Splitting a Match

Revelation

6.

[Time: 7:56am]

[Location: Castor Home, Seattle, Pangaea]

[September 3, 2097]

Normally, my daily morning ritual as our Clan's sentry goes something like this:

1. Wake up (duh?)

2. Stretch

3. Brush teeth

4. Fix bed hair

5. Fix bed

6. Get dressed

7. 200 jumping jacks

8. 75 push-ups

9. 100 sit-ups

10. 100 squats

11. Run to lookout post

12. Clean rifle/check ammo

13. Settle in

But today, things were a bit different. My mind was still in a half-shocked state, and so I got myself freshened up and dressed as usual, but skipped my workout routine. The whole time, I pondered how I would tell Krys this awful news.

"What's going on, Krys? Good? That's great. Oh, by the way, sorry to tell you, but you were picked for The Match." No way.

*as Emmett walks slowly up to Krys, head down, rubbing eyes* "I'm sorry, Krys. You were picked for The Match. I don't know what to do!" Definitely not.

I finally opted for the "act strong, but sound caring" talk. I walked over to her door and knocked three times.

"Yeah? Somebody there?" she said, her voice muffled behind the wood.

"Yeah, it's Emmett."

"Come in."

I turned the bronze knob and pushed the door open. Tried to, at least. The floor was cluttered with junk and clothes. Krys had been the only one who was able to get a lot of her stuff from our old house. How, I don't know. I forced the door open enough for me to step in, and after I squeezed in, the door sprang shut.

Krys was sitting on the floor, sorting her clothes. Despite her motherly influence on me, she never quite got the importance of keeping her room clean. Hers was a thousand times messier than mine on any given day.

She looked up at my entrance and smiled.

"Hey, Emmett. You need something?"

"No, I just...I, uh...I've got some bad news," I said, trying to sound confident.

Her smile faded. "Okay, how bad?"

I sighed and looked down at the floor. "Real bad."

She bit her cheek and blinked a few times. Then she cracked her neck, making it pop. "Well, might as well just say it. I've gotten used to bad news as of late." I could tell she was trying to sound strong as well, but fear showed through her eyes.

"Okay, well, I don't know how to make this sound nice, so I won't," I began. "Delta officers came by this morning."

At the word "Delta", Krys' face hardened and she stiffened.

"And they wanted to talk to Dad." I paused, collecting myself. Then I barreled on. There really wasn't any point in making this sound better than it was. "They picked you for The Match, Krys. I'm so, so sorry. Dad tried to see if there was another way, but they said if he refused to let you, they would shoot everybody inside. So he was forced to accept."

Her countenance changed from collected to shocked. "How...why..." she stammered, but then went silent.

It was then that I saw the fire go out of those eyes. That deep, burning will to survive, to protect, to love, was gone.

It had happened once or twice before. The most vivid memory I have of her retreating into this silent, half-dead state was when my Mom abandoned all of us. I can picture Krys standing, crying, at our doorstep, watching as Mom was trucked away in a Delta cargo van. The cloud of dust raised by the heavy tires washed over her, but she made no attempt to clear it from her head. She just coughed, not trying to catch it.

Later that day, and for at least the rest of the week, Krys stayed in her room. The few times she came out to use the restroom or to eat, she didn't say a word or express any emotion other than deep sadness. She stayed reserved and distant, that weird , vacant look in her eyes the entire time.

She had revived a week later, and seemed to act perfectly normal. But somehow, I knew that this time it wouldn't go back to normal.

Everything that made her the Krys that I knew left, replaced by a living shadow of a girl. She knew too well how The Match would affect her. She knew that it might kill her, but she also knew that it would change who she was mentally and emotionally. She called it PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and I've seen people who are affected by it.

She knew she would have it after The Match, and it killed her. Not literally, not yet. But the real Krys was dead already.

Krys sat there in silence, staring at some point on the wall behind me. She didn't move at all, just stayed there perfectly still like a statue. All expression was absent from her face. Just a neutral, shocked look was left.

I slowly turned and pulled the knob on the door, swinging it open.

"I'm sorry, Krys. I'll do whatever I can," I said as I stepped through the door. Then I closed it softly.

I closed the door on a stranger.

                                                                              ~~αβδ~~

Author's Note:  

I was (surprisingly) pretty sad when I wrote this section. I tried to squeeze a lot of emotional language and feelings into this chapter. If it made you feel anything, please give it a vote! It'd be super encouraging. :)

Comment below on Krys' response. Was it ugly? Dreary? Despicable? Epic?