All That Is [Left] Us // (Shrimp)

When I was younger, Momma had a box of cough drops. It was kept under lock and key, or placed on the highest shelf where an energetic, ambitious five year old wouldn't be able to reach for it with her stubby little fingers. They were always amazing: glucose-filled tablets that tasted of cherries and summer and love that I was addicted to. I would feign sickness, develop a cough so terrible that my throat would be dry and screaming in agony just to acquire a small piece of paradise. If I can just get one more, I'll never do it again, I would think. But then weeks would pass and my addiction would flare up once more, and soon my mother realized the powers of my acting prowess and stopped giving them to me altogether.

While we were not the richest family in District 6, and could purchase another box of sugar-sweet syrup with enough savings left to spare, my mom was never one to waste a single thing, be it a ripped-stocking or a broken glass. "We can use it for something else," she would say in her high-pitched voice, and the two of us would spend the days spent holed up in her cubicle fashioning ourselves scarves out of our "chic" rags or making mosaics with leftover glue and sharp shards of shattered ceramic. So, needless to say, when she found out that I had not been sick and simply wanted to taste the candy that sat in a tin box on top of the refrigerator/hidden under the bed/crammed into the highest cupboard, she was beyond mad.

"You're ruining our principles," she had moaned, and locked the ruby orbs far away where I'm not even sure she would be able to find it. But I was a sneaky child, and a few years later I unearthed the stash hiding under a floorboard in the attic, and rejoiced, sneaking back up every so often to gaze at the stars glistening through the dirty skylight and nibble on a piece of heaven. Yet it wasn't the same, for each time the flavors melted down my throat, I could hear her accusing tone in my head, reprimanding for failing to follow her few rules. And it hurt, because out of everyone in the universe, my mother was, and still is, the only one whose opinion mattered.

I haven't touched a cough drop since her passing, until today. It's been eight years since I last saw her eyes look at me for the last time before I was ushered out of the room as they began to glaze over with pain and emptiness. The tin box was exactly where it had been left, turned into a thriving metropolis by insects that collapsed as I made my way into the room with a broom and protective layering. But then, to my dismay, the gleaming droplets of sin had been reduced to a single sticky blob, overrun with bugs that had become encased in its tar and had died a grisly death. With superhuman strength I had vanquished the evil-doers and somehow removed the bloody remnants from the tin, which sparkled as little by little, years worth of caked on candy was broken off with snaps and tears.

Then, all that was left was a clean box and an empty heart. So I attempted to fill both by making my way to the confections shoppe at nine o'clock, not bothering to tell papa where I was headed - he wouldn't care anyway. The only one who cared for me at all is already decomposed six feet underground, her frame the only thing remaining of her glorious laugh and gleaming silver eyes. Not even the cashier cares that I've purchased junk rather than essentials, which has helped him stay alive for one more week as he rings up my purchases (a tin's worth of hard candy whose colors range from the most invisible "clear" to the deepest black all the way to the most vivid "cough drop red") with a mumbled "Thanks," and dead eyes that speak of hardships and a fragile facade. He barely even looks as I dump the contents of the plastic bag into the tin with a large clunk, and wander out into the darkness sans guardian, sans friend, sans anyone.

And now, here I am, standing in a familiar square with dead grass and silent laughs that echo throughout my memories until I swear that I can truly hear us laughing as we eat our sparse sandwiches and watch the skies as momma points out Orion and Lepus and Eridanus that even now sparkle above my head, their anachronistic way of being opening memories best left reminiscing when happy and energetic. The laughter is truly loud now, and for a second I wonder if I've turned schizophrenic when I realize that there truly is someone here with me and that this is dangerous I shouldn't have come what is my problem? I turn to my right to see a figure cloaked in the shadows, her whispers barely audible in the night's music that whistles through ears and causes the tree(s) to dance.

It is only when I move closer that I recognize the voice; it's Calli. Calliope Bloom is the girl who had it all; she was so smart and kind and so, so determined to make a name for herself that I felt a pang of envy every time I saw her scribbling answers down in chemistry class while I was forced to resort to comparing the compounds to names of stars in the hope that I would acquire some sort of partial credit, or when she never flustered when administering a medicine to a lab rat while I shrieked with fright every time it attacked me with yellowed, rotten teeth and evil eyes that howled for my death. Calliope Bloom was my role model, the one who I would try to emulate whenever my tests came back with a mediocre 72% or a Try Harder Next Time. And then, one day, she disappeared.

The rumors said that she had dropped out of school after her brother's death. Aesop had fought valiantly for us, but finally losing to Mace Emberstatt meant that he was so close, yet so, so far. And the Blooms were left without a brother. I never tried to pass judgment on Calliope's decision; she was always smart enough to handle herself without a proper education, and I'm sure - I had to be sure, else I would be wrought with worry and would glance out the window each day to see if I could spot a glimpse of Miss Bloom doing well for herself, that she would handle herself. But now I see her here instead, and I walk quickly towards her figure with a quick "Callie?"

A closer examination of the predicament and I become filled with fright. "What happened to you, are you alright?" I frantically look around, looking for the source of her misfortune - she's not lying towards the sky, so it must be apparent that something has happened. "Did anyone hurt you? Where are they? If they did do something to you I'll... I'll smash their faces in with... With my fist. Are you alright? Okay? Ish?" A stream of babble has sprung from my mouth and somersaulted into the air and maybe some people would have already shut up by now. But I do care for her, not even because I vilify her in every way possible, but because someone has to care for everyone out there, even if the one who cared for me has already moved on into the afterlife. And thus, I don't bite my tongue, rather I look at her face, turned sideways and stained with tears with concern. For she's worth it - they're all worth it, even if it's apparent that I'm not worthy of such things anymore.