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Chapter Two 𓅪 An Empty Promise, A Bottle Of Rum TW // drug addiction (alcohol/morphling), drug use, child labor, guns, police brutality, toxic family situations, violence, parental abuse (physical), gaslighting, underage drinking.
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𝕭yatt's stirring nudges the blanket off Madaket's leg and jolts her reluctantly into the world of the living. She squeezes her eyes shut against the light bleeding red through her eyelids, clinging to the last fading moments of her dream. It was a good dream, for once. She and Byatt had been outrunning a group of furious Peacekeepers, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, howling in laughter as they skipped across alleyways and scrambled over solar panels.
Nightmares are rare when Madaket sleeps at Byatt's apartment, even close to Reapings, when all she dreams about is the Hunger Games. Most nights, Byatt is Madaket's only anchor in a tide of gruesome images, the one person that grounds her when she's unsure whether she's awake, or still trapped in a nightmare. At Mom's apartment, Madaket wakes up from her nightmares drenched in cold sweat, and has to run freezing water over her face to prove for certain whatever terror she'd been dreaming was over. At Byatt's, all she must do is reach out and touch the warm skin of her best friend, count her steady heartbeat for clarity. It's peaceful sleeping next to someone she loves. Here, her nightmares are somewhat bearable. Here, waking up in the morning is a pleasant task, not a daunting one.
Byatt stifles a groan as she rises. Begrudgingly, Madaket forces herself to wake up as well. Golden sunlight filters through the aged-yellow lace curtains, illuminating the mess from last night's dinner. Filthy napkins lay strewn about the table, scraps of food cemented dry to the plates, already starting to stink. Bleary-eyed, Byatt stacks the dishes as quietly as she can.
"Mornin'," Madaket whispers as she sits up and stretches out her stiff spine.
"Good mornin'," Byatt murmurs back, grinning at the sound of Madaket's voice. "Keep it down. Kids are still asleep."
Madaket nods and glances around the room. Tryn, Myra, and Myca are curled up beneath their blankets by the space heater. Their little faces are unmoving, mouths hanging open, eyelids twitching feverishly as they dream. She can't fight the smile that lifts her tired features. There's an intense yearning deep within her heart to have more mornings like this. Mornings where she tip-toes so her siblings can stay dreaming, listening to their calm, peaceful breaths. She glows from the inside out as she joins in on silently clearing the table.
On the fire escape, Byatt scrubs the dishes in a pail of collected rainwater while Madaket washes the napkins with a bar of soap and a brush. They work to a clamor of voices from the apartments and the street below, water splashing and car horns honking. Even on the ninth floor, the smoggy air stinks of car exhaust and cigarette ash and trash fires. By the time Madaket finishes draping the napkins over the windowsill, Byatt is slotting the dripping dishes into a drying rack. They dump the pail over the fire escape railing (after making sure nobody is standing below them, of course) and clamber as soundlessly as possible back into the living room, snapping the window shut, and lugging the dish rack to the kitchen.
