blood runs thickest // ines + yani

ines izar

The end of the world is coming. Every year come to pass brings with it another number to add to my age. It’s something that I can’t hide from, can’t outrun. I understand it now. Know how the universe works these days – the give and take, how everything comes with a price.

A memory of a shutting orphanage door and the cost of my freedom, the promise I made to the woman on the other side of the wall.

A memory of a year where no Izar names were Reaped, but two scared children still had to die.

Five Reapings down. Two to go. Then, I’m a free girl. A free Izar, I wonder what the price to pay for that future might be. It’s a reality few get to experience.

(Whoosh – the walls close in on you.)

“Haizea Rose-Izar!”

A voice, it should have been you.

(It should have been me.)

There’s blood on my hands, and no matter how many times I try to scrub at the skin, the stains still remain.

(Whoosh – the air carries particles of monoxide directly into your lungs.)

“Elise Krane!”

Faces in smoke, death circling, lingering in the spilled blood, it should have been you.

(It should have been me.)

My breath comes back to me, ragged and frigid. Sporadic exhalations that scream in relief as the tightness in my chest abates. The guilt doesn’t fade, though. It’s simply absorbed into my blood. This is the weight of being an Izar child.

I tried talking to Nekane about it all – the heaviness of my emotions, more complex than those of an orphan living in a sheltered world. I thought she might have been upset to see her distant relatives succumb to the fate of a Reaped Izar – or worse, be angry that they had been lost when there was a perfectly good sacrifice waiting in the wings. But it’s so hard to read someone you know so little about.

“They’re not real Izars.”

“Save yourself for the ones who matter.”

I think it means she’s okay. That I haven’t disappointed her. Yet. Her unspoken words are never far from the surface.

Nekane has done her best to keep me away from the rest of the Izars. She essentially exiled herself from the rest of the family the day she adopted me, but something tells me she doesn’t really care. The few times we’d had visitors had usually been Mayor Vasco coming over self-invited with a plate of Emma’s cooking and a fresh brewed pot of tea. On those occasions, I’d been ushered into the attic and told not to come down until Nekane came up to rescue me, when we were alone once more. I would wait for the silence signalling that Vasco had finally given up trying to pry answers out of Nekane about me, where I was, who I was.

If I was braver, maybe I would have spoken up sooner. Asked if we could go to just one extended family dinner. Begged for the chance to be a part of a real family. But I think I felt like I didn’t have the right to my new name. Like it was something to be earnt, and could only be truly mine with the ultimate sacrifice.

But sixteen is an age of promise. A new dawn, a blossom on the breeze. Another year older, but it doesn’t feel as frightening this time.

Sixteen year olds don’t have to listen to their adopted mothers. Sixteen year olds earn the right to explore the world, make new friends, make mistakes. Sixteen year olds are allowed to walk right into the Mayor’s garden and knock three times on the back door and greet a cousin you’ve only spoken to before in letters.

YaniMarie Izar is the famed golden daughter of District Eleven. Everyone knows who she is – even me, a girl so sheltered from the rest of the world. The differences between us are tenfold. When she enters a room, it lights up. When people look at her, they smile. When people see the happiness she brings to her father’s face, they have to look away when they realise how easily it could be erased. How quickly it could all come crashing to the ground.

When she opens the door, she grins wider than you ever would have thought anatomically possible. Her skin radiates a warmth that could only come from growing up in a house so full of love. It takes every ounce of strength to stop from hugging her straight away, on the off-chance that some of her warmth might transfer to me.

I’ve never felt more self-conscious in my life.

“Hi, umm... I’m Ines. But I guess you knew that already, right? It’s so nice to meet you finally! I can’t believe I’ve never been over here before.”

She stands in the doorway like she wants to invite me inside, ready to play the perfect hostess – I can see the words about to leap off of her tongue. But something about the impending invitation feels too intimate.

She scares me, if I’m being honest. She is a juxtaposition to my life, and she doesn’t even realise. Something about talking to her this intimately feels dangerous; but then again, talking to anyone has always made me nervous.

I stumble quickly over my words before she can make me an offer I don’t know how to turn down. “Do you want to go for a walk?”