Free arbitrate (daynight) by Megan Thomason Page B

action. Join millions like you and Stand Up for what you believe. Stand Up against big business and lobbyists who don’t have your best interests in mind. Stand Up for more security, better education, better healthcare, and zero unemployment. Don’t sit idly by and watch our country continue its downward spiral. Stand Up and be heard.”  
    Henry had organized weekly Stand Up rallies at thousands of locations throughout the country—an evolution of Occupy Wall Street and flash mobs that were more popular than concerts or televised sports. Sit-ins were a thing of the past and considered passive-aggressive. Stand Up s were a literal standing tribute to diversity, an unbroken chain of supporters spanning miles unified in their desire to have my Uncle Henry reign supreme. A single campaign worker would start the chain, dressing in red, white, and blue, and holding a large American flag—and then one by one, fueled by social media blitzes, people would join the chain, snaking it through and around each city—in essence, taking it hostage. People left cars abandoned, walked off jobs, and ditched school to Stand Up .
    “We will Stand Up. We want more. We want King.”
    Gads help us all.

    Present

    I wake up from a short nap in a terrible mood, likely because I dreamed of Jax and Kira doing everything but sleeping in my bed back on Thera. I’d like to stay here and avoid them indefinitely, but I went and found them so I could develop a relationship with my son. And I will not let either Kira or Jax scare me away from that.
    Just thinking about the meeting with the Ten and how Jax and the Arbiters played us makes me livid. I think Jax purposefully provoked me into dragging him there by gunpoint. He could have easily left before I showed up and found him with Kira on my office couch. It’s not like he didn’t know I was coming.
    I nearly killed him. I can still feel the weight of the revolver in my hands, the cool feel of the metal against my skin, my finger pulsing against the trigger.
    I still want to kill him.
    Gads, I hate him.
    I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror above my dresser and barely recognize what I see. Dark circles under the eyes, unshaven face, expression that screams failure. I hate that guy too.
    I grab the lamp off my nightstand and hurl it into the mirror.
    Shards of glass clank everywhere.
    It’s oddly therapeutic.
    A tall marble glass cat comes to mind. My mother got it for me as a housewarming gift. I stalk out to the living room and seize it. It’s heavy and awkward and the perfect accessory to mayhem.
    The bathroom’s my next destination. I flip on the light switch and take a deep breath. Is it so wrong to want something to be more broken than me?
    As I slam the cat into the mirror, the falling pieces clang out a musical masterpiece. A single chunk of glass remains hanging, showcasing the smirk on my face. I pry the heavy cat from the broken shards and send it flying through the glass shower door.
    The statue lies at the bottom of a mound of glass. I roughly yank it out cutting my hand in the process. My blood drips, cascading down the mountain of debris like a river of death pooling at the bottom in a sea of woe born of my grief.
    Ignoring the blood and pain, I loosely wrap my hand with a towel and then purposefully march into the kitchen. There’s more hatred to unleash, despair to release, anguish to expel.
    I target the glass paneled cabinet doors. They’re always collecting dust.
    The marble cat helps me beat the crap out of them.
    Onward to the living room. I swing and bash and crack until the TV’s beyond fixing.
    Crash. Glass coffee table explodes.
    Clunk. Sofa table’s in pieces.
    I’m looking for my next victim when the front door opens.
    My visitor looks at me like I’m a crazy man. I’d plead insanity, but that’d be as big a lie as he told me.
    “Ethan?” Alexa says tentatively. “What’s going on?”
    Perhaps a little levity can lighten the situation. “Well,