And then there was one

by ouchthathurts

Summary:

An arranged marriage leaves you to confront your future.

You awoke one night with painful cramps that made you feel as if your uterus was being suffocated and punished by slashing at your body. They continue to tear through your body and consume you whole before you begin to whimper in your sleep, you cry and wail subconsciously, praying and begging for anyone to come and put you out of your misery, as these knots in your abdomen only get thicker and tighter at the random spots to help spread the pain further. 

 

You’re shaken awake, your name shouted in an angrily hushed tone from one of your birth givers, you find yourself immediately clutching your chest with your arms covering your chest and your hands wrapping around your shoulders. You feel the beads of sweat begin to trickle down your forehead and cheeks. You feel your tongue roll against your dry lips, getting a taste for the familiar salty liquid. You wonder whether they were your tears or your sweat; whatever it is, you've successfully been awoken.

 

The lamp next to your bed clicked when your mother pulled on the beaded string. You feel your chest heave, and you look around before your eyes land on the sight between your legs. A bath of blood that welcomed you to the trenches of your budding womanhood, you wonder if this is just God allowing you to endure another harsh reality you’d be unable to escape, that if you are to be stuck here once more that maybe you’ll have a better life if you were able to use the small shaving razor that you used to cut up your thighs would come in handy to slice open your throat.

 

Alas, you are not so lucky.

 

Your lids are heavy with the gruesome change of fate, you dare not even look up to see your mother’s face as she puts a hand on your upper back, you know there’s no comfort in her expression; you would much rather sit in the stew of your own excrement than hear what comment or stare awaited you in her dead and lifeless eyes. 

 

You are told to clean yourself up and prep your outfit for the next morning. There’s barely any sunlight to coddle you in its warmth, while you find your clothes, you slip them on after your shower, and you become much more aware of your posture and stature. You look at the fabrics meant to enhance your natural beauty, and yet, as you look in the mirror, you’re met with the same soulless eyes the world carved into your sockets. 

 

You couldn't imagine a world where anybody could ever see that you were a normal human being, because that's how you'd been auctioned off to everyone. 

 

Even now, as you stand before the people with your birth givers sat behind you, with the same expectant look all the other adults gave you as you stood on the stage for them. 

 

The area is desolate, an old, small theater with a bright red, velvety stage that had show lights on you and the other young woman, who were unfortunately burdened with the societal expectations of their lives. 

 

That's all you'd ever been.

 

You waited for your fate over and over and over again.

 

That's what you were, a piece of meat to be put on a pedestal and sold to these people.

 

The parents looked at you expectantly, and they questioned the things that made you know your place in the world. You’re not a person, you're an item that needs to be sold, something to be put down and reused over and over until your usefulness falls out of style. You had hoped that when you began chopping up your thighs, you would become less desirable, but that only made your birth giver lower the price and allow more to come and exploit you. 

 

A housewife, a mother, a caretaker. 

 

That's all you're to these people. 

 

That's all you'd be to their son.

 

You hear your mother’s heels clack against the velvet tiles, you feel the goosebumps that used to run up your skin now dulled by the abuse you have endured, damn near your whole life. “Such a pretty girl.” You hear from the crowd, which brought smiles to the faces of the onlookers and your parents; they relished the beauty that was the child they had meticulously bred for over and over again.  Your mother cups your chin, she turns you to the crowd, and your cheek stubbornly swells. You let the gum that you kept hidden in the sole of your shoes, which were unused, and as you cut it open to place that pack, you took one every day, and as it was mashed and the flavor was sucked out of it, you found this piece of gum to be your one guaranteed joy in life.

 

You allow your tongue to slowly and lovingly slide into the safety between your cheek and teeth. Those who were ready to place their bids on your existence to benefit their own, or their sons, or even their own husbands.  You heard about how other girls joined harems and were kept around in their houses only until the daughters were of age to be married off to the man who had previously bought them. You hoped that an older man would buy you, in hopes he'd have a stroke before he could ever truly collect you. 

 

The crowd awaits your smile, and your mother is eager to please them as she digs her middle and index finger into your left cheek while her thumb finds where you had placed your gum and applies pressure with her long, extended nails that need a fill-in; you wonder if it’ll snap off while carving into your cheek. Your mother turns your head towards her, and you’re forced to see those eyes that have done nothing but watch as you’ve endured everything possible. She awaited for you to crumble beneath her and beg for your death at her hands, just like the abortion she wishes she could’ve had.

 

You force a smile, and your teeth feel the cold air of the auditorium; you’re quickly turned back from the light burning behind your mother’s head and preventing you from galloping into the sweet relief of death. “This is my daughter, Clementine.” It’s not your name, you can tell by the way your mother says it with so much love and compassion, unlike those times when your father would cast you aside after you fulfilled his usefulness to you, and your mother dared not dare utter the name that your father groaned or moaned.

 

You have one on your certificate, but you don't even know what it is anymore; you've been Clementine since you blossomed into womanhood.

 

You allow her to force it out of you, a toothy grin that shows off that award-winning smile that’s only ever gotten you nothing but used by those with enough cash. 

 

This time, your fate would be sealed, no more sweaty nights under anyone with the big bucks to throw at your mother and father to continue their way of life. You didn’t know how to feel about this development, that now that you had started your menstrual cycle, you would be promised to some man who could keep your parents and you above the poverty line. It was shocking, given the world around you, that forced so many young men into militaristic roles while giving them dirt-poor wages that anyone could really afford.

 

You were met by Mr. and Mrs. Olson, some folks your parents' age, who owned a large farm in Minnesota. They offered all they had for you and what your family had to offer. Once chosen, you walked off the stage to meet privately with the parents of your now husband, as they inquired and inspected your parents on your behalf. 

 

You stared vaguely into the distance, the gum grinding between your teeth until it did nothing but help you distract yourself from the fact that you were now losing your freedom for the final time.

 

“Is she a virgin?” Your parents gleefully said yes! You were not; you having a delayed menses allowed those who used you to be free of the consequences of pregnancy that would’ve further lowered your value.

 

“How is she with chores?” You were clean and quick, you were always there to take care of the messes, such as spilled drinks or broken appliances, thanks to your rowdy brothers. Your mother rotted in bed while your father and brothers worked long hours to maintain the abode; it was you and you alone ever since you could walk. Your first words were mama, and her first words to you were to teach you how to sweep and mop the floors. As you got older, your tasks became taking full control of making sure the home felt like a home to everyone but you. 

 

“Will she be able to bear children?” They lied about your mother’s history of birth, she had two faulty pregnancies before having you, they were both females, just like you, who either came out as stillborn and the other who escaped your mothers wretched womb as a pure red glob into the toilet and flushed away with the same burdened look of losing another useful able body to create income in the home. 

Before you were to be wed, you were to endure the ceremony they had for their son before he was to participate in the Long Walk. Once he returned, there would be a wedding. They say it surely, you remembered your older brother who did the long walk when you were but a child, you remembered watching his death once it was broadcast.

 

At the starting line, where he froze up, you weren’t surprised since your birth givers were often critical of his spineless nature. You couldn’t properly grieve your brother’s death; You were all just coworkers who happened to be related by blood. 

 

There was nothing to argue against as you all accepted your fates with your heads hung low. 

 

The Olsons had purposely flown out to meet you after securing your existence if your husband was to win the Long Walk, eager to hand you over for all the riches in the world, where they had mistepped with their feeble spawn, they had succeeded with their son-in-law's potential future riches. 

 

You remembered the letter they gave you before they returned their farm upstate, you hid the small red envelope in your bra, and when you returned home, you were to continue the same ritual you had before and once you were dismissed for the day and your father lost interest in giving you attention you returned to your room where you changed into your pajamas and got ready to read the letter with your yellow lamp lending you the tiniest bit of clearance through the darkness of the closet.

 

Upon opening the envelope, you are shown a Polaroid of a young man, who is around the same height as both his parents, which allows you to compare the fact that you wouldn’t be looking up at a man for the first time in your life. You say man loosely because apparently ‘he's of age’, you have a few inches on him, and if it weren't for the heels your mother was making you wear, you wonder if you guys would be the same. There's a softness in his eyes, something you missed in your brothers before you started showing signs in puberty. You could stare at them while you tried to tear yourself away from finding out everything bad about him. There was dark hair that was shaped and cut down above his ear that melted with his fair skin, and his soft eyes drew you back in, and you tore yourself away to read the letter and let it reveal who he actually was. 

 

To my darling, Clementine

Have you ever found yourself so lost in the appearance of another? Once my eyes landed on the absolute beauty that was your face, I  was completely transfixed by your appearance. I warn you that I do run my mouth quite often and am known to curse like a sailor, but I’ll stay silent and stand guard to guarantee you sleep peacefully at night.

 

I've had to make peace over the past couple of weeks as I've come to realize my selection and my active, willing participation in the Long Walk. Nonetheless, I’m proud that my life would be the price of your safety. 

 

I want you to know I’m dedicated to you, that I am willing to grant this wish for a better life for you, anywhere you decide, even if it does not end up being with me, that you’ll understand I’m doing this for you.

 

Your eyes take me away, the mirrors to the souls that show the brutality in the things you’ve seen, they seem a husk of what they once were as children, and if that is the case, I wish to bring that sparkle right back into your eye like a shooting star.

 

I look at this photo of you. And I know I know nothing of you. Regardless, I want to know more about you. I hope and I pray that at the end of this walk, I become the one true Savior of your life. I know about your life from my parents. That you've been purchased for me. In hopes that I survived the long walk. I intend to guarantee your safety. Your future. And your smile.

 

Grateful to the heavens, I’ve been given this chance to walk to God’s garden that is made up of the beautiful fruit you're named after. Given this chance.

 

Not much about you. And I know that, given my situation, I have been in no place to try and convince you or beg you to see me in a different light than you have seen many other suitors before me. But I need you to know that I take the hits, the heartbeats, the heart roads, just to make sure that you walk on the softest shoes. I want to make sure. That's when I give everything up for you, even my life on the line for yours.

 

That it would guarantee you would never flinch in this world.

 

That you would never flinch at me.

 

I want you to know that I'm not like the other suitors who come in with their. Loads of money and a promised lavish lifestyle.That I and I alone. I'm choosing to be with you. Even if it's just because I saw your photo. I know with that look in your eyes. 

 

That I promise. I mean every damn word.

 

I'm not Shakespeare. I'll never be able to sweep you off with my words, but I want you to know that even if my tongue is cut off, I will show you in any way possible that I care deeply for you.

 

I do nothing carelessly. I think and choose my words diligently, even when they’re an amalgamation of curses. The act of signing up for this long walk is only a matter of being a lamb to the slaughter. After my return from the walk, I'll spend every day proving that your safety, your joy, your peace, and everything you've ever dreamed of will always come before everything. And if I ever slip up and say something crude in your presence or anything that you do not approve of, I give you full right to pop me in my mouth as is your command.

 

Forever yours,

If you’ll let me be,

Hank Olson

 

You try to find the love and care that is in the handwritten letter, you admire its handwriting that is as fancy as the outfits you’ve worn when being shown off. There is care and dedication in how it's folded, and unique gold foil decorates the outside of the envelope that shows flowers and bountiful fruits.  You're unsure of how to feel, as you've never been cared for like this before. You doubt you could have ever felt this way, and you doubt even more that anybody could ever feel some way towards you, especially if they knew the truth about your nature, the way you've been raised and brought up. You knew if he knew the truth and his family knew the truth, they would grow to despise you and think of you as nothing more than useless to them. 

 

The letters that promise you this lavish lifestyle, where you're guaranteed to be a mother, to be a housewife, to be put together and kept pretty like a doll. This letter only fills you with the realization that the only person who could ever really love you is ready and actively suicidal. 

 

The idea of him walking the Long Walk is absurd; the more you look at his picture, the more you’re disappointed in what he believes it takes to win.  You cannot voice these feelings aloud, even if they are true; you are to accept your fate and the idea of having a husband who is not guaranteed.

 

You are to live this life for the following weeks until he dies during the walk or returns victorious in rewards given at the wedding. 

 

Something is making your heart swell, something that brings you to sifting through your drawers to craft a letter in return,

 

To Hank Olson, 

I have to be honest in my words to you, Hank. 

 

You've seen my face and maybe even my smile. I don't know what photo they've sent you or what you've seen of me, but you've mistaken it for softness. I am in no way soft. Ask and I've worn out for the people who've paid to see it. You talk of sacrifice as if it's noble, like bleeding for me is going to change the years upon years of suffering I've endured.

 

I want you to know that what you do now is nothing but a waste.

 

I've been used, Hank. I've never been loved or cherished. I'm like a cigarette that's been passed around, smoked, stubbed out, and ground beneath the shoes of those who have used me over and over and over again. They take turns spitting on me. And making sure I know my place in this world.

 

I'm under the assumption that you are to use me as well.

 

When I'm collected by your family and watch your fate broadcast for those across the states, I hope I don’t see you on the starting line.

 

That you take that back out date as your chance for a better life, with a better wife who is not me. 

 

For all I know. This could be an illusion.

I'm honest in my letter. Because my time on this earth is not long.

I was brought here to suffer, not thrive. Either you will die at the hands of the major, or I will die at the hands of the world. 

 

There is no way we can both coexist with ideas that contradict one another so greatly.

 

You may think of me as beautiful, loved, or cherished. That’s the bait. That's what they see before they strip me down and leave me emptier than before. That husk in my eyes that you see is nothing more than the eyes of someone gutted from humanity who has no chance to grow and thrive anywhere on this earth.

 

 

I won't allow you to ruin yourself with this fantasy.

And I won't allow you to lull yourself into this idea that this is all worth it.

 

Consider your choices,

Clementine

 

 

With the last line, you take a deep breath in. You didn't breathe the whole time you wrote the letter. There are angry groans and thrusts on the paper that show the chicken scratch, fueled by the hatred you have for such delusional thinking. You despise Hank for who he is, for his thoughts, his hopes, his ideology, that he believes he could make you better and change you from the world. The hovel that's only continued to make you this awful. 

 

You believe their lies? 

 

You bark out of laughter before clutching your mouth in hopes your family hadn’t heard your joy. You placed the letter in the returning red envelope that was also in the bag. It was meant for you to send an acceptance letter. 

 

But this letter? It was to help him accept his reality. 

 

Accept your reality.

 

Once the letter was sent, it only took a week before you received another in your hands from his mother, her gaze had dulled from the last time you had seen her and when you asked if there was a problem she spoke of her husband’s sickness that prevented him from this trip, you comfort the woman as she envelopes you tino a warm embrace. You wonder how people were able to comfort others so normally. In your mind, you’re disgusted by her tears, that she needed to pick herself up and go back home, but as you felt the dampening on the shoulder, your hand ran small circles on her back; you know how to do this, like the clients who have cried to you once before. 

 

You dismiss her with a large smile and give you one in return, it’s genuine as it quivers as she hopes to return the joy you presented to her, even if it was a false hope. 

 

Once the door closed, you're met by your mother's soulless eyes. The woman, just as drained as you, asked who it was. You explained to her that it was the Olsen mother, and your mother barks out a laugh. You flinch at the idea that you sound alike. And you make a mental note to never laugh again. “You know,” your mother starts. “I'm surprised he's doing the Long Walk. I've seen pictures of the boy, and he doesn't look very sturdy, if you will. It's more of a formality with the letters, a guarantee of the bond for the prize money.” You only nod in response. You know your opinion will only award you a smack to the face and a realization that you're stuck and bound to this family once more.

 

You think back to the shaving razors that you were given by your mother to make sure that your bodily hair stayed out of sight. You thought back to when you broke it open the first time with a rock you found outside, slamming your fists into it and making sure that you could still have even just a little piece of the razor, using the sharp edge to cut into the flesh of your thighs that had been kissed by unsavory individuals.

 

Your mother picks your face up. She uses her index finger and middle finger on one side of your cheek with her thumb on the other side. She's looking for the gum in your mouth again. Luckily for you, you spit it out before you open the door. Unfortunately, it still had all its flavor left in. You were embarrassed by the fact that you would dig through the trash later to go find it if you weren’t able to buy another pack soon.

 

You're forced to look into her eyes, a ritual she does every time you guys run into each other. She does it to your brothers as well, just to make sure that they understand what she endured for them to be in this world. You guys would stay there for about 5, maybe 10 minutes. You begin to daydream, this time thinking about what the letter would say. You wonder if he'd given up on trying to convince you that you'd be better off, and if he was just going to make promises to impregnate you or promise to keep you bound to the house to make sure that any freedom thoughts you had were to be shackled away, just as you were once before.

 

You continue to dream about the letter, wondering what curses in vile swears he's waiting to tell you. You're yearning for that moment to be proven right. For him to hate your guts and despise you and use you the way you'd always been used, and as you went through the day, going through your work, the day ends with your bath. 

 

A prayer that your Father doesn't first open the door.

 

You're allowed another day to close your door and be engulfed in the sheets of your bed. You turn over, pulling the lamp's cord for the little illumination to allow you to read Olson’s next letter.

 

Oh, Clementine,

Please don't talk down to me like a child. I've had enough of that from my mother and father, and I don't need that from my wife, either.

You're waiting for me to wake up and realize you're not worth the fight. Well, screw that. I'm wide awake, and I'm not going anywhere. You're thinking that some loudmouth like me comes along talking about sacrifice and freedom like it's a damn fairy tale, and you think I'm delusional, and you think I'm chasing something that doesn't exist.

 

But I'm not here to play hero. I'm not here to play your savior. I'm not here to be the person who solves every one of your problems because I know I could never truly do that.

 

I'm doing this because I want to see you.

 

You could have easily not responded, easily sent a rejection letter, and simply said no. But you sat there and you told me how you'd been pushed aside, how you'd been squandered, and it's your own fault for allowing me to feel bad for you.

The one buried all the bullshit they piled on top of you is what I'm trying to do by digging it out and clawing through hell with my bare hands.

 

To take this walk is to prove that I am ready to die for something that matters.

 

I've got a plan, not some dream, I mean a real, calculated technical assault on every obstacle in my way when it comes to this. I'm building the strategy, the gear, the timing. I'm gonna walk that race like it owes it money, because it does. I'm owed this win, and I know I can do this if I just do it.

 

I'll win for you, for me, for every damn person. Whoever said I was nothing but a little boy.

 

My father is undergoing an illness. I must help my mother as much on the farm as I can. I hope that when we meet in the upcoming weeks, you will be able to come back to the farm and stay with my mother and help with this troubling time, to allow you a place where you won't feel the need to be under the people's expectations.

 

I'll win, so you never have to sell another piece of yourself. I'll win, so my parents can choke on their doubt when they see me being the last boy of 50 still standing with the fire in my eyes and your name in my heart. And if you don't believe me. Then you can hate me for it. But I'm gonna show you, and I'm gonna show everyone that I'm more than what they're trying to make me be.

 

You don't have to watch that broadcast of me. If you don't want to, and if you reject my marriage proposal, I completely understand.

 

I want you to know that what I'm doing isn't for pity.

 

It's for deep care and want and need to make sure that this does good for the people in my life, does good for you, my parents, and the future Participants of the walk. 

 

– Hank Olson

 

What the fuck?

 

Why the hell won't he quit? I told him. Laid it out cold and clear. You gave him the truth. Everything that you have heard your parents lie about you, you've told him in that single letter. It should have discouraged him. It should have just led to him telling me what he was going to do to you. 

 

You despise people like this.

 

People that come into your life and they tell you they love you and they care for you and they wanna do better for you, but all they do is let you down over and over and over again because they don't truly care for anything outside of themselves and what benefits them in that moment. 

 

They'll say anything they can to be with you.

 

Hank Olson was just another stubborn, foul-mouthed idiot that you’ll deal with for the rest of your life. Still chasing some fantasy where I'm not broken. But you're not just a body or a price tag. He's planning, scheming, and racing like this is some damn movie where he wins the heart of the girl.

 

It pisses you off because he's living in such a delusional lie, that society allows him to live in this delusion, and that he’s delusively believing he’s trying to save you. A lie that's been allowed by this world and continues to allow people to think this is disgusting.

 

This is the hope that it makes you sad.

 

You're frustrated that people would think so stupidly.

 

Put trust in something so dumb, so frivolous, something not even guaranteed. He thinks you're worth fixing. He thinks he's willing to bleed for someone who's already been bled dry. You don't want to see him. You don't want to hear his voice–God, your heart aches.

 

It feels as if it's being crushed and, switched around, manhandled by the world.

 

You ball up your fist and you slam it into your chest.

You hope this feeling in your heart stops.

 

You hate that you're reaching for another piece of paper and the same pen you wrote the previous letter with, and that you're going to put him down once more.

 

You don't want hope. 

Hope is a scam. 

It's the first lie they sell you before they take everything else from you.

 

You know you need to stay cold. You need to stay detached. You can't allow yourself to believe in his lies because he'll only let you down. You cannot allow yourself to fall. You need to write this letter where you put him down, where you tell him he can't do this. 

 

You need to do this. 

 

You need to do this. 

 

You need to do this.

 

You need to do this.

 

You need to do this.

 

To Hank ‘Ridculously Flawed’ Olson,

I choose not to believe in your savior complex and the raging hard-on you have for tragedy. You say you see me and want to help me, but all you actually see is some broken-winged bird that you’re just trying to fix and change into the mold of your perfect wife.

 

You think the Long Walk will bend at your will, ambitions, your dreams? My brother was gunned down on the starting line, and I’ll be damned to believe anyone else who becomes involved with me won’t meet the same fate.

 

You think these bleeding-heart felt letters make you different, but you’re dead wrong. I am not here to fall for you or any of the ideals you continue to try to shove down my throat. You are despicable as you are ignorant, and I won't fall for the bait that is a happy future with you.

 

If you come to my home, and I mean if, don’t be surprised by this lulled and dulled expression that brings your cock nothing but a softness, and the only ache you feel is when you’re forcing me to take it.

 

It’s vile to see men like you try to treat me like I matter when you and I both know I’m just your mail-ordered bride to help guarantee you don’t die in the relentless slaughter of young boys across the nation.

 

I can’t wait to see you crumble when all your work fails, when you’re met by my disgusting self that can’t be quelled by some random boy who thinks he knows better than I, when she’s ready to sacrifice himself.

 

Let’s see who you really are when your fantasy fucking dies in front of you.

 

You’re snapped out of your rage-induced writing by the few droplets of the dark blue ink on the letter, your hand is covered in the ink that is rushing out of the pen, and you quietly curse to yourself, “Shit!” You were quick to rush to the bathroom and try to wash off as much ink as possible from your hand. You feel the washcloth against your hand begin to itch with your scrubbing, your head is reeling as you think over your words and all the thoughts you’ve constantly formed in your mind over all those years, while you lie on your back, taking what you believed you had to endure.

 

Your pupils are dilated, nothing but small pokes into the iris that are buzzing around looking for something to harm you. You drop the washcloth and your hands begin to shake violently, you’re praying that your heart stops hammering into your rib cage, and you yearn for someone to bust through the bathroom door and put a bullet in your skull. “Fuh-Fuhh…” You wheeze, you grip the ends of the sink, your knuckles almost white as sheep’s wool, nails imprinting onto the wood like it's done time and time again when you’re cleaning out your mouth. 

 

You feel it, in the pit of your stomach, it bubbles and gurgles, your throat feels like it's filling up, and the more you feel it, the more the rush of those fluids begins to shove through your esophagus and into the sink. You put your hands over your mouth in an attempt to hold back your vomit; unfortunately, you watch as it sprays through your fingers and onto the toilet seat, with a majority of it hitting the bowl.

 

You’re furious, you look down at the chunks on your hands and littered on the toilet, and you’re eveloted in yourself. You let him in. You let his words crawl under your skin enough for you to clamor at the thought of seeing him in person. Your heart doesn’t slow down; it keeps obliterating your chest, and you feel as if you’ll find a bruise the next day if you don’t steady your breathing.

 

You gasp–sharp, panicked. Your body is tearing itself apart as it argues against everything you’ve felt for so long, it puts you down and insults your body and the way it’s constantly failed you, and there’s this other side that does nothing but cry and scream in pain like a child as it continues to get put down. 

 

He’s just another man. 

He’ll take what he wants. 

When he comes to my home, he’s gonna come into my room, and he’s gonna use me.

He’ll impregnate me right there 

They want that

They always want that

 

You fall to your knees, your hands on both sides of the toilet seat as you feel another rush of vomit shoot out of your nose and mouth and into the bowl once more. You hope you’re not loud; if you awaken one of your birth givers, they’ll just put your head into the toilet and make you choke on it. 

 

You feel the hot tears rush down your cheeks, and you put your hand over your mouth to silence your sobs. They sting your eyes violently, and you can do nothing more but allow your body to just fall to your side as you sniffle and huff on the floor, trying to conceal your crying in the best way you can.

 

You don't remember falling asleep, you're kicked on the floor by your brother's heavy work boot, you feel the tough leather rub against your back, and you slowly blink up. You feel the crust around your eyes and the heaviness in your lids, “...ey, you need to get up…” You hated his grumbly voice, you wished you had something to throw at him, but you only groan and roll over on the bathroom floor.

 

“Are you gonna make breakfast?”

 

You look into your older brother’s eyes with a glare before you bring yourself up. You turn back on your side and then on all fours. You look up at him with a glare in your eyes, and you watch his face as it doesn't change. 

 

“Go make breakfast your fucking self.” You spat before you shot a luger out of your throat and onto his brown boot. It doesn't take a second before it's launched against your chin and you're first to stand up. 

 

You're on your feet in minutes, clutching your jaw and groaning in pain as you look up at the big man. You weren't surprised that he just walked out of the bathroom without a care; you felt disgusted by the scene around you, and for that, you immediately began to clean up as you tried to distract yourself from the pain in your chin. 

 

You go to your room, get your stuff together in preparation for the day, before you pack up your envelope, you did not sign off, you knew he'd known, and if that was any indication, you prayed he'd take it.

 

You waited for the next letter, you wanted to lie to yourself that you didn't care, and you couldn't wait for it all to end, for him to give up hope, for his parents to back out of the deal, for anything and everything to calm down. Once you were met by the same words and phrases that just resembled, you continued to write your hate for him. After every letter you vomited, your venomous comments were only hurting you.

 

Nonetheless, you persevere.

 

After many months had passed of waiting for his letters, it just stopped. Every time the mailbox opened and there was nothing there, this empty feeling swallowed your heart, left with this disgusting feeling that you're yearning for his next letter, you want to see what he was going to say to it, how he'd cuss you out, how he'd put you down, and how he'd let you down after getting your hopes up.

 

There is no way he got your hopes up, though, because you never had hopes on him to begin with, and as you open the mailbox to check three days after sending the letter, you're stuck with the same feeling as you see the empty mailbox once more.

 

It soon became a couple more days, soon enough it was a week, and you had almost felt like a dog, waiting for this grown man to send you a message back like an antsy teenage girl. 

 

You're disappointed in yourself, and as you're cleaning up the kitchen once more after making lunch, you hear the doorbell once more. It wasn't any of your brothers; they'd slam their fists on the door when they forgot or lost their keys.

 

Unfortunately, you had to make your way to open the door with your mother still in bed, even if it was 3 in the afternoon and all the rest of them were at work or out of the house. Fingers lacing around the gold lock as it turns left with the soft click, allowing you to turn on the soft doe look in your eyes as you do for all the people that enter the abode.

 

You're met with the sight of Mrs. Olson and her son standing next to him, both of them wearing red turtle necks, a matching set with the initials sewn with white and in cursive on the left breast. You wondered if Mrs. Olson made them specifically for her family.

 

“Hello, Clementine!” Mrs. Olson cheered, the smile on her face large and toothy that spread her red lips across her face like a rainbow; you wanted to smile back with her, and you almost did when she embraced you in a tight hug. A very touchy woman, you assumed, you feel your heart ache at the warmth, and as her perfume begins to fill your nose, you feel as if you've been longing for this since you were a child. 

 

You awkwardly bring your arms to try and hug her back, slowly but surely, your hands find the small of her back, and she brings you in closer as she buries her head in your shoulder.

 

Hank must have felt so loved. You felt this spark of irritation ignite in you as you realized how all the love he's felt in his life is trying to make its way into yours. Why? 

 

Why do they think you desire their love?

 

They most likely pity you. She felt you falter in the hug, and she now knows how you are; he's probably told her how you put down any type of relationship between the two, and she feels bad for you.

 

When she pulled away from the hug, there was a closed eye smile on her face that awaited a return and was given to you to help you flourish. As if you needed her help. These two pity you like a dog that needs to be put down, you were just gonna be their show dog, extra help on the farm until the day you die, and they think if they give you all the love you haven't had them, you'll be grateful to them.

 

Few try this attempt with you; they bring you gifts like clothes, jewelry, and candy, but that doesn't change what they're here for. They think that they'll just pay for what they want from you, that this'll justify everything that's happened, and that they're thinking they're helping you. 

 

That they love and care for you as an equal person.

 

“...Tine? Clem…? Clementine?” 

 

You feel two hands on your shoulders, you feel the ragged nails dig into your collarbone, and you accept your fate like the feeling of your body finally shutting down. It's the same smell of perfume you've smelt since you were a child, it's mixed with the Newports your mother smoked when she first woke up. The room reeks of it, the house would reek of it if you hadn't scrubbed down every surface and sucked the built-up dust and debris in the furniture.

 

“I'm so sorry for my daughter, she seems to always be able to daydream, it seems especially when she's doing her chores!” Your mother chirps, an eager little bird ready for her worm that she's never worked for in her damn life.

 

A worm you've been feeding to her before you could even talk.

 

You look at both of them, their smiles large and your smile small, it seems as if you're the only one not putting on the normal performance.

 

That you have no choice in this matter, and you never will. 

 

“I can go make some tea if you'd both like, we have all types and lots of cookies and snacks that I recently got from grocery shopping!”

 

The money you saved from whoring out your own daughter. 

 

You all took a seat around the coffee table in the living room, and you remembered the time your father threw your brother into it when he spouted dissent against The Major. You pulled your eyes away from the crack in the table and towards the mother and son in front of you.

 

They looked so similar, the same eye shape with the same soft smile on their lips, they had the same face shape, and their hair was choppily cut and black. There's a beauty in their uniqueness. Their apparent love for one another, which you would have to be well acquainted with if he won the Long Walk. You wanted to ask how his parents felt about it, knowingly committing suicide for the sake of the big prize. 

 

They'll give you anything, and you wondered what you'd do if you won, you thought for a moment, and then some.

 

You'd ask them to put a bullet in your head.

 

A swift and easy death.

 

You wouldn't have to bleed out from cutting up your body, or if you fuck up your overdose, you have to sit there and accept that this was your fate until you could acquire such an easily accessible death. 

 

There's a silence that falls between the four of you. It seems your mother can carry the conversation with elegance, while Mrs. Olson looks at your mother with an intent gaze, caring for every lie that may ooze out of her cracked and chapped lips.  You're disgusted by the sight before you, the suck up, the bitch who forced you out of her womb to suffer in this world just as she had, chopping it up with the people she just sold you to. 

 

A husk you are, you stare at nothing as your mind drifts off to thoughts of dinner you planned for tonight, your favorite meal that there would be extras of, since nobody else liked it. You only have to make it once a month, “It's a waste of money if you're the only one eating it, and besides, you wouldn't want your body to swell in disgust at your eating habits.” The woman cried, as if she cared about your health. 

 

“How about Hank and you head off to your room to go have some one-on-one time?”

 

You blink, brought back to the situation you had been unforgivingly put through once more, you're met by the warm smile of his mother and the diligent nod. You watch his hand reach for the basket filled with different gifts, trinkets, snacks, and many other things you were sure he'd bring up later when he's gutting you. 

 

One-on-one time…

 

Your eyes become husks once more as you nod, and you lead him to your room; you close the door behind both of you. Your window allows the sun to hit at the perfect angle to help illuminate the room. The man hands you the basket, which was well decorated and filled with different types of things that you'd had your eye on before. Your hand forms a claw, it shakes violently as you reach for the basket in hope and fear that your hand comes into contact with his, you don’t know if you’re taking your time or it’s become obvious with how terrified you really are of the situation. 

 

Though Hank says nothing, he watches you as his hands hold out the basket to you. The cradle is familiar to a baby; you feel this incessant crying begin to fill your ears, flinching at the noise as if the baby were screaming right into your ear. Your breath hitches as it becomes louder, you look at that basket as the ribbons form loose curls, and the amalgamation of treats becomes tiny hands that reach out to you, they plead for you to help them, stop their cries, and as your eyes dart up, you’re met with a soft, small smile of your captor. Eyes shooting back down to the basket, with the hands grabbing out for you and the wailing beginning a symphony as you’re nailed down by the sounds of your future.

 

The basket is slapped to the floor, and the clattering of the items skidding across the hardwood floor makes you realize that you’re stuck with a grown man whom you’ve been promised to, that your act of defiance will only fuel his hatred towards you. Listening to hear for any type of call or insult, you’re quick to rip him a new one. 

 

“What are you even doing here? You can’t read my letters where I told you to leave me the fuck alone?” It's low and bitter; you intend to put him down and make sure he gets a direct telling from you about your feelings. You can't allow further miscommunication. “You don't love me, Hank. You just feel sorry for the fact that your family bought me. That's what this whole charade is.” Your heel is quick to land into a plastic wrapper, you listen to the way it crackles and becomes nothing but crumbs as you pray you're doing this to his heart.

 

There's a silence that lingers between you two; you don't even look him in the eyes, and you're not even sure if you can bring yourself to face him. You're just waiting for him to strike you, the back of his hand to bust your lip, or the snatching of your wrist just to toss you on the bed. Though he doesn't look that strong, a bit on the leaner and smaller side, he couldn't do much to you, but you knew you'd have to give in and allow him to believe he had the upper hand.

 

Sounds of muffled polite laughter drift from the living room through the thin walls. It's in that moment that you realize how close to the two of you actually are, and you can feel your breathing becoming heavier as you're awaiting your fate. The low hum of polite conversation impacts the silence between the two of you; it's a mutual understanding that whatever you both say next must not be heard in the next room over.

 

The man's voice is soft and defensive. He takes a muffled step towards you, and your leg is quick to step behind you in preparation to escape your situation. Eyes burning as your arms are quick to fold across your chest, you stutter to pick your head up, but you're holding a deep hatred for the man before you. 

 

“You're just like the rest of them.” It's spat venomously, you hear him hiss, “Who the fuck are them?” “Them, the kind that comes to my life, shoving money down my parents' throats so you can use me for whatever you want of me.” Your eyes find him, quickly looking back down to his shoes as you dig your nails into your forearms in fear.

 

The sound of light-hearted laughter illuminates the living room, and you're praying he just takes you down and gets it over with, your head hung low as if you're accepting the guillotine.  

 

Nonetheless, it's quiet between the two of you.

 

Hank sighs, it's exhausted like a long day of work, he puts both his hands on his hips as his hand drills into the back of your head. “Jesus, Clementine,” It's hushed, and almost pleading, he wants you to listen to him and look him in the eyes when he addresses you. “That's not what this is…I'm not here to fucking use you or–” “Bullshit!” You hiss at him, you back away as you snap up to meet his eyes, “You just want to fuck me, impregnate me and use me–” 

 

“Stop with that shit! I'm not tryna fuckin’ use you!”

 

The man is quick to clasp his hand over his mouth, your furrowed brows raise in confusion as he listens out for the conversation in the living room, their laughter becoming more hushed as they delve into a different topic. 

 

“It doesn't matter if she hears, she won't care.” You explain, it slips from your lips as if it's a preprogrammed answer to whenever a client asks. “She’ll just distract while it happens…” Hank raises a brow, his left hand rolling his wrist in an attempt to ask for your elaboration. You tilt your head like a puppy, and Hank tilts his head the same way, almost in awe at your mannerisms.

 

“...It happens?” 

 

“When you fuck me.”

 

You beat your teeth at him, you can't stomach the phrase, you're allowed to be angry at the situation with him because he hasn't shown you how he's going to punish you…If he even punishes you. 

 

“Well, that's not happening anytime soon–” “Oh, so it's going to happen?” The man is irritated by your quick response; he can sense the way you mock his poorly chosen words. Nonetheless, he collects himself to retaliate. “No. I'm not gonna screw you.” You scoff, “Not now, you mean, not right now, but when I come back to your little home you're gonna pin me down and breed me like a bitch–” “Jesus-fucking-Christ, Clementine, calm down.” 

 

Hank can hear the snarls in preparation for your argument. He waits for you to do something as you hiss at him once more, “Please, you're not gonna disappoint mommy and daddy.” There's a clear change in his expression, his brows furrow on the frown on his face becomes a scowl that lets you know how to really get him to reveal his colors. You watch how the hand on his hips turns into fists, and he lets out a low huff, unsure of how to handle the situation.

 

Good.

 

“I'm not just doing this for my parents, I'm doing this for you and for–” “Oh, brother!” Hank’s eye twitches at your exasperation, wondering what in the world he should feel now that he's lost in how to talk about this. “Listen, I understand that it's not fair. I didn't ask to be married either. But I'm here. And I'm at least trying to be fucking decent and you're–” “What? What am I? I'm a fucking bitch? I'm making you mad?” You don't remember unfolding your arms as your palms slam into his chest, “Go on, call me a bitch, call your wife a fucking bitch like you've always wanted to.”

 

You launch yourself over to your drawers, taking out the envelopes and the letters that were sent to you during the past three months of communication, and you throw them at his feet in disgust as you've found yourself a great distance away from the man. It allows you some confidence, some breathing room, but his head hangs low as he then takes a knee to collect the things on the floor.

 

Hank's hands are gentle with what he grabs. He picks them up and inspects them for any damage. If they were damaged, they went in his pockets; anything that wasn't went right back in the basket. You say nothing as you watch him pick each item up, you bear your teeth, anger pumping through your veins, and before you know it, the tips of your heels are flying to knock a hole into the basket. 

 

However, it's only met by the clothed forearm of your husband; you watch as he doesn't even look back up at you. Your lids are heavy as you slowly bring your foot back to the floor in embarrassment. He continues to collect the items, and once he's fixed up the basket to the presentable way it was before, he moves past you and places it on your bed before turning back to face you.

 

“You done?” Hank's voice is low, quiet, and steady; you feel like a child being reprimanded, and you almost stomp your foot in retaliation. “Don't talk to me like I'm a child. You think that you're high and mighty above me when you have to pay for a bride?” Hank doesn't even respond; he looks at you with those same soft brown eyes that you saw in that photo you kept near your lamp. 

 

You watch with your jaw clenched, hating the way he moves with such gentleness and precision, as if none of this is beneath him. With your voice slow and bitter, you continue, “You’re pathetic if you think that playing house with me will make me spread my legs in gratitude.” There's no chance in his facial expression, and you only grow more furious, “Fuh-Fu-Fuck you. Fuck you and you're fuh-fucking little martyr act…” You're huffing and puffing, you feel your eyes becoming hot and sweaty.

 

“I'm not trying to be a martyr. I'm trying to keep us from falling apart.” You bark out a laugh, “We were never together. This is just a stupid arrangement. A deal. You get a wife and all I get is–” You feel your throat tighten, you think back to the basket and how now you were standing in front of the door while he stood near your bed making sure the basket stayed beautiful. 

 

You despise that he doesn't fight back, that he'll allow you to sit there and hurt him like the pathetic weasel. You heard of marriages like those in the media, on television, where the man hates his wife but listens to her incessantly nag at him over and over again. Neither of them leaves, though, and you wonder if they're just going through exactly what's going on right now. 

 

The voice that crawls from your parted lips is beaten down; you remember your place in this world that is portrayed in every aspect of your life, how you were doomed to take this road. “You're gonna do the Long Walk, huh? March your ass into glory and drag me along like a fucking trophy?” The venomous tone no longer laces your words; you're in front of the door, and you can leave at any moment. 

 

There's no one making you fight but you.

 

“You think I'm just another asshole with a savior complex? That's completely fine. I won't lie to you that I'm as terrified for this shit as anyone, but I planned every goddamn step of this. Every move. Every fucking compromise to guarantee the future I want.” You roll your eyes at his words, you don't believe him, but you don't even want to say anything anymore.

 

You allow him to continue.

 

“I've mapped out a way to survive this shit storm. How to win the Long Walk. How to make sure won't rot in this dead-end life our parents signed us up for by bringing us into this world.” Your eyes find him, throwing your lashes, and his eyes crease at your expression, “You think I'm doing this for kicks? I'm choosing to do this shit for nothing?” “I think you're doing it for control. For the fucking ego trip like every guy that signs up for it does.”

 

Hank inches towards you, “Please, I'm doing this before I'm sick of watching the people I care for get chewed up and spat out by society. You don't think I don't see what this arrangement is doing to you and how I'm trying to help guarantee you a future where you're not stuck here?” The young man speaks with his hands, you watch as they move almost like they're dancing, and you can only hang your head low at the situation, “I don't need your help. I don't need you to pretend to me that you care when you're just another guy who wants to just manhandle me…”

 

You find your hands at your sides, finding the ends of your top as your fingers hook at the seams and tug it up above your belly button. Yeah, let's just show him what he wants… You grumble before you feel the heavy-handed grip that causes your wrists to stutter to raise the shirt above your breasts. Hank's breath hitches as he pushes your hands down, your fingers tighten their grip on the shirt as you continue to try and pull it up, and you feel the tears brimming in your eyes. 

 

“Puh-Please,” You mutter, feeling the hot tears rolling down your cheek in pure exhaustion. Your body was stuck in this fighting mode, always on pins and needles around anyone who could overpower you. Wanting to try and be nice is only a fear response, and bearing your teeth allows those to understand that you won't go down without a fight. “Just ge..Get it over with.” You whimper, Hank watches as the tears fall on your wrinkled shirt and his hands. 

 

You need him to just fuck you already.

 

“Wha–What the fuck are you doing?” Hank surges; he's trying to make sure he doesn't accidentally hurt her wrists or leave any bruises. He just wants her to stop. “Clementine–Fucking–Stop.” He struggles with your hands, tears blurring your vision, with your body as sturdy as stone. “What's the matter? I'm too ugly for you to fuck? You're gonna put a paper bag on my face? Cover my mouth so you can imagine it's someone else?” You only sob through your words; they're muffled and melted together as if you're just slowly becoming a puddle.

 

Hank is trying his hardest to be gentle with you; he's forcing your shirt back down, and he fumbles with his hands, shaking in fear, like touching you too long would cause you to shatter in an instant. “I'm not here to fucking hurt you–Just, calm down–” He tries to hush your sobs as he listens out for your parents in the living room, “I'm not trying to break you–I don't want this–Not like this.” The man feels you snatch your wrists away from him, he lets go of you quickly, your disheveled state illustrating your mental state. “Then what the fuck do you want from me?” You scream, “What's gonna happen when I get your home–Am I for your father!? Which one of you is gonna fuck me!?”

 

There's a silence that falls between the two of you, out of pure shock, there's nothing said for some moments as you both listen out for your parents in the other room, there's a pause before you hear footsteps making their way over towards your room. You quickly wipe your face with your palms, and your mother is quick to open the door, “Is everything alright in here, Hank?” Your mother doesn't break eye contact with the young man; he quickly nods, “Everything is alright, ma'am, just us having a heated discussion about…our children's names.” Hank moves in front of you, it's almost instinctively, and you shrink behind him with your head falling in between his shoulder blades with a quickness to start up your dissociation as you await your mother to berate you. 

 

Your mother wastes no time putting a smile on her face, “I'm glad you two are getting along on that front. I also debated with my husband about names, especially when it came to my little Clementine.” Your mother coos, you pray she would just dig her nails into your forearms once more instead of allowing her to plant the candy trail to her sandal that awaited your arse. Your mother closes the door, you listen to their conversation continue after she reaches the living room, and you pick your head up, disappointed that you almost wasted a good daydreaming session on such a fickle moment. 

 

Hank turns around to face you. He puts both of his hands on your shoulder, and there's relief on his face to find your defeated expression meeting his exhausted eyes. The man takes a knee, and soon enough, he's on both knees, his posture still on point as he balances his body on just his shins. “Clementine, I'm gonna be honest with you here, I just want you to listen. Can you please do that for me?” There's a plea in his tone, you look down into his eyes, and you watch as the sun shines through those ebony eyes to show those deep pools of honey you had been yearning for since you saw that Polaroid of him.

 

You only nod absentmindedly. If he tried to hurt you, there was an easy way for you to scratch up his face or punch him in his mouth with enough strength to knock out a tooth.  

 

“I've trained for the walk like it's war. Calculated every route, every supply drop at the goddamn variable. I'm going to win it. Not for the glory, or some bullshit legacy, or the wish that could change the world. For my family.” Hank pauses, waiting for your pessimism, another way to put him down and snatch the rug beneath his feet, yet he's only met by your furrowed brows and your bottom lip folding under your top one. “Like it or not, you're a part of that family now. You don't have to be a part of it, though, if you wish that maybe you don't want to be with me even after I won, and I understand if that's so. We don't have to have kids if you don't want to; we can always adopt or go through surrogacy because my parents want grandchildren, and I'm willing to give them that.” 

 

Your voice is quiet, “You sound so fucking sure…” Muttering out a quip that only gets shot down with a quick enough calculation on Hank's part, “I am. Because I've done the math. I've done the work. I'm not going to let your fear—or mine—burden my chances before I even get the chance.”

 

Silence falls between the two of you. You can hear from the other room how your mother is beginning to run out of conversation topics. You're not surprised, given how long it's been since we both were in the room and how now and must have tipped them off that you guys have been arguing about something. You sigh, you crumpled against him, not out of trust—but exhaustion. He spends all your harsh words in those letters that you sent over and over again, just to be met by the same phrases. You were surprised that they were all handwritten, and he hadn't used a printing press. 

 

Hank freezes in confusion; he doesn't know whether to hold you or give you space, until slowly, you slide to the floor. Your knees against his ass, you feel your chin get caught on his shoulder, you can feel the way he trembles beneath you, the fact that you could scare him the way you had been brought you great confidence, but that pride only left your heart with an emptiness that nothing seemed to fill. 

 

“We won't ever have sex?” You muffled into his shoulder, feeling his shoulder slouch a bit in relief at you being able to communicate with him. You can feel his head bob before his hands find your upper back, rubbing it soothingly. “We'll never have sex.” Hank’s hushed whisper lulled you into the nap that awaited you after it all.

 

That was all the acceptance he wanted from you.

 

From that day on, the wedding was to be planned, you allowed his mother to choose it all, and he, just as you both came to understandings of what you two made up with one another. You and Hank stopped exchanging letters after that day; instead, he would make the long trip alone to your abode, dropping off gifts to your mother, and the two of you would enter your room. The two of you did not do much talking; in fact, he’d just tell you about all the gifts he brought you and the wedding traditions that would be done on the day of the wedding. 

 

“My mother would like you to join her as she and the rest of my family get together to watch the Long Walk.” You only nod, “As is my duty.” The man only blows a low raspberry before he begins to take out the fits from the basket one by one, explaining what each of them represented, who they specifically came from, and so on. Your family would be making their way to the venue of their choosing. Honestly, you were grateful to get out of the house when you could. Now that you were promised to another, your father stopped his awful comments; he went back to using your mother, which you suspected, as her words had become harsher on you during the days leading up to the wedding. 

 

When putting on intricate pieces and patterns that made up the fengguan xiapei that Hank’s mother had worn to her wedding, she was in awe of your beauty as she did your makeup for the day. Your mother stayed in the room with you, as you were lulled into this make-believe wonderland where Mrs. Olson cradled you as if you were her own. You cut your mother out of the picture because after this day, you would be staying with Olson’s family and driving up to where the Long Walk’s starting line would be in the next week. 

 

You knew in your mind that this could not be a permanent arrangement, for the Long Walk only guaranteed one winner amongst the 50 boys across the states walking alongside your husband. You try not to doubt it, to hold your head up high as you lead down the aisle and towards Hank. Your eyes half lidded, you try to imagine yourself as an actress in a movie performing a scene to please the audience that's followed you around your whole life, their boos, their laughs, and their criticisms now etched into every move you make.

 

The ceremony went on, without any hiccups from the constant training and rehearsals you had undergone with Hank and his family; you were almost overjoyed to not have made a fool of yourself in front of his and your family. There would be the end, though, you remembered those scenes in the movie where the bride and groom look to one another with their loving gazes as they slowly brought their lips together and skipped their way into their Happily Ever After.

 

You would be helping your husband to his grave. 

 

The look in your eyes, from what Hank could tell, was the same mediocre expression you shared whenever presented with the reality of your situation. The young man kept track when your eyes lit up, when your eyes glazed over or softly lidded, showing you were stuck in the back of your mind, escaping the situation once more, and the look on your face now that showed him you were already over this ceremony. You find your hands on the back of his neck, his freshly chopped black strands soon engulfing your fingers as you find a place to grip the back of his head, and you feel him mirroring your actions. You feel the way his warm fingers slowly ride up the nape of your neck and find themselves cradling the back of your cranium. 

 

You don't look him in the eyes, but you can feel those large black pools filled with hope and honey begin to call and beg for you to meet their stare. You feel your heart pang, you need to satisfy the onlookers once more, you begin to pull his head towards yours, pushing it harshly, but trying to play it off in a playful manner to those who were viewing the ceremony. You want them to believe you’re both playing coy, two young teens falling in love with each other and finally able to spend the rest of their lives together.

 

However, Hank puts a stop to your plans.

 

Hank knew it; Hank always knows.

 

With that, you feel his knuckles glitch around your skull; they keep you in place as you pull his head closer to yours. You're disgusted by his newfound strength in preparation for the Long Walk, you're embarrassed he's able to overpower you, and you're in fear for the ways you'll have to manage through the pain during the wedding night. There's a warmth that finds your forehead. Two petals that brush softly against the center of your dome with the gentleness as if you were a newborn child. The hand begins to loosen its grip, causing your eyes to flutter open, your gaze being met by your husband's chin as he imprints his lips into your skull.

Some thoughts flood your memory, the ones where they shove their tongues down your throat, and they bite at your flesh. You've never been kissed on your forehead, even those who brought gifts just waited for you to accept them with a smile before their hands wrapped around your torso and forced you down into the mattress. 

 

You're overwhelmed by the feeling, your eyes dazed as you're engulfed in this newfound love. Your eyes begin to water, your throat closes up, and you try to make sure you can collect all the oxygen in the world before you pass out. Fingers loosen on his scalp, and they find themselves sliding down to his shoulders as they graze against the material of his outfit. You feel heaviness in your lids, the brimming of tears as they begin to slowly but surely make their way down your cheeks like a child who's been lost for so long.

 

The world is silent in that moment, as you feel his hands slide from the high point of your head and allow the soft yet calloused fingers to find the sides of your face, he drags his index fingers along your jaw, and his thumbs softly wipe away the tears as if you were a porcelain dish. You feel his lips slowly pull away; there's no spit to connect you both, and you're wondering how something so mesmerizing can come from such a vile creature. 

 

The world around you plays, the cheers are loud, and the claps signify the end of the ceremony. You find your eyes heavy with more tears following down your cheeks, your bottom lip quivering, and your whines almost like a stubborn puppy fighting sleep. 

\

Hank's thumbs continue to clean up your eyes, ignoring the makeup that may smear off; he just wants to guarantee that you're no longer covered in tears. His eyes are on you once more, they're coddling you in the deep dark pools of honey that thickly surround you and beg for you to soothe your aching muscles.

 

In an instance, you feel your knees buckle under the weight, you stagger to his body, and with open arms, he allows you to take the plunge into his chest. You're met by the smell of his cologne, it's strong but soft, he doesn't smell like the woods or bourbon, but hints of vanilla and floral arrangements that lull you into the idea that you're just a child being cradled by your mother after just fighting for your life coming out of her womb. 

 

As you lay side by side in your wedding bed, still in the clothes you wore from the altar, with a look of anger and frustration eating you alive as Hank disrobed. You prayed that he remembered what he promised you; alas, you assumed that this meant you had to mirror his actions. Were you surprised? No, you had been dreading this day since you were first betrothed to him, and as you slip off the garments and the clothes gather in a heap on the floor, Hank is quick to put his hands over his eyes as he turns his body to face you.\

 

“What are you doing?” He demands,  “I beg your pardon?” “What?” 

 

“I mean, like, what do you mean?”

 

“Just say what do you mean, the fuck is beg your pardon?”

 

“I'm just speaking respectfully to my husband,”

 

“Clementine, please…”

 

“If you're expecting us to have sex, then I'll put out, not because I want to, but because I have to provide you with children, as is the contract.” “The ceremony was overwhelming for you, I understand. I saw your dazed expression over and over again throughout it.” You rolled your eyes at him, “I mean, do you really expect me to give a damn?” “Oh, so you don't care.” “I never cared to begin with.” You hiss before you go back to taking off the clothing. Hank huffs, “Would you like me to get changed in the bathroom or would you want to?” You tilt your head before scoffing at him, trying to play off his perversion, “Please, let’s just hurry up and get this over with.” 

 

 

 

Hank stops, you hear him freeze in place, and you listen to the low mumble that leaves him, “I don't want that.” You turn your head to look at his covered face, and you see he’s standing there in a white tank top now untucked from his black pajama bottoms. You grimace at the sight of his exposed collarbone, you see a bead of sweat from the embarrassment of just being the same area as a naked woman,, Hank feels your stare begin to peel him away at him and the only thing he can really do is just await your response, you know it, you hold the cards in this exchange but it won't be like that for long, he'll eventually force you.

 

Eventually.

 

“Oh, please, that's all you want.” “No, that's-” “That's why you're taking off all your clothes, you're signalling me to do the same, and if that's what you want then just say that–” “I don't want that–” “Don't lie to me, just say it.” “No-” “I won't be into this regardless, just hurry up and get it over with–” “No—I just fucking—Give me a second”

 

You’re suddenly cut off by him uncovering his face and looking at the floor, quickly rushing over to the bathroom connected to his room, the door unintentionally slamming behind him. You stand in your underwear, conflicted about what to even say at this moment. You stand there dumbfounded for justice a few moments before you yell, “Hiding your fucking boner, you pathetic fucking–!” Hank's voice is booming through the door, “In the third drawer I have shirts  you can wear and in the fourth I have sweats you can wear as well, or large shorts if you’re more comfortable in that!” A silence falls between the two of you. It's as if he's waiting to hear your feet against the floorboards, and you give in. You make your way over to the brown drawers. You see above it a large fish tank with one lonely beta fish, it's a bright red, and her fins are large and flared, you’re amazed by her appearance before Hank cuts off your daze.

 

“Three down, four down.” He clarifies, you scoff as if you didn’t understand him before, regardless, you slide it open and collect a random shirt, and in the lower drawer, you pull out some basketball shorts. You slip them over your underwear. “You gonna let me get some socks as well?” You hear a groan, ‘Fucking, Christ’, “Sure if you need to borrow some.” You roll your eyes as you close both the drawers and make your way back towards the bed. The springs bounce as you sink into the mattress, allowing your legs to hang off and kick softly as you await your husband.

 

He’s clearly mumbling something to himself, a mantra to allow him to overcome whatever he is trying to overcome. You just wait there like all the other guys who have gotten soft in your presence. 

 

Soon enough, the bathroom door clicks open, you don’t move from the bed, and your legs continue to sway whilst you hear his bare feet smack against the floorboards as if he was terrified of him bothering you, even though his presence had already done that. You listen for him making his way around the bed, his slowness just making it more noisier, you don’t comment though, you know he’s fully aware of the ass he’s making of himself.

 

It almost brings a smile to your face.

 

As his body hits the bed slowly, you feel yourself sinking a bit more into the mattress; your eyes don't meet each other as you both stare at the ceiling fan that continuously goes in circles. You’re both fixed on it, making sure your limbs don’t come into contact with one another. You allow this noise to drown out your predicament with an awkward teenage boy, one you were unfamiliar with, as many of your clientele had been older men with the money of their own. You were surprised by how shy he was acting around you and how he softly fidgeted in the bed, making the sheets quiver a bit beneath you. 

 

“Can you teach me how to blow gum?” Hank asks, your brow quirks up in confusion before you turn on your side to look at him with the same dull look in your eye from the altar, “Is that a euphemism for sex?” “What?” “Like popping your cherry? My mother lied to you. I have no cherry to pop. It’s okay if you’re a–” Hank lets out a frustrated groan, “No,” He exaggerates, “it’s not a euphemism for fucking.” You bring your hands to your side to pick up your upper body, your husband turns his back to his side to face you as well, he doesn’t pull himself up to mirror your pose, but his eyes find yours under the warm light of his ceiling fan. 

 

“During one of my visits, you were smacking on some fucking gum like crazy, like everyone was loud in the living room when your brother and father were there, but all I could hear was you on that piece of gum just going crazy.” Hank then sighs, “And you blew it, everyone can do that, and they'd explain if I just asked, but…” “But what?” Your posture slouches a bit. “You're too much of a man to admit that you need help.” Hank’s eyes begin to widen a bit, he brings himself up to your level as he gives you a coy smile, “I know, right? So fucking pathetic.”

 

There’s another pause between the two of you; it seems you’re both lost in what to do now, you can hear his heart pound against his chest, and he can hear yours, but you both wonder if your own hearts were the actual ones being so loud. You can't help but stare at his eyes, portals into the soul which only shone a baby deer yearning for you to grant your wisdom of blowing gum. 

 

Had you missed out on this in high school?

 

You don’t even remember schooling, your grades were great or your arse would’ve turned black and blue, but those ties after school when you were put to work by your mother continued to stay diligent nightmares that were slowly beginning to diminish after you got your period. Hank’s eyes creased a little, his large black pupils took up so much of his eye you wondered if your eyes were just an inferiority to his, they darted left to right like a cat clock before he cleared his voice. 

 

“So, uh, will you teach me?”

 

“Y’know, vulnerability doesn't get you pussy anymore, man.”

 

“Just teach me how to blow the fucking gum.”

 

You snicker before he rolls over to his nightstand, pulling up the small drawer that reveals different types of snacks, and he pulls out some bubble gum after digging for a while. He hands you a stick, and you both pop it into your mouth. Step by step, you take your time explaining the trick. You both know why you're here, and you know why you both exist, why you're stuck here tonight with each other, and as you both lie there, you two do nothing but pray for the night to end.  You were selected by his parents, a tradition that's carried on and on, and now here you are, teaching your husband how to blow a bubble. 

 

Your jaws ached into the night, your tongue getting tired of swirling around, and the gum losing its flavor as you kept trying to teach him how to blow the bubble.

 

Although Hank never got it, it didn’t stop him from trying every day.

 

You’d help on the farm, little things like collecting eggs from the hens, tossing the seeds, and checking on crops. You weren’t too fond of the work, but anything beat having to be under some sweaty pig as he pinched at your sides in hopes of hearing songs about the symphonies. As the days passed, you learned many things about the Olson home, such as prayer before dinner, the name of his beta fish that turned out to be a he named Astro. You watched as Hank’s mother would disappear after prayer to feed her husband dinner, who had become bedridden in the following months. 

 

The upcoming spring allergies had been eating him alive; that’s what forced Hank to learn how to drive, to get his license. You followed alongside him; in fact, he was the one who taught you. It seemed those days with Hank only became fleeting memories; it seemed like days passed by in seconds when Hank left for training, while you took care of the farm alongside his mother. The woman was soft and kind-hearted; you felt the relief in your feet when you were forced to wear boots.

 

You longed for this day, the heels that had crushed and forced your feet into the small shape that kept you on pins and needles, now you were allowed to slouch on the porch with lemonade. A warm meal that you didn’t have to do all by yourself, his mother admires your readiness to help, but she knows she cannot allow you to do all this work when you were supposedly supposed to be spending your time before the call date happened. 

 

You saw the letter; it was pinned above where his clothes were picked out for the day he was to take the Long Walk:

 

Dear Mr. Hank Olson, 

 

Congratulations!

 

Your military submission to participate in the Long Walk has been accepted through a lottery. 

 

You now have the rare honor of representing your state as a symbol of Hope in these economically desperate times. 

 

The entire nation will be watching the live broadcast with admiration and awe.

 

If you win, unimaginable riches and a single wish await – a chance to break free from today's financial struggles and inspire the nation.

 

Please report to the starting line on May 1st by 8:00 a.m.

 

Good luck to you, Mr. Olson.

 

In the following days, some of Hank’s extended family came; they didn't see him much, as you did, he was too busy guaranteeing his victory. Though every morning you'd wake up before him, he'd be up at 6 AM, and you'd pretend to be asleep, bundled up in the blankets. It was instinct; as soon as the weight of his presence left the bed, your eyes would snap open. There you would hear how he reached for a piece of gum from the nightstand on your side of the bed. You'd then feel him push back whatever was in his way, and he'd plant a soft kiss on your forehead, the first few weeks you stayed up all night waiting for him to do something to you in your sleep if that's what got his rocks off.

 

Soon enough, you exhausted yourself waiting for him to hurt you. You ended up falling asleep right after him, as soon as his body hit the bed, he'd make sure the blankets he used were separate so as not to disturb you, and in fact, thought about getting another twin bed so you two didn't have to be so close. You only shook your head as you stared at him in the moonlight, his features highlighted as through his window that blinded you whenever you first woke, without his body there to shield you, it was the first thing to wake you. 

 

Hank's family was very positive, they did prayers, and you joined in hopes to help guarantee his safe return to his family. You remembered having a big feast on the back-out date; you had been reading the rule book when Hank was in the shower. You looked at the calendar to see the date of the walk, and in your mind, you marked a big red circle in hopes of convincing him otherwise that maybe this wasn't what he needed to do. You're reading through the book once more, and when you hear the water stop running, you quickly rush away from it and make your way towards the bed.

 

Watch as the water drips down his thin black strands, allowing you to graciously look at his face that has been sculpted so lovingly, and you're lost in the beauty that is your husband. He doesn't stand out in a crowd; in fact, you're sure you'd have to look for him, but when he opens his mouth, you're sure of the fact that you'd find him in an instant. “What are you staring at?” His voice is joking; there's a cautiousness to it, regardless, he's just toying around with you. When he looks down, you smile, and when his eyes come back up, you're quick to remove it. “I just want to do something with you before you go…” Your voice is sultry, you bring yourself on all fours as you make your way over to the end of the bed towards him.

 

The tone in your voice is unfamiliar; you're trying to coax him into something as your voice drips with lust, but the young man stops you, though.

 

“I'm sorry?”

 

“Y'know, I want to give you one night of…passion, before you go to the Long Walk and maybe after we can talk about some things.”

 

Hank can see the look in your eye, it's as dazed as it was on your guys’ wedding day. He doesn't take the bait and instead sits on the opposite end of the bed.

 

“We can talk now.” 

 

Oh, so that's how it's gonna be. 

 

“Hank, the back-out date is tomorrow...” 

 

“And?”

 

“And, I want you to back out.”

 

There's no hesitation in your voice; in fact, you're demanding him to stay with his family, “No.” “Yes.” You coo, it's grating on Hank's ears as he winces away from you, “No.” It's stern, and the relaxed look on your face becomes hardened. “I know that you're desperate to help your family, but—” “But?” “—This doesn't make you noble! It just makes you—it makes you selfish.” You spat at him, “You have a great life, a loving family who just wants to see you alive each day, although there are things wrong, you're happy. And you want to throw everything away for a 1 in 50 chance you get your wish granted?” Hank rolls his eyes, “This isn't about the wish, it's about what this could mean for the future of my family, to allow them something to fall back on for when my father does.” You scoff at this, “If you think burdening your mother with the death of her son and her husband is helping, then you're twisted in the mind.”

 

A silence falls between the two of you before Hank takes a deep breath, puts both his hands on his knees, and picks himself up off the bed. “Listen, if you don't think I'm gonna make it, just say that, I'll quell those fears and show you all the notes I've taken down and all the work I've done—” “That doesn't guarantee shit!” You snap at him, your pupils pounding in rhythm with your heart, before you find yourself hunching over on the bed, “I'm doing everything I can to make sure that I can do this, and you doing this the day of my back-out date isn't going to change anything.” You feel your heart swell in disgust, that he's willing to die for this, to die in that stupid outfit he's prepared–You only got your brother's body because he was at the starting line, everyone else's is scattered on the route–Not even a guarantee for a body in his casket.

 

“You're gonna die, you're gonna die for something that's not even guaranteed, your odds are slim to none.” Hank is quick to snap his head away from you, he can't look into your eyes and see those pleading puppy dog’s that are just needy for the chance to be chosen once, he can't give you this now and with the care you're still holding back from him you can't imagine him giving in to care for you anymore than you do himself.

 

A suicidal man, preparing his death without a care in the world for those in his family who love him, his mother who'll weep for him, his father who will have to die believing his son made it, and a family grieving the loss of another loved one. 

 

You can't allow yourself to put hope in him; you have no hope in him, and you never have. 

 

You will never have hope in him. 

 

Signing, you accept this fate before you, a man who won't even look you in the eyes just for fear of folding in your embrace and crying like the little boy he was. It wasn't his job to sacrifice his life for the sake of his family; he knew that more than anyone, he resented the system that forced him to go. 

 

Lambs to the slaughter.

 

Nonetheless, his feeding into a system did nothing but help it thrive. There was no real way for him to fight, even if he rejected and backed out right now, another boy would go in his place, and what if it was someone he knew, another random young man taken away from all he's ever known to go die off in some places far away from his home state? 

 

It wasn't just about him.

 

It was the future that not only impacted him but everyone around him, especially you. 

 

Both of you slept in silence; you couldn't turn to face him once you bundled yourself up in the blankets. He called your ‘name’ though. “Clementine…” A soft hoarseness of his throat, you feel his body bounce in the bed as he sobbed, his last night in his bed, “Clementine…?” The tone held no restraint in emotions, almost like a child. You could feel your heart swell. You wanted to turn around, to coddle him and tell him how he would make it, how he would come back safe to his family, and he'd be able to help everyone the way he always wanted to.

 

But you couldn't.

 

It was his choice to do this. 

 

You can't give him what you want because you knew it would never be returned, your cruel fate in this world that awaited you over and over again. 

 

“Cle-Cluh-Clementine…?”

 

Nothing, pure silence, before his sobs began to become louder. You couldn't dissociate this time the sting of the tears in your eyes, now consuming you once more as you buried your face into the pillow to muffle your cries in hopes the sun would rise once more. 

 

When the day finally came, you were the one to drop him off; his mother would stay to watch over his father, and his family wished their farewells. You stayed outside near the car, a pack of gum in the pocket of your jeans, and you absentmindedly chewed it with hopes it would allow you to forget what was awaiting you. 

 

The door closed; however, it was the last time he'd leave his house. 

 

You both make your way into the car, you stare at your shoes, unable to look him in the eyes as you start up the car, and he makes his way into the passenger side. You watched the road like it was the only sure thing you had left in this world. You didn't blink when he glanced over you; you could feel those soft and wet eyes yearning for you to return that soft glance to reassure him that he was doing the right thing. When he was met with nothing, he went back to studying the rule book. The road stretched on forever, and the space between them only became bigger and wider. The radio wasn't on, neither of you reached for it, and you decided to bask in the silence as if it was both your punishments for being so cruel to one another.

 

Hank was torn. You look like the stranger wearing the face of someone who used to be ready to put him down, to put him in his place, to tell him exactly what he was doing wrong so he could fix it immediately. Hank was sure he'd return, sure he'd make it through all the trials and tribulations, even this one happening between the two of you. Hank knew that it wasn't even guaranteed you'd stay with him in the first place when he won; in fact, he offered to help you move along with your life if your plans did not have him in the picture. Though he wasn't sure what hurt more: that you said nothing the whole ride over, or that he understood why.

 

Your husband took a nap; you had hoped he'd get all the rest he could in, but knew he would want to be by you as he headed over, another reason he was going on this one-way trip. You needed to have faith in him, that he would make him, that all those months of waking up in the morning and all those long nights of preparation would allow you to kill yourself in the security of his future, that he may return to you.

 

Alas, as the soldier asked for Hank's ID and they did not return it to your hand, you felt as if his fate was sealed. Your heart sank once more, and as you pulled up to see a few other cars, most likely having to make the same long journey over as you did. You wondered who was there to see their sons off, their friends, their loved ones. You unlocked the doors, and you both stepped out at the same time. There were a few boys already there, and there were hugs and cries that surrounded the two of you as you both looked at one another with the same glazed-over look.  

Hank had put stuff on the hood of the car, sifting through his possessions about what he was going to leave and what he was going to take. You did nothing but idly watch as you leaned on the car door, you watched as the sun that had just awoken bathed your husband's features in a loving warmth, and prayed that it'd stay consistent with the weather. You prayed it wouldn't rain, that he was warm enough in the outfit he had chosen, that his baseball cap would shield him from the sun, that the others on the trail wouldn't irritate him, that the walk wouldn't take too long, and that the boys who had also been walking would take sympathy on your husband.

Hank can feel your gaze; he doesn't know if you realize that your eyes are glossed over with tears that you're holding back until he leaves. He's always admired how you were so in control of your emotions and how spineless he was to his. How could you stand with your head held high even if you were wrong? You were built up by this world in a way that he wishes would rub off on him. If it were you on this walk, there would be no doubt you'd make it through. “Are you raring to rip?” You had joked during the grand dinner, his family asked, and you told them how he kept mumbling it to himself while he slept. Cousins continued to utter the phrase whenever they saw him zone out, “Are you raring to rip, son?” His mother cooed, leaving you all in awe as she smothered her son in kisses. “Yeah, you've got to be raring to rip.” You snickered, causing his cousins to join in alongside you. His mother would pinch your cheek as she planted a kiss on your forehead as well. 

 

You continued to watch as Hank collected his belongings, and you wondered if he was also thinking about hopping in the car and driving out of the state. Escaping and never returning. You knew that even in his selfishness, he still had this desire to return home, to grace his mother and father with the fruits of his labor. You admired it. You watch as Hank slung a satchel over his shoulder, and you slowly make your way to the front of the car where he stood. He froze in place upon hearing the familiar clacks of your heels against the concrete. 

 

The two of you needn't say a thing, your arms wide open as your forearms wrap around his neck. You slowly but surely feel his arms snake around your waist, and you're sick to your stomach as you look past him to those before him. There was definite competition, and you could do nothing but just watch those boys from afar in hopes they'd all drop dead at the finish line. It was an awful thought, you didn't wish harm to the people who didn't deserve it, but God, did you just want him to turn around and stay with you? As you feel this gnawing feeling in your chest, you wrap your arms around his neck, and the tighter your embrace becomes, you feel your eyes begin to strain.

 

Hank could feel the tears on his shoulder that began to soak into his shirt. You hoped that you'd be able to snap his neck in your grip, and a guard would shoot you dead for interfering with the walk. Your ribs close around your organs, a tight corset made to keep you in place as it pinches you away from him. You pull away from the hug, you don't wipe your tears in hopes he wipes them for you, but if he wiped them, you'd remember that he wouldn't be able to wipe your tears anymore. You two stood in front of each other, with Hank's eyes just as puffy as they were the night before; you mirrored it tenfold with the tears rushing down your cheeks and staining your skin.

 

“Cle-AHEM-Clementine,” The clearing of his throat is what brought your head up from your shoes to face him once more. You looked at your husband's sobering expression with the aching of a fool. You only nod, you know if you dare utter a word, you'd break out into a sob that snowballed into pleading for him to stay, you couldn't do that to him now that he was here. 

 

Hank lets out a soft sigh, yearning to hear your voice but basking in his punishment for uniquely hurting you this way. “Can I, uh, have a piece of gum?” The way he rubs the back of his neck as his eyes dart around to keep himself from also folding in your presence eats away at your exterior. You only nod as your hand begins to quiver as you reach for your back pocket. You know you can't take too long; if he keeps standing, he'll lose his energy. 

 

You struggle with the flap, plucking out just one piece of the gum before you hand it to him. You make sure there's enough room between your fingers from the tip of it to make sure he wouldn't be able to feel your touch again. It wasn't for him, it was for you. If you felt him one more time, you'd grab a soldier's gun and light the whole area a blaze.

 

Though you know that wouldn't solve anything. 

 

Not now.

 

Hank reached for the gum in your hand, his index and thumb barely latching on, almost missing it through the sea of his tears that blurred his vision. You just wanted to shove it in his chest, but you couldn't touch him. 

 

You couldn't touch him.

 

You couldn't touch him.

 

You couldn't touch him.

 

You couldn't—

 

“Get back to the house safely.” 

 

Hank puts the gum in his pocket as he turns away from you. He adjusts his baseball cap as he pulls it down to hide his eyes, and you quickly make your way into the car. 

You two part ways, separate journeys that required trust in one another and yourselves. But you could never trust yourself, trust another not to hurt you the way you had hurt yourself today.

As you pull out, there's only the radio to fill the gap that Hank's presence left, as you turned the dial, Jeff Buckley began to play–

It's never over.