“You looked for me, for years. Real or not real?”
“Real.”
He kissed my forehead, “Will you sing?”
“Of course,” I combed back his hair with loving fingers, and sang.
“Just close your eyes;
You’ll be alright;
Come morning light,
You and I’ll be safe and sound.”
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yess thank you for letting me ask you about the lore >:3c so I have to get my absolute favorites outta the way first— what kinda lore and thoughts do you have for sorbet or gelato ( <- before they get together and the earlier years of them getting together if you need a specific period ) I have to also ask are you ok if I go down the “line” and get your thoughts in other asks about the rest of the la squadra babes? Thank you sm 💖💖 I hope you’re having a wonderf day/evening
Ah! Now this is one of my absolute favourites! Apologies to anyone who has already heard me ramble about my Sorbet and Gelato backstory ad nauseam on multiple occasions, but this is really an area where I can't help myself. Besides, this is my opportunity to go more in depth where I haven't before:
(Note after writing this: It's stupidly long. I'm sorry I just can't help myself with these backstories. I couldn't decide what to leave out so I decided nothing.)
(Also please feel free to ask me more lore questions because I love doing this)
We'll begin with Sorbet, born in Naples in February 1967 if you follow the canon timeline (although by default I write in modern AU so move the dates 20 years later). His situation at birth was absolutely dire, the eldest child of an incredibly vulnerable woman and one of her clients as a sex worker. Sorbet's mother was by all means a decent woman but her severe mental illness and drug addiction made it impossible for her to be a good mother, which of course had a bad effect on Sorbet growing up. After Sorbet, she had 5 more children, all through clients, and Sorbet was saddled with much of their care.
Though he loved his siblings, Sorbet was pretty much done with this life by age 12 and was easily swept up by older boys from the local street gang, who paid him well to peddle drugs when he should have been in school. This was a very underfunded neighbourhood so nobody questioned his truancy, and within the next couple of years he had stopped going to school entirely. Shortly after this, having acquired sufficient money through his crime involvement, Sorbet left his family to stay with his new friends, moving between them on a regular basis. He also discovered his sexuality around this time and dated a few male friends, though none of these relationships got very far.
By age 16, Sorbet had earned a reputation in the street gang for skilled and passionate violence, and was selected by the ringleader to commit the group's first planned murder, in exchange of course for a lucrative reward. Sorbet accepted, succeeded, and became the group's de-facto assassin whenever needed. He continued to hoard considerable money for the remainder of his adolescence, though continued to be functionally homeless since he didn't see it necessary when sofa-surfing was suiting him fine.
Before resuming with Sorbet, let's explain the life that Gelato came from. Gelato was born in October 1967 in St. Petersburg, Russia, (Note- I previously used the city of Minsk, unaware that this is in fact, in Belarus) to an upper-middle class businessman and his Italian wife, a distant relative of French Monarchy. Gelato's relationship with his parents was rocky from the start due to the fact they would have preferred a girl after three successive sons, but any parental love they had for their youngest child broke down entirely after he was diagnosed with both Autism and ADHD at age 5, in an evaluation intending to find the cause of some behavioural issues that were really, just a response to emotional neglect.
When Gelato was 13 he, his parents, and two of his three brothers (the eldest was already an adult by this time and elected to stay behind) moved to Italy to escape some allegations of corruption in the father's business. They moved to a rural village in North-West Italy where the community was very middle-class and quite stifling for Gelato, who had enough social rules to remember in the familiar, economically-diverse city he grew up in. His behavioural issues got worse and began to include things he would later regret, such as attacking and stealing from younger children, and things he would absolutely not, like attacking and stealing from teachers. By this point the family had largely written him off as a failure, revering instead their academically successful, well-behaved older children, which absolutely contributed to the spiralling cycle of behaviour issues Gelato faced.
Then, at age 17, Gelato failed a crucial exam and was expelled from high-school. His parents kicked him out on the spot, and with no other family in Italy Gelato had very few options on what to do next. He recalled, however, one older friend having links to a street gang in Naples, and decided to see if this boy might have a route out of destitution for him. Indeed, the friend did know of a man in Naples needing assistance within the gang, but could offer no help in getting Gelato there. Seeing no other way, Gelato walked the whole journey.
Arriving in Naples, the friend's associate announced that the position Gelato was after had been taken, but taking pity on his distress, informed him of another friend who needed someone to look after an unlicensed bar that served as one of the group's main meeting points. He agreed to arrange for the small apartment above the bar to be given as payment.
Gelato accepted, but although he had now solved the problem of homelessness his life was still incredibly miserable. For one, with his pay being the apartment he had to rely on measly tips to get by, which rarely left him with enough to eat let alone anything else. Additionally, as an outsider with little understanding of the way gangs work Gelato was an easy target for abuse, and was treated like absolute shit by the bar's patrons.
By this point in time, Sorbet had just turned 18. He was, incidentally, in the same gang Gelato had joined, and a regular at the bar he worked in. For a good couple of months they took no notice of each other, until Sorbet came to be in a coincidental feud with one of the men who was violent to Gelato at the bar. When Gelato witnessed the two of them in a fight, he made the spur-of-the-moment decision to join in on Sorbet's side, knocking the patron unconscious and leaving him too afraid to visit again. For his trouble, Sorbet gave Gelato a portion of the money he looted from the fight's loser, and flirted with him lightly before going about with his evening. Unknown to Sorbet, he had just sent Gelato falling head over hills in love.
Gelato found out about Sorbet's sexuality from other patrons and, delighted, attempted to flirt with him the next time they saw each other, but his attempts came off very poorly and Sorbet actually thought he was being insulted. Angered, he dragged Gelato into the cellar to demand what was going on. Gelato, terrified, admitted having a crush, which Sorbet found to be the sweetest and most genuine thing he'd ever heard. While he couldn't promise a relationship, he did agree to show Gelato more attention in the future. But, it was only a matter of days until Sorbet found himself loving Gelato back.
This whirlwind relationship continued happily for three weeks, Sorbet greatly improving Gelato's situation through his saved money and helping him fend off the abusive patrons. Gelato, in turn, offered Sorbet a permanent place to stay in the apartment, which he accepted. Sorbet was in the process of moving his things, and they had plans to refurbish the place to make it actually habitable.
But then, everything came crashing down. One night the bar was subject to a surprise raid by the police, operating by the false assumption it was empty. Sorbet and Gelato attempted to flee but were caught, and in a panic, Gelato shot a policeman dead. Rushing to his defence Sorbet killed two more, but a fourth escaped to tell the tale. The couple knew they were screwed. Running to the headquarters of their gang they begged for protection but were informed the small group simply could not save them from a charge this serious, and gave them only a single night of shelter to plan their next move. Gelato, who remember had never committed anything more serious than minor ABH before, had an absolute breakdown over this predicament that night, and whilst comforting him, Sorbet devised a blood pact with him to stick together no matter what came.
Over the next few days, Sorbet and Gelato fled north, avoiding the police through Sorbet's skills as a criminal and Gelato's very convincing Russian tourist impression. They were almost at the French border when Sorbet awoke one night to find Gelato missing behind him. He chased his tracks to the driveway of a rural house, a tearful Gelato clutching a knife at the shut door and trembling. He informed Sorbet that he had intentionally led him to the village where his family lived, with the intention to break in and kill them as revenge for the years of abuse. Sorbet warned Gelato that this would not be good for their attempts to flee, but said he understood fully and would help him if this is truly what he wanted. Gelato agreed, and together they broke into the house and slaughtered Gelato's mother and father, additionally killing one of his brothers after he woke from the noise. The other brother, the youngest other than Gelato, was spared, as Gelato felt his role in the abuse had been comparatively more minor and he did not deserve to die. This of course, left another witness.
The massacre in the village was quickly linked to the one at the bar and Gelato was promptly identified from a comparison of DNA found at the scene to his surviving brother's. Sorbet, a known criminal, was identified soon after. Not only were the pair now known but the police figured out what their plan was and informed the French police as well, making things exponentially harder for the couple.
They made do for a while by hanging low and keeping on the move, living off money stolen from the parents' house. Eventually however, they needed more, and began making deals with local crime organisations to carry out assassinations in exchange for money or temporary shelter. While Sorbet was already a pro at this, Gelato found himself a fast learner, and soon realised he shared Sorbet's adoration for the act of killing. He felt as though he was finally coming to meet his true self.
Though the assassination deals were lucrative, they did not help the couple keep a low profile and the attacks from police were relentless. Several times, they barely escaped capture. All this was not good on their mental states, and after two years, Sorbet knew it needed to end. He and Gelato returned to Naples in the hope their old gang might reconsider protecting them, but they were met with a surprise as their old gang had been completely overtaken by Passione. Even still, the new mobsters had heard a lot about Sorbet and Gelato's exploits and agreed to get them an audience with a local Capo, Pericolo, who was impressed by the men's skills and moved by the sense of honour suggested by their love for each other. He agreed to initiate them into the gang.
Soon after this, Sorbet and Gelato recieved stands which, although not very powerful, assisted them greatly in the art of assassination. Soon, they were natural choices for Passione whenever a hit needed carrying out in the Naples area. At some point a few years in, they befriended a man named Prosciutto who had been recently forced into Passione due to his heritage. Prosciutto was also funnelled into assassination jobs and, with less of a reputation for impulsivity than Sorbet and Gelato, was the one given the order to form a new assassination squad when the need arose, around 1993 if we're following canon.
(Note, I hc La Squadra was created by Passione in response to a real life government crackdown on the Italian mafia around 1992-93, in response to an incredibly scandalous series of assassinations. In such a climate, it would make sense for Passione to want to consolidate an elite squad of its best hitmen, do avoid future problems.)
Due to personal commitments Prosciutto did not want to be the captain, so attempted to give this responsibility to Sorbet, a request the boss promptly denied. Prosciutto was, however, allowed to add Sorbet and Gelato to the team's ranks, cementing the three of them as the first members of the team.
Prosciutto would, soon enough, find another person to give the title of captain to, but that's a story for another time.
#small asks#haha small#btw if you've already read my backstory for them this doesn't really add much except add a few new bits of trivia#la squadra#la squadra x reader
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The Killing of Rhonda Hinson: Part 11
Sarah McBrayer,
Rhonda Hinson’s neighbor
By LARRY J. GRIFFIN
Special Investigative Reporter
For The Record
“Grief is something you never get over. You don’t wake up one morning and say, ‘I’ve conquered that; now I’m moving on.’ It’s something that walks beside you every day.”—Terri Erwin, posted on Facebook by Judy Hinson
Bill Holland and his wife, Wanda, played tennis with Rhonda Hinson from time to time. In fact, when Rhonda and Rick Steiner won the Valdese Tennis Association’s Mixed-Doubles Paired Partners tournament in the Fall of 1981, by a playoff score of 21-19, it was Wanda Holland who presented them their awards.
And it was Bill Holland who was the first Burke County Sheriff’s Department officer to arrive on a crime scene—the early morning of December 23rd—in which a young woman, known for her tennis prowess, lay dead from a gunshot wound.
Officer Danny Barus, who was making rounds on North Laurel Street, crossed Main Street and then onto Eldred. According to his recollections, he arrived at the crime scene approximately a minute after Lt. Harry Feimster; both had been on-site ‘a good while’ prior to Holland’s arrival. “The scene was turned over to Sgt. Bill Holland of the Burke County Sheriff’s Department upon his arrival,” Barus subsequently documented in a “little ole’ incident report.” Other detectives appeared as well, one of whom was John McDevitt.
In a demonstration of pathetic fallacy by Mother Nature—as if responding to the horrific Yuletide murder—it commenced to drizzle raindrops down upon the crime scene. Sgt. Holland removed his coat and covered the lifeless body of his young friend to keep her from getting wet.
Wayne Chapman—with whom Rhonda had ridden to work less than 24-hours earlier—left the Omelette Shoppe in Hickory with a group of revelers from the Hickory Steel Christmas party. He and his wife were driving on Interstate 40 West toward their Morganton home and passed the Mineral Springs Mountain Road exit. They would later recall seeing the “blue lights from police vehicles on the north side of the intersection.”
Though the Chapmans apparently did not stop, other drivers traveling on Eldred Street commenced to do so; a small group of onlookers begin to gather. Richard Barlow was one of them.
“Bobby and Judy had heard about someone being killed on their police scanner; and Bobby kept calling asking us to come over,” Mr. Barlow recounted during a telephonic interview. “I told my wife [Linda] that Rhonda was all right and that I didn’t think anything had happened to her. But we decided to go on over there. We left home and drove on Interstate 40 [West] and got off on Exit 112 [Mineral Springs Road] and started up the hill. There was Rhonda’s car.”
Mr. Barlow stopped, exited his vehicle, and walked toward Rhonda’s Datsun. The first person whom he encountered was Burke County officer, Bill Holland. “I asked him if that was Rhonda Hinson and he wouldn’t answer me. I said, ‘Look, I am on my way over to Bobby’s and Judy’s house right now, and I need to be able to tell them something.’ He asked me not to do that and to let them tell the Hinsons first. I told him that he’d better hurry and do so.”
Detective Holland asked the Barlows to return home and that he would phone them just as soon as law enforcement had the opportunity to speak with Rhonda’s parents. Richard Barlow agreed. He returned to his car, parked behind the ambulance, and watched as emergency personnel loaded Rhonda Hinson’s body.
“I believe it was Robbie [the Hinsons’ son] that called us to say that it is OK to go over there now, “recalled Mr. Barlow.
By the time their good friends arrived at the Hinsons’ house, Judy and Bobby had learned that Rhonda had been killed. It was Richard Barlow who told them that she had been shot to death.
Another passing vehicle, a beige 1981 Chevy Citation, made a U-turn, and returned to the crime scene—the driver was the Reverend Charles McDowell. SBI Agent John Suttle saw him.
“Mr. Mc Dowell left and went to look for her [Rhonda] in the beige Citation. Charlie did not get home before Valdese PD called and told us what happened,” Betty McDowell explained in a February, 1982 interview.
“I came through the crime scene, stopped and asked what happened. I thought that she [Rhonda] had passed out, ran off the road and that was what had killed her,” Charles McDowell recounted for Judy Hinson in a couple of documented conversations. “I asked them about the car, ‘cause I said it looked like the car of the person I had been looking for. They would not tell me what had happened. And they asked me who I was and I told them, and they told me to go on over to your house and there would be a detective over there to tell me what was going on.”
It was after 3 a.m., when John McDevitt and Bill Holland knocked on the door of the Hinson’s Hillcrest home to confirm their worst nightmare—their 19-year-old daughter would not be coming home.
Judy Hinson vividly recalls the moment that law enforcement appeared at her door.
John McDevitt was wearing jeans and work boots of some kind; Bill Holland was with him, and another man that I did not recognize and thought he was one of the detectives because of the way he was dressed. McDevitt asked me if there was anyone that he could call for us. I responded that he could call Rev. McDowell. That’s when the unknown man stepped forward and said that he was McDowell. Well, I didn’t know Greg’s father, though I remember seeing them briefly at Rhonda’s graduation. But that was the first time that I really saw him to know who he was.
Next-door neighbor, Sarah McBrayer, remembered that it was her mother who awakened her the early morning of December 23rd. “…She got me up and said something has happened at the Hinson’s house. So I walked across the street. I was there when Charles [McDowell] arrived…I did not know one policeman from the other at that point.”
At 3:37 a.m., John McDevitt placed a long-distance phone call to Greg McDowell, from the Hinsons’ telephone, to apprise him that his girlfriend had been killed on Mineral Springs Mountain Road. Thirteen minutes later—at 3:50 a.m., Charles McDowell telephoned his wife, Betty, and son, Greg. “I don’t know all that he said; but I did hear him say, ‘You’d better get up here,’” Judy Hinson recollected.
Ms. McBrayer later observed Charles making a second call subsequent to calling his wife and son. “I couldn’t hear much of the conversation; however, it sounded to me as if he was already making funeral arrangements for Rhonda. But I didn’t think that he would have been able to that so very early in the morning.”
Ms. Hinson also remembered the arrival of Greg and his mother. “Mr. McDowell was standing by the door that led into the kitchen from the carport when his family arrived. They [Greg and Betty] did not speak to him or him to them when they came in; the two of them headed straight into our bedroom [located off the kitchen] and sat down on the bed. Neither Greg, his mother, nor his father spoke to us at that point. I even asked Reverend McDowell if he would take me to tell my mother about Rhonda. He didn’t even acknowledge the request I made. So, Linda and Richard Barlow took me to tell my Mother.”
Greg appeared very pale and seemed upset when Judy finally walked up to him in the bedroom, put her arm around him as he sat on her bed and said, “Greg, what are we going to do?” Greg did not respond but immediately bolted toward the bathroom and threw-up.
“I remember his throwing-up about three times while he was there,” observant neighbor Sarah McBrayer reported. “In fact, he was either sitting on the bed or making trips to the bathroom the whole time he was there.” But something else struck Sarah as ‘strange.’ “I noticed that Greg was freshly shaven and appeared to have already showered—he smelled good.”
“Greg had fast beard growth and would have to shave twice-a-day, Judy remembered. “But when I hugged him, I thought to myself ‘he’s already shaved this morning.’ I just felt it odd for him to be clean-shaven that early.”
Sarah McBrayer drew a similar inference, “Let me put it to you this way—if I had been asleep and had just gotten a phone call that my girlfriend had been killed, I don’t think that I would have taken the time to shower and shave—I would have thrown on whatever I could find and out the door I would go. I would not have cared about how I looked.”
The McDowells did not remain at the Hinson house long before they left for their Wilkies Grove parsonage. They apprised no one of their departure.
About a mile away in Holly Hills, Revonda Turner was awakened by the screams coming from her daughter Jill’s bedroom. “I rushed into her room to see what the matter was,” Ms. Turner explained.
“Thirty-minutes or so after Bobby called me looking for Rhonda, I get a phone call from a high school classmate and friend, Shelly Kaplan, telling me that my best friend had been killed earlier,” Jill Turner-Mull recalled. “I couldn’t believe it; I lost it; all I could do was scream.”
“She [Jill] was inconsolable from that point on. No one was able to sleep after the news came that Rhonda was dead,” Ms. Turner indicated in an initial interview in her Holly Hills home.
But later morning—just a few hours after her best friend had been killed—Jill decided that she and Mark Turner should go to Wilkies Grove to check on Greg. “I didn’t give him much of a choice. I told him about Rhonda and said that he had to come pick me up so we could go check on Greg. He did, and we arrived at the McDowell’s house—well I know it was before 7 a.m. Greg’s mother, Betty, was still there and had not gone to work yet. She answered the door and—quite frankly—seemed irritated that we were there.”
Mark Turner, in his first-ever interview, conducted in the office of Detective James Pruett on Jan. 4, 1996, also remembered that he and Jill visited Greg’s house around 7 a.m. “I think the TV was on; Greg was lying on the bed, and he didn’t talk much.”
“I don’t remember Greg’s saying anything to either Mark or myself,” Jill averred. He acted like he was in a daze, lying propped up on the bed, staring straight ahead toward the TV. He never made eye- contact with either Mark or me the entire time we were there, and he didn’t respond to anything that we said. I just figured he was too upset to even talk to us.”
The couple decided to leave and was driving away when Mark Turner saw Greg “run out of his home” waving them down.” “I stopped while Greg went to his car—I can’t remember which car—and brought a pack of condoms and gave them to me. He said something like, ‘I don’t want them—I guess his parents or Rhonda’s parents—to find out we were having sex.’”
Mr. Turner remarked that he felt this act was very odd behavior for Greg, especially since he was noticeably unresponsive only minutes earlier. The package of condoms was unopened and Mark stated that he “thinks he threw them away later.”
In her Jan. 26, 2019, initial interview with this writer, Jill Turner-Mull recounted another occurrence that “struck her as strange” during the 7 a.m., visit with Greg on December 23rd. “I noticed that Mr. McDowell didn’t seem to be at home when Mark and I arrived. So, I asked Betty where he was. She told me that he had already ‘flown-out’ that early morning to pick-up some relatives who were going to visit them during the Christmas holidays.”
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On June 4, when Christian Onuoha decided to hang out with friends in front of his family house in Okwuluagha Afaraukwu in Umuahia, the Abia State capital where he lived with his mother and siblings, he never knew that consort would be his last.
It was 8:30 p.m. A white police truck, driving towards Christian and his friends, steadily flashed its headlights. Not comfortable with the flashes, Christian, 22, approached the driver of the truck and asked him to dim the lights.
Obviously provoked by Christian’s effrontery and the altercation that followed, the police sergeant driving the truck, Collins Akpugo, alighted, pulled his gun and shot Christian in the arm. He fell down immediately, writhing in pains. In the midst of the pandemonium that ensued, Christian stood up to flee the scene but his uncoordinated steps were soon halted.
Trigger-happy Mr Akpugo, not satisfied, followed him and shot him in the chest at close range. He then abandoned his truck and fled the scene. Some reports claimed the officer was drunk.
Christian was rushed to the Federal Medical Centre, Umuahia, a 10-minutes’ drive from the scene of the incident. Efforts to revive him failed as he died from his injuries the next day.
Cold murder
It was a drizzling Monday morning when this reporter arrived at Christian’s home located in Afara. A busy highway with buildings sandwiched beside each other leads to his family home. Surrounded by a few neighbours in her sitting room, Grace Onuoha, Christian’s mother, looked downcast and broken.
“They should go and bring my son for me,” Mrs Onuoha who was wailing uncontrollably told this reporter. “I won’t speak with you unless they bring my son wherever he is for me.”
Grace Onuoha wants her son’s killer to face justice. Photo by Patrick Egwu.
She had lost her husband in November 2004. Since then, she has been a single parent to Christian and his five brothers. Picking up Christian’s wooden framed picture, she continued: “He was asked to protect us but instead he killed my son who would have been useful to Nigeria and his community. He promised to make me proud one day. I am kneeling down and asking them to find my son for me.”
Michael Onuoha, Christian’s elder brother, was at the scene when he was shot. When Christian was at first shot in the arm, Michael said he rushed towards where he had fallen to help before the officer met them and shot Christian again.
Michael Onuoha was with Christian his younger brother when Collins shot him to death. Photo by Patrick Egwu.
“It happened over there,” Michael told this reporter, pointing at the scene where his brother was shot. “I still can’t believe what happened here that day and that my brother is no more. The bullet nearly hit me before it got to my brother.”
‘Shielding the killer-officer’
After Christian was confirmed dead, members of the community where he lived took to the street to protest the extra-judicial killing and called for the arrest of Mr Akpugo so he can face justice. First, the angry mob razed the police truck the officer was driving and used it to block the highway. Then, they proceeded to the police station in the capital to register their grievances and demand for Mr Akpugo but were dispersed with teargas canisters.
The burnt police truck. Photo by Patrick Egwu.
Following immense pressure, the police command in the state declared the officer wanted for murder. The Commissioner of Police, Enen Okon, said N500,000 bounty had been placed on him for anyone with useful information that will lead to his arrest.
Mr Okon said he was forced to declare the officer wanted after the five days given to him to turn himself in elapsed.
This reporter obtained a newspaper press release with Mr Akpugo’s portrait and biodata which declared him wanted for murder. The release was published on page 11 of Daily Sun newspaper of June 18 and signed by the police spokesperson, Geoffrey Ogbonna
“The Abia state police command hereby wishes to inform the general public that the above-named person whose pictures appear below has been declared wanted. This is as a result of his involvement in a case of murder. He is a police sergeant, served last at Department of Operations Nigeria Police Abia state and native of Aromiri-Ukwu Autonomous Community, Uturu in Isiukwuato LGA of Abia state. A reward of N500, 000 has been placed for person (s) with useful information regarding his whereabouts,” the release read.
But Christian’s family said they believe the police are shielding Mr Akpugo from prosecution for his crime. They said the reverse would have been the case if it were a police officer who was killed.
The deceased family home. Photo by Patrick Egwu.
“It’s a lie,” Mrs Onuoha said, reacting to the police report that Mr Akpugo had not been found. “If I was the one who committed this crime, the police would have found me long ago to arrest me but I don’t know why they are claiming they don’t know where this policeman is. Even if you take a look at the advert in the newspaper, you will see that his face is unrecognisable in the picture they used.”
The police have denied any foul play in arresting and prosecuting the officer and said they do not shield erring officers from disciplinary actions.
“Any woman who lost her child in such a manner will say such things,” Mr Ogbonna said. “We have exhausted all options and that was why we declared him wanted. The public knows the efforts we have put in place to arrest him. How can the police be shielding him and also declaring him wanted at the same time?”
During one of the searches for arrest, the police said they found the gun used in the shooting at Mr Akpugo’s home, which he abandoned before he fled.
Officer on the run
Mr Akpugo has remained at large since the killing. Christian and the officer lived a few metres from each other in the same neighbourhood. A few weeks to the sad incident, Mr Akpugo got married in a celebration held in the community. Family members who were also present at the ceremony said Christian played a major role by helping him in the logistics and other arrangements for the wedding.
“He was our neighbour and knows my son very well so I don’t know why he should kill him just like that,” Mrs Onuoha said. “My son was not a thief or cultist. Simply because he asked you to put off your light, you brought out your gun and shot him at the spot and called him foolish boy.”
When this reporter visited the house where Mr Akpugo lived before he fled, a few persons were milling around the premises. A woman walking out of the compound would not speak on the incident.
“That’s his room, the one with new painting,” Michael told this reporter pointing at the room Mr Akpugo lived with his wife. “You can see that he lives very close to us.”
“They are all neighbours so I wonder what exactly went wrong that will provoke him to shoot the young man,” Eze Elonu, a member of the community said. “His (Collins) house is just a few houses from here. They use the same road and Christian was his friend.”
After the killing, the angry protesters proceeded to Mr Akpugo’s house to see if they could find his wife and retaliate. But she was not there. They met a padlock fastened to the door.
“They would have killed her if she were in the house because everyone was angry,” Mr Elonu said. “But she left for Owerri where she works, a day before the incident happened.
“Nobody is happy with the killing of the boy,” Mr Elonu added. “It’s very painful to lose a child. We are all angry and want the government to take action and bring the killer to face justice.”
Rising cases of extrajudicial killing
There have been growing cases of brutality, extrajudicial killings and human rights abuses by the Nigerian police officers. In most cases, little is done to hold those responsible to justice. Nigerians all over the world have condemned police frequent killings of unarmed citizens.
On July 1, a police officer, Okechukwu Nwanefi, shot and killed Ikenna Ukachi, 25, in Otoko community of Obowo Local Government Area of Imo State. After the killing, the police officer abandoned his rifle and fled the scene. The police in the state have declared him wanted and offered a reward for any information that leads to his arrest.
The scene where Christian was shot by Collins. The house in the scene was Collins’ residence before the killing. Photo by Patrick Egwu.
In protest, the youth in the community invaded the police station where the officer was stationed, razed it and stole all the rifles.
In March, Kolade Johnson, an unarmed man, was killed by the police at a viewing centre in Lagos where he was watching a football game. The officers from the anti-cult unit had come to effect the arrest of suspected cultists when the incident happened. Protesters took to the street to demand justice and an end to police killings of innocent citizens. The police command arrested and dismissed the officers who had fled the scene. They were later handed over to the Criminal Investigation Department for prosecution in a conventional court.
The Special Anti-Robbery Squad (SARS) of the Nigerian police is notorious for extrajudicial killings, brutality and human rights abuses. In February, a nationwide campaign to scrap SARS started. Non-violent protests were held and a popular hashtag #EndSARS was created on social media to condemn the frequent cases of assault and extra judicious killings by SARS and a call for reforms of the entire Nigerian police structure.
“These things are seen in the rank and file of the police force except for a few of them,” Chibogu Egbunna, the head, legal unit at the Catholic Institute for Development, Justice and Peace (CIDJAP) said. “The problem is from recruitment because when you see a well-trained officer they don’t misbehave. A well-trained officer knows his bounds but most of them are on drugs or drink and act under influence.”
Mr Egbunna, who works with CIDJAP in providing legal services to awaiting trial inmates at Enugu prisons, said a proper background check is needed on individuals seeking admission into the Nigerian Police Force. “But we don’t have a strong database to track their background and this becomes a problem,” she added.
Broken family seeking justice
More than one month after Christian was killed, his family is still seeking justice. They fear justice will be elusive if the killer cop is not arrested and prosecuted.
“If he had come to me before killing my son, I would have asked him to kill me instead,” Mrs Onuoha said. “My son would have been alive to take care of his siblings. Anybody who gives birth knows the type of child she has and I know my son very much and what he can do. My son did nothing and he was killed just like that.”
“Nothing on earth can compensate for death,” Mr Egbunna said. “Nothing can bring the dead back to life. The only action to take is to charge the person responsible to court so the law can take its full course and the bereaved families can find rest.”
Meanwhile, the road to justice appears to be long for Christian’s family. Getting a lawyer has been a challenge and Michael said they do not have the money to pay for legal services.
“I have been visiting the Criminal Investigation Department (CID) since this incident happened but nothing has come out of it,” Michael said. “They have been telling me how they are trying to arrest him but I think that is enough. We want justice to take its full course for the death of my brother but that requires money. I just want them to come and bury my brother so he can rest.”
The president of Citizen’s Right Realization and Advancement Network (CCRAN), Olu Omotayo, who provides legal services for victims of extra-judicial killings in Nigeria, said such killing is a criminal offence and the officer responsible can always face charges whenever he is found even in years to come.
“They can take legal action against the police for the unlawful killing of the boy and demand for compensation,” Mr Omotayo said. “There are instances where we have done this and the court agreed and gave judgement against the police because as at the time he committed the offence, he was a police officer. So whenever he is caught, he can be charged for murder. But the police is liable for compensation for the unlawful killing.”
Mr Omotayo said the police officer is culpable for murder under the Criminal Law. Section 319 of the Criminal Code Act provides a death sentence for any person who commits murder.
Christian was described as a promising young man who respects those around him. After he finished high school some years ago with good grades, according to his family, he could not proceed to the university because there was no money. To help his family, he moved from one job to the other.
“He is one of the nicest persons I have seen in this community since I have been here for the past seven months,” Amaka Nwaiwu, a National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) member in the community said. “He was not hostile and treated everyone with respect. He saw me as his family.”
From where she sat in her sitting room, Mrs Onuoha took another look at the picture of Christian which was placed on the table.
“I want to look him in the eyes and ask him why he killed my son,” she said. “I’m sad I won’t see my son again. My God will fight my battle.”
This report was supported by the Premium Times Centre for Investigative Journalism (PTCIJ).
Family of man murdered by Nigerian police officer seeks justice On June 4, when Christian Onuoha decided to hang out with friends in front of his family house in Okwuluagha Afaraukwu in Umuahia, the Abia State capital where he lived with his mother and siblings, he never knew that consort would be his last.
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Now we come to the Best Director category. Like quite a few categories that year, the Academy still seemed to be finding their feet. They divided up Best Director into two categories, one for Best Dramatic Picture and one for Best Comedy Picture, not unlike how the Golden Globes eventually ended up dividing some of their categories. I’m sure they soon realized that some years this wouldn’t have ended up feasible, for while there’s always a ton of great dramatic films each year, it’s much harder to find good comedies. It’s much harder to make someone laugh then make someone cry. I will stand by this no matter what anyone says.
The first picture nominated in the category was Sorrell and Son, directed by Herbert Brenon. Maddeningly, as much as I scoured the internet, I was unable to find a copy of it anywhere, though the Academy Film Archive is said to have a partially restored print. Someone tell them to get that out on a DVD and for download toot-sweet!
So that takes us to the other picture nominated that year: The Crowd. As finding a copy of this film on the net is an exercise in maddeningly ever getting closer to the edge of the abyss while you tear your hair out, I’ve included a link for it above. Now, I am all for paying money to watch films in a legal format and supporting good films that way, but that’s only if they’re actually available. But TCM, who runs this movie occasionally, has not done so, so I was forced to watch the pirated version. I feel no shame in telling you to do the same.
The Crowd is an All-American tale of a young man named John who moves to the big city with the intent of making it big. He wants to be a somebody that people will remember as his late father always wanted him to be. Rather hard in New York City, where there’s millions of people right along side you who want the same thing. Now, The Crowd managed to make this picture feel larger-then-life by filming right on the streets of NYC, sometimes covertly for crowd scenes. You get a sense of just how massive the place is as people stream about going from place to place. The camera has large, sweeping shots all over the place, as well as a lot of tracking shots, a style which would be lost for quite some time due to the limitations that sound pictures would soon present.
Now, just to get the elephant out of the room right away, there are a few moments in the picture where black actors are portrayed in the title cards to have the “black minstrel accent”, examples like ‘Did I hear you-all speakin’ ’bout havin’ yo’ bed made up?’ and ‘I detend to be a preacher man! Hallelujah!’ There’s also a moment you might cringe as the token black boy in John’s childhood town is nicknamed Whitey. So if you’re a bit sensitive to these things, which are somewhat common in this silent era, turn it off or fast-forward a bit. Remember, not everything in the past conforms to today’s standards. To be fair, in a nice bit of solidarity, Whitey is shown to be playing with the white children of the neighborhood without being ostracized or shown to be anymore comical then any of the other little boys, a scene that would begin to be lost as films progressed. Alright, with that out of the way, time to move onto the rest of the picture.
As usually happens in these kinds of pictures, he finds a nice girl named Mary, and they soon marry, with his best friend cynically saying it’ll last maybe a year. Despite her disapproving brothers and mother, and a few small squabbles, the two weather the storm together, and soon Mary is pregnant. They have a boy and then soon a little girl some time later. The picture skips ahead five years and everything is going along alright.
The family is at the beach on a picnic and their characters are laid out nicely for us: Mary is trying her best to make the picnic nice while John sits there lackadaisically playing a ukulele instead of contributing any help at all. When Mary asks him why he hasn’t gotten anywhere in his company, he protests it takes time. But based on what we’ve seen thus far between young John blowing off his studies to go on a date with Mary, then blowing off spending time with Mary’s family to get drunk with Bert, and this idea of letting his wife do all the work while he futzes around, it comes off more like he’s just lazy. She points out his best friend Bert has gotten somewhere and again he protests that rubbing elbows with the big bosses will get you anywhere. Well…yeah, and what’s wrong with that? A little hard work plus kissing up to the bosses never hurt anyone in my opinion.
But things seem to be turning around for the family as John, who keeps sending in slogan after slogan to contests that will select them as the new one for their brand finally wins a bit of money in the form of $500. ( That’s $7,345.99 in today’s money, people!) They happily pay off debts, buy a new dress for Mary, and buy new toys for their children. They excitedly tell them to come inside and that’s when tragedy strikes. In a masterful series of shots that hype up the tension by never showing us the actual moment of impact, their little girl is struck and badly injured by a truck.
The scene fades to a sad one as the little girl starts to slip away. Small wonder that John seems to lose it a little bit, hyperfixating on the idea that if it’s just quiet enough, she’ll get well. He goes all the way to running into the crowded streets of the city, battling against the crowd and futilely trying to get them and the fire trucks to be quiet. There’s a wonderful parallel here as the crowd which was once a source of inspiration and happiness has now turned cold and unfeeling, with a policeman flat-out telling him that the world isn’t going to stop just because his baby is sick.
The little girl dies, and in a scene full of pathos that never goes over the top, we see Mary and John in the throes of grief, both trying to be comforted by their family and failing. What happens next is best summed up by the title card: “The crowd laughs with you always… but it will cry with you for only a day.” John can’t focus on his work anymore and quits his job. This proves to be a dumb mistake as he then spends his time getting jobs and losing them just as quickly. This would be eerily prescient for the Americans watching this film, soon to be plunged into the Great Depression. By the time the story picks back up, they’ve moved to a small, dingy house, Mary is forced to take in sewing to make ends meet in addition to all her other work, and their poor firstborn son Junior is completely neglected.
Mary’s brothers sum it up nicely when they bitingly ask John if he plans to go on a vacation from life for the rest of his life. At this point, I started to lose my sympathies for John a bit. He just sits around in a daze, which is understandable, but in the meantime, his wife is holding the family together by taking on the lion’s share of the work. To contrast, while he’s throwing a fit and impulsively quitting his job, she’s busy making a feast for the company picnic while still in the throes of her own grief. As I’m sure all of you well know who have lost any beloved family member, life doesn’t stop just to let you spend your days grieving. Eventually, you have to get back out there and try.
Then comes the part in the picture where I wanted to smack him. Mary’s brothers say they’ll give him a job, but he refuses, saying it’s a “charity job.” This comes from a 2019 perspective, and I’m sure things were different ninety-one years ago, but this seems to me to stink with a bit of toxic masculinity. So it’s “charity” to take a job from relatives because of your stinking pride but sitting on your ass day after day moping is what…heroically supporting your family? Men have their pride, but they also have families that need to eat. Mary rightfully calls him out on this stupid line of thinking and slaps him, saying she almost wishes he were dead.
Junior follows his father as he walks around town depressed. He considers killing himself by jumping off a bridge but then reconsiders. After all, what’s the point? The shots here of the train and bridge are beautifully done. Junior, the poor little neglected son, finally breaks through to his father by telling him he believes in him. This finally snaps John back into action. He looks all over town for a job, eventually finding one as a clown wearing a sandwich board who juggles. It’s a contrast to the start of the picture when he made fun of just such a man with the same job when they were on a date.
But it appears to be too late, as when he returns, Mary seems set on departing with her brothers and taking Junior with her, even after he reveals he’s gotten a job. It’s a very tender scene, and at the end of it, Mary can’t do it. She stays with her husband and her brothers exasperatedly toss her luggage onto the porch when it becomes clear she’s not coming. The picture ends with the family attending a vaudeville show and seeing John’s winning slogan from earlier in the program. The shot fades out into a masterfully done tracking shot, pulling back from the little family we’ve followed until once again, they are lost in the crowd of people that make up the audience.
Now with such a good picture done about ordinary people, it is a bit of a headscratcher as to how it didn’t win a single award that year at the Oscars, though even I will admit the eventual winner was a smidge better. However, it makes a little more sense when you discover Louis B. Mayer, head of MGM, hated the picture and vocally urged his fellow members at the Academy not to vote for it, which honestly might have caused it to lose in both categories that it was nominated in. Small wonder, with the country going into the Depression five months after the awards ceremony, that people didn’t want to see movies with downer endings. Honestly, by today’s standards, it seems pretty optimistic, but back then, it was a bit of a bummer to see the family still struggling.
King Vidor was actually forced to shoot anywhere between reportedly seven to nine alternate different endings so that theaters could choose which one they wanted to show. To quote IMDB, one of the alternate endings was “set in a mansion showing John and Mary by a glittering Christmas tree. John has become a success at writing ad slogans. Mary’s new dialogue title was to read: ‘Honest, Johnny, way down deep in my heart, I never lost faith in you for a minute.'” Overwhelmingly, the theaters still showed the original ending, which says something about how people viewed it despite the negativity the ending might have stirred up.
Best Director, Dramatic Picture 1929: King Vidor for The Crowd and Herbert Brenon for Sorrell and Son Now we come to the Best Director category. Like quite a few categories that year, the Academy still seemed to be finding their feet.
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Until the Earth is Free ~ Chpt 13
It was to rain soon, she could smell it in the air mixing with the smell of gunpowder and smoke. They had won their first battle and that gave Lizzie hope for he fight ahead. She hoped that the other students had as much luck as les amis d’labc did. No deaths were accounted for as of now thanks to her cousin’s crazy idea. She shook her head, letting out another breath of relief that Marius hadn’t actually blown himself and the barricade away.
In the quiet of the evening, Lizzie found this particular walk unnerving. It seemed like the city was far too quiet. Were the people sleeping at such a crucial moment in their lives? She hoped that it was just the people taking the day to mourn General Lamarque and once the sun rose the people would join them. She just hoped the current barricades could hold back the soldiers that long.
She was nearly to the next barricade when she heard someone come up behind her. She spun around to look but there was no one there. Her heart began to beat faster. Who could possibly be following her? She was following the path she herself came up with in order to get to each barricade without the threat of running into any guard members.
She took in her surroundings once more before taking a deep breath and turning back to her path. She was met with Raoul’s chest, however. She let out a little squeak as she tried to get away from him. Raoul smirked down at Lizzie who was staring back at him with wide eyes.
He had taken her off guard, good. He thought as he took a step towards her. “My dear, dear Lissette, what on earth are you doing out here all alone? I’ve been searching all over for you. Your grandfather and I were very worried about you after the little stunt you pulled at the ball. We figured your cousin’s been feeding you the nonsense he and his friends believe in so much. I just didn’t think you would actually join them when they started this lost cause of a revolution.”
That brought Lizzie out of her shock. “What more do I have to do in order for you to understand that I do not want you? I am not your dear Lissette and this revolution is not a lost cause. The people are too overcome with their grief to rise but they will. Thy will rise up and bring France back to a country for the people, just like America did.” She stood her ground. Her wide eyes changed to show her fiery determination in the revolution. She placed her hands on her hips and stared Raoul down.
He did nothing but laugh. “You foolish girl. You will learn soon enough. Right this minute soldiers are climbing to the roofs of the buildings surrounding the barricades before we send cannons to finish the job. Today will on be remembered as a student uprising.”
Lizzie shook her head, not wanting to believe what he was telling her. Raoul then pointed behind him. People carrying guns could be seen creeping a top of the buildings, getting into position. At the sight, Lizzie’s heart broke. No, this couldn’t be happening. Someone had to warn her friends. He then raised his hand, Lizzie noticed one of the men watching them. When Raoul made a fist, gunshots rang throughout the street but to Lizzie the screams of the students who partnered with her and her friends were deafening.
“No!” She shouted, running towards Raoul. “You’re a monster! You don’t care for the people. You only care about yourself. How can you say you are a protector of justice when what you do is unjust?!” She beat on his chest, tears streaming down her cheeks.
He was able to easily stop her attack, holding onto her hands and keeping them against his chest. “Now you know the fate of your so called friends. You have the power to stop it though. You come with me, get them to stop their rebellion and they will go free but you, you are mine. If you don’t stay with me, your friends will wind up dead.”
Lizzie tried to struggle against his hold. If she could just get back to Enjolras before Raoul got to his troops she could save them. Raoul was stronger and when it was clear she wouldn’t be able to break free, Lizzie sang against him, all fight leaving her body. “I hate you,” she whispered.
“You will learn to love me as my mother did with my father.” Raoul tol her as he began to drag her back to the barricade stationed outside of the Musain.
This time she would be in front of it instead of behind it. She wouldn’t be fighting for the people, she would be with those against. She would never see her cousin again. She would never sing again. She would never see her Enjolras again. She would never love again. She would be a policeman’s wife. She should just become mute for she wouldn’t be able to speak freely ever again. Why speak if her words would be monitored carefully? She wondered if running away to a convent would be a better option. Or she was sure she could find a dagger or even a gun somewhere.
She stood before the barricade so proud of her boys for fighting for what they believed in. She hoped they would be able to forgive her. Courfeyrac was keeping watch and he didn’t even have to be told to grab Enjolras. As each member climbed the barricade to see their friend being held captive, Lizzie only had eyes for their leader in red.
He had run up to the top post to see if what Courfeyrac had said was true. He raised his gun and pointed it towards Raoul. He could take the shot and Lizzie would be free. Without Raoul maybe even the guard would stand down and listen to them. He knew that was a stretch but he just wanted Lizzie safe, away from Raoul and back with him.
At the sight of the gun pointed at him, Raoul pulled Lizzie in front of him and place a pistol to her temple. “You at the barricades listen to this. If you do not stop this nonsense now, you and she will die. Put down your weapons and surrender.”
The boys looked to Enjolras but he was focused in on Lizzie. She too was looking to her lover, tears in her eyes. It was if he was silently asking her what he should do. It felt as though he was losing everything. As the night had gone on he feared that the people were not stirring as he had hoped. He had begun to realize that he was leading his friends right to death’s doorstep. Despite his preparations, his revolution was failing.
Now he was losing his only other love, the only woman who believed in France as much as he did. If he didn’t surrender, he would watch her die before ultimately his and his friend’s deaths. If he did surrender, Raoul would be the one to marry her but lives would be spared.
Lizzie gave him a reassuring smile and a small nod. She was giving him her permission to do what he thought was right. At least if Raoul pulled the trigger then she would be reunited with him again.
Enjolras sighed and lowered his gun. “We will return to our homes and the talk of revolution will not be heard ever again.” In the end, no matter how much he loved France, he couldn’t personally sign the death certificates of his friends or watch as his love was killed in front of him. He would have to find another way to help the people of France.
Raoul smiled victoriously. “Leave now. You have made a wise decision.” He lowered his pistol and gripped onto Lizzie’s waist as he lead her to his horse. He ordered a few more to inform the others what had happened. He couldn’t wait to inform his father. He won. He got what he wanted. Now he just had to make sure Lissette behaved.
Enjolras climbed down the barricade. His friends surrounded him once his feet touched the ground. They could tell his heart was heavy. “We will get her back, Enjolras.” Combeferre said, clasping a hand over his friend’s shoulder.
“And we will try this again to bring about the change that is needed.” Courfeyrac added.
Enjolras just shook his head. “There will be none of that. Go about your lives and live, truly live. It is what she would have wanted.” He then turned to look at Marius. “I am sorry I couldn’t save her this time.”
Marius came and stood right in front of Enjolras. “You are acting as if she is dead but she is living and she is well. She gave you her blessing to do as you needed, which you did. The sun will rise tomorrow and there will be new hope that comes from a new day. Lizzie will be by your side again. She will be with us again.”
Enjolras let out a forced laugh. “I pray that you are right, my friend. Now just leave me be.” Their broken leader in red walked away from his friends mourning his losses of the day. First a man he considered a mentor, then back to back his two loves, the things that made him whole. He wasn’t sure how he would ever come back from this.
#until the earth is free#les mis#les miserables#les mis fic#enjolras x lizzie#kim writes things#chpt 13#here's the queue we started out as friends
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Stacking the Shelves is a weekly meme hosted by Tynga’s Reviews, which is all about sharing the books that you’ve acquired in the past week!
Today on my blog I’m stacking the shelves with all the books I’ve acquired since Christmas so this my three-week book haul and most of these books were included in my TBR update in my last weekly wrap-up so my TBR hasn’t got out of control!
Here are the books that I’ve bought since the end of 2017:
The Standing Chandelier by Lionel Shriver
I’m a big fan of Lionel Shriver so when I spotted this novella on Amazon at the start of the month I couldn’t resist downloading it. I’m hoping to make time to read this soon, and with it being short it should be fairly easy to squeeze in between other books.
Synopsis:
When Weston Babansky receives an extravagant engagement present from his best friend (and old flame) Jillian Frisk, he doesn’t quite know what to make of it – or how to get it past his fiancée. Especially as it’s a massive, handmade, intensely personal sculpture that they’d have to live with forever.
As the argument rages about whether Jillian’s gift was an act of pure platonic generosity or something more insidious, battle lines are drawn…
Can men and women ever be friends? Just friends?
The Kill (Maeve Kerrigan 5) by Jane Casey
I already have the first four books in this series on my TBR and it was in my plan to start reading the series this year so when the other books in the series went on offer earlier this month I couldn’t resist snapping them up.
Synopsis:
When a police officer is found shot dead in his car, DC Maeve Kerrigan and DI Josh Derwent take on the investigation. But nothing about the case prepares them for what happens next: a second policeman dies . . . and then another . . .
The Metropolitan Police struggle to carry out their usual duties, but no one knows where or how this cop killer will strike again. While London disintegrates into lawlessness Maeve’s world starts to fall apart too. For if the police can’t keep themselves safe, how can they protect anyone else?
After the Fire (Maeve Kerrigan 6) by Jane Casey
Synopsis:
After a fire rips through a North London tower block, two bodies are found locked in an 11th floor flat. But is the third victim that ensures the presence of detective Maeve Kerrigan and the murder squad. It appears that controversial MP Geoff Armstrong, trapped by the fire, chose to jump to his death rather than wait for rescue. But what was such a right wing politician doing in the deprived, culturally diverse Maudling Estate?
As Maeve and her senior colleague, Derwent, pick through the wreckage, they uncover the secret world of the 11th floor, where everyone seems to have something to hide…
The Wife Between Us by Greer Hendricks and Sarah Pekkanen
I’ve seen lots of good reviews of this book on blogs that I enjoy so I couldn’t resist buying a copy. It does sound like such a compulsive read and I hope to get to it soon.
Synopsis:
When you read this book, you will make many assumptions.
You will assume you are reading about a jealous wife and her obsession with her replacement.
You will assume you are reading about a woman about to enter a new marriage with the man she loves.
You will assume the first wife was a disaster and that the husband was well rid of her.
You will assume you know the motives, the history, the anatomy of the relationships.
Assume nothing.
Here are the books that I’ve received for review since the end of 2017:
Our House by Louise Candlish
I was super excited to receive a surprise copy of this book in the post just before Christmas as I’m a huge Louise Candlish fan! It’s a lovely proof and I’m really looking forward to reading this.
Synopsis:
When Fiona Lawson comes home to find strangers moving into her house, she’s sure there’s been a mistake. She and her estranged husband, Bram, have a modern co-parenting arrangement: bird’s nest custody, where each parent spends a few nights a week with their two sons at the prized family home to maintain stability for their children. But the system built to protect their family ends up putting them in terrible jeopardy. In a domino effect of crimes and misdemeanors, the nest comes tumbling down.
Now Bram has disappeared and so have Fiona’s children. As events spiral well beyond her control, Fiona will discover just how many lies her husband was weaving and how little they truly knew each other. But Bram’s not the only one with things to hide, and some secrets are best kept to oneself, safe as houses.
Trying by Emily Phillips
I requested this book on bookbridgr quite a while ago but had forgotten about it so it was a lovely suprise when this gorgeous finished copy arrived in the post over Christmas. I’m planning to read this book soon and will be reviewing it on my blog.
Synopsis:
A hugely funny, searingly honest comedy about to expect when you’re not expecting.
Olivia and Felix are trying for a baby. They even moved to the suburbs in anticipation of their future family. But despite approaching her cycle and their sex life with military precision, there’s still no sign of what felt like the sure next step, whilst friends’ broods seem to be growing by the week. Meanwhile, vying for a promotion at work under the (very attentive) watch of a new boss sends Olivia down a dangerous road of risking it all. Does a happy ever after, she starts to question, even have to include a baby?
The Old You by Louise Voss
This book was a lovely, and very kind, gift from the publisher and I was grateful beyond words as I love Louise Voss’ writing. I bought her first book, To Be Someone, when it was originally published and it remains one of my favourite books. I’ve been a fan ever since do I’m excited to read this one!
Synopsis:
Lynn Naismith gave up the job she loved when she married Ed, the love of her life, but it was worth it for the happy years they enjoyed together. Now, ten years on, Ed has been diagnosed with early-onset dementia, and things start to happen; things more sinister than missing keys and lost words. As some memories are forgotten, others, long buried, begin to surface… and Lynn’s perfect world begins to crumble.
But is it Ed s mind playing tricks, or hers…?
Fault Lines by Doug Johnstone
This was lovely book post from Orenda books and I’m very much looking forward to reading this. I’ve enjoyed other books by the author and this one sounds like it could be his best yet!
Synopsis:
In a reimagined contemporary Edinburgh, in which a tectonic fault has opened up to produce a new volcano in the Firth of Forth, and where tremors are an everyday occurrence, volcanologist Surtsey makes a shocking discovery. On a clandestine trip to The Inch – the new volcanic island – to meet Tom, her lover and her boss, she finds his lifeless body. Surtsey’s life quickly spirals into a nightmare when someone makes contact – someone who claims to know what she’s done…
The Lido by Libby Page
This gorgeous book sounds amazing and I’m thrilled to have received a copy in the post last week.
Synopsis:
Kate is a twenty-six-year-old riddled with anxiety and panic attacks who works for a local paper in Brixton, London, covering forgettably small stories. When she’s assigned to write about the closing of the local lido (an outdoor pool and recreation center), she meets Rosemary, an eighty-six-year-old widow who has swum at the lido daily since it opened its doors when she was a child. It was here Rosemary fell in love with her husband, George; here that she’s found communion during her marriage and since George’s death. The lido has been a cornerstone in nearly every part of Rosemary’s life.
But when a local developer attempts to buy the lido for a posh new apartment complex, Rosemary’s fond memories and sense of community are under threat.
As Kate dives deeper into the lido’s history—with the help of a charming photographer—she pieces together a portrait of the pool, and a portrait of a singular woman, Rosemary. What begins as a simple local interest story for Kate soon blossoms into a beautiful friendship that provides sustenance to both women as they galvanize the community to fight the lido’s closure. Meanwhile, Rosemary slowly, finally, begins to open up to Kate, transforming them both in ways they never knew possible.
The Cactus by Sarah Haywood
This book is so beautiful, my photo in no way does it any justice, and I was very happy to receive a surprise copy in the post last week. It sounds like it’s going to be right up my street and I’m looking forward to curling up one afternoon soon and devouring it!
Synopsis:
People aren’t sure what to make of Susan Green – a prickly independent woman, who has everything just the way she wants it and who certainly has no need for messy emotional relationships.
Family and colleagues find her stand-offish and hard to understand, but Susan makes perfect sense to herself, and that’s all she needs.
At forty-five, she thinks her life is perfect, as long as she avoids her feckless brother, Edward – a safe distance away in Birmingham. She has a London flat which is ideal for one; a job that suits her passion for logic; and a personal arrangement providing cultural and other, more intimate, benefits.
Yet suddenly faced with the loss of her mother and, implausibly, with the possibility of becoming a mother herself, Susan’s greatest fear is being realised: she is losing control.
When she discovers that her mother’s will inexplicably favours her brother, Susan sets out to prove that Edward and his equally feckless friend Rob somehow coerced this dubious outcome. But when problems closer to home become increasingly hard to ignore, she finds help in the most unlikely of places.
The Word For Woman is Wilderness by Abi Andrews
This book was such a surprise when it arrived and I can’t even put into words how excited I was when I opened it. I’d already put this book on my wish list as it sounds amazing and I’m really looking forward to reading this.
Synopsis:
Erin is 19. She’s never really left England, but she has watched Bear Grylls and wonders why it’s always men who get to go on all the cool wilderness adventures. So Erin sets off on a voyage into the Alaskan wilderness, a one-woman challenge to the archetype of the rugged male explorer.
As Erin’s journey takes her through the Arctic Circle, across the entire breadth of the American continent and finally to a lonely cabin in the wilds of Denali, she explores subjects as diverse as the moon landings, the Gaia hypothesis, loneliness, nuclear war, shamanism and the pill.
Forgiveness is Really Strange by Masi Noor and Marina Cantacuzino
I’ve had this book on my wish list for ages but it was always unavailable for purchase so when I spotted it on NetGalley recently I immediately requested it. I’ve already read this one and it was a really powerful graphic non-fiction book. I’ll be reviewing this one soon but in the meantime I definitely recommend this.
Synopsis:
What is forgiveness? What enables people to forgive? Why do we even choose to forgive those who have harmed us? What can the latest psychological research tell us about the nature of forgiveness, its benefits and risks?
This imaginative comic explores the key aspects of forgiveness, asking what it means to forgive and to be forgiven. Witty and intelligent, it answers questions about the health benefits and restorative potential of forgiveness and explains, in easy-to-understand terms, what happens in our brains, bodies and communities when we choose to forgive.
Whistle in the Dark by Emma Healey
I enjoyed Elizabeth is Missing by this author and so when I saw she had a new book coming out I couldn’t resist requesting it on NetGalley. I was really happy to get approved for it and am looking forward to reading it a little bit nearer publication date.
Synopsis:
Jen’s fifteen-year-old daughter goes missing for four agonizing days.
When Lana is found, unharmed, in the middle of the desolate countryside, everyone thinks the worst is over. But Lana refuses to tell anyone what happened, and police draw a blank. The once-happy, loving family return to London where things start to fall apart. Lana begins acting strangely: making secretive phone calls, hiding books under her bed, sleeping with the light on.
As Lana stays stubbornly silent, Jen sets out to solve the mystery behind her daughter’s disappearance herself…
The Fear by C. L. Taylor
I’m a massive fan of C.L. Taylor so there was no way I could resist requesting this book! It sounds like such a great premise so I don’t think it’ll be long before I read this one.
Synopsis:
When Lou Wandsworth ran away to France with her teacher Mike Hughes, she thought he was the love of her life. But Mike wasn’t what he seemed and he left her life in pieces.
Now 32, Lou discovers that he is involved with teenager Chloe Meadows. Determined to make sure history doesn’t repeat itself, she returns home to confront him for the damage he’s caused.
But Mike is a predator of the worst kind, and as Lou tries to bring him to justice, it’s clear that she could once again become his prey…
The Neighbors by Hannah McKinnon
The lovely author contacted me to ask if I’d like to review this book and as the synopsis sounded so good I immediately said yes please. The book’s due out in March so I’m going to wait a little while longer before I start this one but I am really looking forward to it.
Synopsis:
After a night of fun, Abby was responsible for the car crash that killed her beloved brother. It is a sin she can never forgive herself for, so she pushes away the man she loves most, knowing that he would eventually hate her for what she’s done, the same way she hates herself.
Twenty years later, Abby’s husband, Nate, is also living with a deep sense of guilt. He was the driver who first came upon the scene of Abby’s accident, the man who pulled her to safety before the car erupted in flames, the man who could not save her brother in time. It’s this guilt, this regret that binds them together. They understand each other. Or so Nate believes.
In a strange twist of fate, Liam (her old lover—possibly her true soulmate) moves in with his own family next door, releasing a flood of memories that Abby has been trying to keep buried all these years. Abby and Liam, in a complicit agreement, pretend never to have met, yet cannot resist the pull of the past—nor the repercussions of the dark secrets they’ve both been carrying…
The Reunion by Samantha Hayes
I’ve really enjoyed previous novels by this author so I immediately went and downloaded it as soon as Bookouture tweeted that it was available. I’m certain that this won’t be on my TBR pile for very long!
Synopsis:
Then–In charge of her little sister at the beach, Claire allowed Eleanor to walk to the shop alone to buy an ice cream. Placing a coin into her hand, Claire told her to be quick, knowing how much she wanted the freedom. Eleanor never came back.
Now–The time has finally come to sell the family farm and Claire is organising a reunion of her dearest friends, the same friends who were present the day her sister went missing.
When another girl disappears, long-buried secrets begin to surface. One of the group hides the darkest secret of them all…
The Woman in the Window by A. J. Finn
I’ve been so keen to get my hands on a copy of this book and yet somehow missed that I’m auto-approved for the publisher on NetGalley and could have downloaded a copy ages ago! Ah well, I’m glad I’ve now spotted it and am going to be reading this very, very soon!
Synopsis:
What did she see?
It’s been ten long months since Anna Fox last left her home. Ten months during which she has haunted the rooms of her old New York house like a ghost, lost in her memories, too terrified to step outside.
Anna’s lifeline to the real world is her window, where she sits day after day, watching her neighbours. When the Russells move in, Anna is instantly drawn to them. A picture-perfect family of three, they are an echo of the life that was once hers.
But one evening, a frenzied scream rips across the silence, and Anna witnesses something no one was supposed to see. Now she must do everything she can to uncover the truth about what really happened. But even if she does, will anyone believe her? And can she even trust herself?
And right before Christmas I won this fabulous signed book from The Pool:
Still Me by Jojo Moyes
Synopsis:
Louisa Clark arrives in New York ready to start a new life, confident that she can embrace this new adventure and keep her relationship with Ambulance Sam alive across several thousand miles. She is thrown into the world of the superrich Gopniks: Leonard and his much younger second wife, Agnes, and a never-ending array of household staff and hangers-on. Lou is determined to get the most out of the experience and throws herself into her job and New York life within this privileged world.
Before she knows what’s happening, Lou is mixing in New York high society, where she meets Joshua Ryan, a man who brings with him a whisper of her past. In Still Me, as Lou tries to keep the two sides of her world together, she finds herself carrying secrets–not all her own–that cause a catastrophic change in her circumstances. And when matters come to a head, she has to ask herself Who is Louisa Clark? And how do you reconcile a heart that lives in two places?
So, that’s all of my new books from the past month (aside from my Christmas book haul, which you can find here if you’d like to see it). Have you bought any new books recently? Tell me all in the comments below, or if you have a stacking the shelves post on your blog feel free to post the link below too.
My weekly wrap up post will be on my blog tomorrow so please look out for that.
My latest #bookhaul… Stacking the Shelves (20 Jan)! Stacking the Shelves is a weekly meme hosted by Tynga’s Reviews, which is all about sharing the books that you’ve acquired in the past week!
#A. J. Finn#Abi Andrews#Books#C. L. Taylor#Doug Johnstone#ebooks#Emily Phillips#Emma Healey#Greer Hendricks#Hannah McKinnon#Jane Casey#Jojo Moyes#Libby Page#Lionel Shriver#Louise Candlish#Louise Voss#Marina Cantacuzino#Masi Noor#Samantha Hayes#Sarah Haywood#Sarah Pekkanen#Stacking the Shelves#TBR
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Text
Down time.
Dear driver of the car that brought me to the ground,
I admit it, I spat. And that spit hit your windshield. It was not my intention that it hit your windshield. In the milliseconds I had to act in defiance of your decision to take away my right to the road, I spat. I spat because I felt, in those moments, powerless and without any ability to express my disgust. In those fractional beats of a response, I had no time to remove my hand from the handlebar, where I was holding the brakes to avoid hitting you, and give you the V-sign or the wank-sign, both of which are known to me, both of which are almost unconscious responses to an act like yours. I had priority in the road, and you were meant to give way; the road narrows to enter a short tunnel beneath a bridge, and this bridge ain’t big enough for the both of us. You’re meant to give priority by slowing, stopping if necessary. You’re meant to assess that there is no oncoming traffic, pedestrians, cyclists, horses. Some of us occupy a position slightly out of your view, which is why you’re meant to stop at the line which instructs you to stop. It says you have no priority over things coming toward the bridge from the other side. I was. I was on the centre-edge of the left lane, taking the priority position that I have in that situation. You took that from me with speed, acceleration and oncoming fury. I had to brake and dodge you, and I wanted to express my frustration in an act of revolt. It was disenfranchising. It was abject despair. It was powerlessness. It was vulnerability. I cannot argue or oppose your decision without giving up my safety - to do so makes no sense. I am nothing, a particle of no impression, I mean nothing to you, you did not tolerate my position nor my right to be there. My legal right, yes, but I mean the simple right I have to share space with you. You did not want that and you pushed through. I spat. I spat at the road you were about to fill. Your speed put you further into the path of that little ball of saliva that I’d anticipated. I am no crack shot, no hawkeye, no physicist. As Han Solo said, it was one in a million. I did not know it had hit your vehicle. I would never have known. Unless:
You came after me. Which you did. Unknown to me, as I stretched back out from the momentary adrenal surge that accompanies such moments as having one’s road position threatened, however briefly, you had stopped immediately and turned your vehicle around. You must have done this so quickly, so ruthlessly.. with so much rage. That someone had defied you with a small ball of moisture. That your windscreen was sullied by a damp spittle that could not be removed. That your honour had been called into question? By now I was a few hundred metres along the road. It widens out alongside some houses. I was unaware. That you had accelerated, again, to my disadvantage. That you were thoroughly intent on this pursuit, which I knew nothing of, and had no chance to consider. Because you caught me. Before I knew from where you came, or who you were, or that your windscreen carried my evaporating spittle, you were on me. You pulled immediately into me, sideswiping me. The rear left portion of your car was pushing me sideways toward the curb. In this moment I realised I was about to fall. The world always turns white when you’re about to crash. Your eyes dart for the horizon. The only intent in your being is to resist the fall. When something as alien as a vehicle touches you, compressing you, restricting every freedom that you have, driven by a human so intent on violence, you lose all sense of understanding. Physics takes over. You pushed until I fell, and I lost my balance, my bicycle, and landed hard on the concrete. My bicycle careered into the verge outside someone’s house. And you skidded to a stop. This took four or five seconds.
I calculate what is happening. At first I think you must have been avoiding a car coming in the other direction. I think that maybe someone else is involved. A man shouts if I am alright from behind, having just left his house. His wife is nearby. I am on my back. A banana smell, crushed underneath me. A pang. Blood running along my forearm. I am conscious and sore, but nothing is broken. You always know when something doesn’t work. My arse is evil ache. My eyes dart for the horizon. On it is you.
You are perhaps four or five years older than me. You wear a gilet. You are a human being, I note for the first time. You do not look sorry. Why aren’t you sorry, I wonder? And then the tirade comes. You aren’t sorry. You are angry. You begin to accuse me of something, and you tell me to get up. I do get up, which hurts. There is a girl there next to you, about eight. She’s your daughter, I realise. You demand that I atone for something. “You know who I am”, you yell. I really, really did not. You shout something about spitting. You say “my daughter saw you spit on my car”. I look at her. She is crying. I think she is crying because her Dad is yelling. Or maybe because I am bleeding, and that it is your fault. Or perhaps because she sometimes spits, and worries that an act of random violence is the price one pays for it. “You ran me over” I say, understanding slowly what is happening. I spat. You came back to hurt me.
“I didn’t run you over” you say. “I came to stop you”. Stop me.
Others intervene. Can you call the Police, I ask one. Another says I can have a cup of tea, which I politely refuse. So so English. They call the police. You continue to shout at me. Your daughter is wailing, so you tell her to sit in the car. I hear you reinforcing her story for when the police come. I speak to a policeman and he asks me to explain what has happened. I tell him that a man has run me down, into the ground, and I am sore but otherwise alright. He asks to speak to you. You are still busy squaring the story with your inconsolable daughter. I tell the policeman this, and it enrages you some more. My adrenaline has subsided. Internal urges to hurt you have subsided. Revenge, which never escalates for me into anything physical or actual, is now out of my mind. It’s the first time I realise that I wouldn’t do what you’ve just done. You’re on the phone to the police, telling them about my spit. You told them I shouldn’t have been in the middle of the road, earlier on. I thought about going and seeing if there was spit on the windscreen. And then I rationalized that this is in no way about spit or about road positions. It is about the moment where you had a choice to act, and that act caused me harm. The act you were referring to deprived me of a sap of moisture and allowed me a moment to feel like I had a right to protest. Your act involved the rapid movement of a heavy, metal object which contained your young, terrified daughter, into another human being who had nothing to protect him, nor a warning, nor a rationale. I did what I did, and you did that. You did not stop yourself doing that. You engaged with it. You were fuelled by it. A windscreen wiper and an angry comment would have removed both the spittle and the sense of the act. You could have chosen to feel like I was an arsehole, a human being who has no sense of respect. You could have complained about me to your daughter and wife, your friends and family. You could comment on articles about cyclists, decry us as a menace. You could have said ‘these things happen’. You could have been calm. You could have breathed. Your thoughts could have been gentle and above my own act of respite. You wanted more. You neglected everything we are taught.
I was taught not to spit. My mother would be shocked that I spat in disgust. She hates spitting. I hate it when kids on the street do it. When footballers do it. When I cycle, I am an essential fountain of snot and spit. I do it relentlessly. I spit out dead flies, bits of nuts and dates, I spit in protest or sometimes because I drank some dairy. I was also taught not to harm others. It is the foundation of my childhood, as it was yours, and is probably what you teach your child, in stories and morality, if not in actuality. Spitting is uncouth. It does no harm, but I understand how it is a provocation. Someone disapproves of you. Someone expresses their distaste, their lack of respect for your decision making. Note, I did not spit at you when you had felled me. I did not make a threat, I did not offer a response to what ascends to so much more than a provocation. You harmed me. You did it because you wanted it. And you stayed at the scene waiting for the police because you needed to rationalise it.
Until that moment, I thought you were waiting because you were worried about the consequences of this action. But you did not appear fearful of reprisal. It took me about ten minutes of being here, on this vacant, quiet Surrey road to realise that you were here still because you needed to believe that the status quo had returned to equilibrium. The rationalists theorised that nature is a violent place, where humans are engaged in a constant battle with elements, with themselves, with dangers and urges and actions beyond control. They said that social contracts were our way of remaining balanced, able to work with and around each other. Even if, this morning, the law hadn’t forbidden you to threaten a vulnerable road user’s right of way, and then attack a vulnerable road user immediately after, then your sense of innate moral obligation would have stayed your hand (and accelerator). It did not. You were, in this moment, coming to terms with the worst of realisations; you are a bad person. You cannot remain faithful to the contract you have with others, and you cannot stop yourself from using your power and superior force to subjugate, and damage, a weaker individual. That’s not good. That is the very definition of an egregious, self-centred and amoral act. I spat. I took a standpoint. I declared that I did not like being threatened. I rebelled. I said no. You did not like being told “no”. And you wanted to right a perceived wrong. And, like I have said, you could not prevent it happening. That is not good. Not good at all.
I like to think I am invincible. I think I am protected. I do assert myself of the rights to which I am entitled as a person on a bicycle. I think that, mostly, rules are accepted and followed. You told me that you are a cyclist. I said I didn’t care. It has no bearing on this. You said that it does; because you understand cyclists. You accused me of cunning. You said that I was making it seem like you’d done this on purpose. You did do this on purpose, I remind you. I am sat down on the floor. You tower above me. You like to retain authority where you have none. I tell you I respect you for staying. You say you have nothing to fear. I know this. I know that the witnesses are indifferent. That one had said “these things happen” and that the “roads can be dangerous”. I reject her assessment like I reject her cup of tea: politely. I know I won’t press charges because it’s not worth time or effort. I am damaged a little, my bike is more or less fine. A dangerous human being will be on the road at the end of this, whether I like it or not. At worst you would have a caution or a few points for dangerous driving. At worst. In this moment I choose a new path. I ask you questions.
Are you here to try and square this with yourself? You tell me again that you are a cyclist. That there is spit on the windscreen. That I am a menace. That I give cyclists a bad name. You do not answer this question. You make excuses. You refer to past events, nothing I know of, people who can attest to your decency. I speculate that you are trying to achieve a rational status quo. I say this to you. You tell me that you didn’t do anything wrong. That you were only trying to “stop me”.
You did stop me, I say. You knocked me onto the ground. You achieved that. You did not call the police, pull alongside me and demand that I stop, just ask me to stop, pull in a hundred metres in front of me and shout at me to stop. And even if you had, and I hadn’t stopped, you would have been in no way legitimised to harm me. You did not simply drive on. You did not ignore it. You turned around. You got angry and this happened. Are you okay with that, I asked you. Are you okay with that series of decisions?
“It was a rush of blood to the head” you say. Coldplay? COLDPLAY? Now I realise how lost you are. You tell me again you are a cyclist, I’m a menace, you’re a good person. “You think I’m stupid don’t you?” you ask. I say no. My head’s in between my legs. No, no no. I don’t even think that what you did is stupid. I think it was, in that moment, absolutely intentional, the result of a series of illogical decisions made by an irrational human being. I think you’re probably an intelligent person. You probably act decently. But this is what you are capable of, I tell you. This is your nadir. This is what you are, when the core is exposed. I tell you my name, you tell me yours. You offer your hand and I say no. I don’t want to shake hands with you. That is conciliatory. You are my enemy. You are an enemy of the way that people do business with each other. If you spat on my bike, I wouldn’t take a hammer to your leg. I would not. When you harmed me, I did not act harmful toward you. I realise that I am not that and I am not like you. I tell you that, too. You say you are not a bad person. The police come.
The police officer is kind. She asks how I am. “Sad”, I tell her. Watch where you spit, she says. I smile. “Perhaps that guy needs to watch where he puts his car”, I say. She asks if I want this to go to court. I tell her no: it’s not worth time and effort, and it’s not worth trying to punish someone according to a set of laws that aren’t so good at protecting me. When the shit hits the fan (when the spit hits the window) then here is a person who disregards all avenues of morality, control and rationality; the law doesn’t matter. He may well think he operates within the the law, but he does not. “What do you want to do about it” she asks. “Give him a bollocking” I ask. She says she will talk to you. I am sure you will be given a token warning.
She says I seem really sad, not angry, and that’s unusual in these instances. “I have more to be sad about,” I tell her “than angry.” She smiles, wishes me luck, and says I can head off. I do.
I head past you and nod in exchange. This is not an acknowledgement. This is not a conciliatory gesture. You go to your conscience and I go to mine. I cycle for three more hours, sore; sore, mentally, sore in my physical. I need to process this and think about you some more. You are not free of this. You did something that you might process and might work out, might reconcile with your moral compass, might fit within your spheres of action and codes of being. But here is a man who knows you at your very worst. You know it, too. And worse than that, the people closest to you - like your daughter - know it. She knows that you will do harm when you are questioned or confronted. She knows what you will do. She knows you discriminate, that you accuse, make excuses for terrible actions. She will be worried, scared perhaps. She might think I am bad because I spat at her father’s window. It’s questionable, for sure. I’m not proud of that. But I am proud of every single thing I did immediately after. I don’t think you can say the same.
If you ever see this, then thank you for reading. I am not sorry to have defied you. I am not sorry that I spat at you and your actions. I am sorry that I exposed you to yourself and to your kin. But I am glad that you know what I know. I hope you become better. You need to be better than this.
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