[.} this life is like a sleeping mountain {.][Aya]
Feb 5, 2012 19:59:14 GMT -5
Post by WT on Feb 5, 2012 19:59:14 GMT -5
And you can't go back but you're going back
And you don't know what you'll say
When Aranica walked into the waiting room, she was the only person who felt like the world was reeling. No one noted the arrival of a quiet young woman with both hands clenched nervously in her pockets and most of her dark hair tucked into a cap. Only one person looked up, and even he gave her only a split second of attention before leafing through his magazine again. The rest were wrapped in their own worlds—a receptionist scribbling away at the desk, two young children playing with stuffed tigers, a teenager engrossed in her music, various adults crowding around the television screen to watch a tribute. Somehow feeling both soothed and sickened, Ara signed her name on the waiting list and settled into a chair near the children.
The man with the magazine disappeared behind a door. As she watched, the children grew bored with the stuffed animals and wandered over to join the Games watchers, eyes wide and curious. They were shooed back to the center of the room, where they resumed their game, this time using the stuffed animals as mutts and each other as tributes. Aranica squeezed her eyes shut and clutched one of the arms on her chair, trying to block out the noise.
It's going to be all right, Aranica.
I don't know, rock. It isn't, usually.
You don't seem to be dying.
That doesn't mean anything. Everyone is always dying. We kill each other, when we're not killing ourselves. Despite herself, she peeked at the children. How old were they—six, five? And playing with death. In a clinic, of all places.
Not so different from what you did, cloudhelper.
Enough, clouds. She has enough cracks for now.
Her own fault, as usual. And to the contrary, there is never enough lightning in a life.
"Ms. Petros?"
Aranica looked up gratefully. While she wasn't ready to face the possibilities that the man in front of her represented, they were better than the past that waited for her behind her eyelids. The future, at least, was not indelible. "You're ready for me?"
"Absolutely. This way, please..."
None of this matched her expectations. Prior to this, Aranica's only experience with professional medical attention had been directly after her own Games. She had been on the verge of death; there had been no time for formalities or comforts. Her only memories of that time were black thoughts and white walls, overlain with a devastating cold that could have lingered from the ocean or slipped in from the doctors' instruments through the very holes they were trying to fix. Summoning the courage to set foot in another medical center had taken hours, and even now the back of her mind simmered with a mixture of cloud-thrown taunts and her own anxiety.
So half an hour later—after several tests, three overly perky adults in white coats, a series of confusing questions, and a great deal of not-always-comfortable poking and prodding—Aranica did not entirely trust the final doctor's cheerful, "Good news, Aranica!" The fact that nothing bad had happened to her in this building did nothing to dispel the sense of dread that spurred her to clench one hand around her rock and look up at him with wide, frightened eyes. Pulse pounding behind her eyes, she nodded hesitantly, willing the man to go on. He did so with merriment that frightened her more than any sober delivery could have. "You're pregnant!"
"Fuck." Aranica sighed the word without malice. It was resigned more than angry, and segued almost seamlessly into a soft groan as the victor crossed her arms over her stomach. Looking anxious, the doctor reached for the small trash can beside him, but Ara shook her head. "It's all right, I'm not going to be sick. I just... I don't... Shit." She lifted her head to look at the doctor. Suspecting and knowing were entirely different things, and while she didn't feel the sharp sting of shock, her fear had deepened considerably. "I don't know if I can do this."
The doctor's smile wavered, as though he couldn't entirely believe that someone would be upset about this news. She supposed that was reasonable—young children were such bright, happy presences—but a small part of her couldn't help but resent him for not recognizing how bad this was. How horrible a mother she would be, how dangerous it would be to ever take her baby outside, how terrifyingly high the odds would be stacked against it, how unfair it was that she was just starting to pull her life back together and now it was going to be torn to shreds all over again in an entirely new way.
Aranica put her face in her hands and sobbed once, a dry heave that did nothing to relieve her feelings. A hesitant hand touched her shoulder, then pressed down harder, a gentler warmth than she would have expected from the previously overbearing man she was sharing the room with. Surprised, the young woman raised her head to find the man looking at her with an expression that had solidified somewhere between regret, determination, and compassion. "You may not have to, but that depends. What are you willing to do?"
---------------
Another two hours, and Aranica still didn't have the answer.
Half of that time had been spent in the office, first talking and then pouring over brochures that held more mechanical encouragement than actual advice. The rest had been spent on the streets, hands shoved in her pockets as she meandered down the least Games-besieged roads, hugging close to the buildings and staring through the sidewalks into nothing.
Of one thing, she was positive: adoption wasn't an option. The child of two victors would have lines of Capitolites applying to take it home, but she didn't want anyone to grow up subjected to the scrutiny of cameras. Staying in District Twelve would be even worse; at least if she left it in the Capitol, she would always know that the child had no unfulfilled needs, and she would never pass one of the dilapidated orphanages back home and wonder whether she had subjected another child to that life. Either way, no child of Aranica's was going to grow up wondering why its mother hadn't wanted it.
Keeping it was hardly better, though. What kind of mother would Aranica make? Disregarding the possibility of turning into her own mother (and it would make so much sense, so much horrible sense), she had no idea how to take care of anyone. She couldn't even take proper care of herself, as Bellezze was fond of pointing out irritably. Include the aforementioned possibility, and the mess became a tragedy waiting to happen.
Which left abortion, the one option that seemed to make some proper sense. Thinking about intentionally ending another life twisted something deep inside of her, but she couldn't ignore the odds stacked up against the baby—odds that, given her family history, were sure to come to life in the worst possible ways. Forcing anyone to live in this depraved country was cruel enough; throwing them in the face of the clouds and the Capitol was worse still.
And besides, as the mostly-useless pamphlets had reminded her several times, she had her own life to think about.
Aranica groaned and dropped into a bench, putting her face in her hands. This would be so much easier if she could hear the fetus. Who better to talk this over with than the very subject of deliberation? She didn't understand why she couldn't. Was it already human enough to have a hidden mind, like the people she passed on the street? Or was it still too much a part of her to have a mind at all, a mere mass of cells like her hand or foot?
Of course, Mace had to have a say in it. Aranica was trying not to think of him, but she really couldn't avoid it. He deserved to know, and deserved to see his opinion have some weight—and she could use an extra opinion, for that matter. But she was so nervous around him these days, one moment smiling at him and the next fleeing, and she didn't think she could handle talking to someone who terrified her about something that terrified her. Not yet.
A thought sprang to mind unbidden, one that she had not had for some time: What would Dru do? For a moment, Aranica remembered her sister's pale hair and cold, beautiful hands, and allowed herself to smile fondly. The expression—and the sentiment—faded slowly as she realized the answer. If she thought having a baby would help her, Dru would keep it, and if she thought it would harm her, she would find a way to get rid of it. It was perfect logic, but it was too black-and-white a view for something that seemed so complicated. In life and death alike, Dru had preserved Aranica's life and sanity, but she could not help with this.
She hardly had anyone else to ask, though. The obvious answer was to go to Lethe, who must have been in the same position at about this time last year, but she hardly knew the other victor well enough to waltz in and start personal conversations, especially while they both had tributes to worry about. Bellezze was the only female in the Capitol who Aranica knew particularly well, but she wasn't comfortable enough with the stylist; she could never figure out whether the woman cared about Aranica for her sake or for the sake of having someone famous to display her fashions on every year. Arbor was hardly an option.
Was he?
Adjusting her cap idly, Ara considered whether going to her former mentor was a good idea. The two hadn't been talking nearly as often lately, even with the Games to put them in direct proximity. Actually, the Games only widened the distance. Aranica hadn't had a proper conversation with her fellow victor since the very night that had landed her here. As with the past few Games, he had been spending more of his time out drinking than paying attention to the Arena—not that Ara blamed him in the slightest. There were times—usually twenty-three to a Games—when she ached to join him, and would if it hadn't been so hard to hear properly with alcohol clouding her brain. The clouds got louder and the rocks got fuzzier, and old memories swam up to haunt her. Time bent like in her dreams, only worse, because she was awake enough to think it had to be real. And when she came to, head aching and stomach roiling, all she had to show for the experience was a pile of guilt exactly as large as the one she would have accumulated while watching the televisions.
So no, Aranica couldn't begrudge Arbor the escape she so often longed to find for herself. But it did drive something of a rift between them. Besides which, he was truly awful at offering advice or comfort, and they both knew it. A conversation about this would undoubtedly leave the younger victor exactly as confused as she had started and the elder rather more uncomfortable than he otherwise would have been.
But he was her friend. And even when he wasn't being technically helpful, being around him was comforting all on its own.
Shrugging, Ara stood and brushed off her pants. It was the best idea she had.
---------------
Doubts continued to spiral through her head the entire way back to the training center. Reason after reason why this was a bad idea crossed her mind--he would be out, she was intruding, this conversation would be too straining--but she kept going, too afraid of the dearth of options that would face her if she turned around. She kept walking, stayed in the elevator, found his room, raised her hand to knock.
Then she stopped. For a split second she suspended time, holding her breath and her hand in place as if she could somehow stretch the moment into an eternity. If she never knocked, if she never talked about this, maybe she could ignore it. Maybe it would just go away...
But then she had to breathe, and the moment of cowardice was forcibly dragged from her with the dregs of air from her lungs. Nodding to no one in particular, she completed the arc and knocked, a rapid series of soft raps. "Arbor? It's Ara."
You've got half-formed sentences
Explanations for a life half-broken away
(( "Shasta (Carrie's Song)" - Vienna Teng ))
And you don't know what you'll say
When Aranica walked into the waiting room, she was the only person who felt like the world was reeling. No one noted the arrival of a quiet young woman with both hands clenched nervously in her pockets and most of her dark hair tucked into a cap. Only one person looked up, and even he gave her only a split second of attention before leafing through his magazine again. The rest were wrapped in their own worlds—a receptionist scribbling away at the desk, two young children playing with stuffed tigers, a teenager engrossed in her music, various adults crowding around the television screen to watch a tribute. Somehow feeling both soothed and sickened, Ara signed her name on the waiting list and settled into a chair near the children.
The man with the magazine disappeared behind a door. As she watched, the children grew bored with the stuffed animals and wandered over to join the Games watchers, eyes wide and curious. They were shooed back to the center of the room, where they resumed their game, this time using the stuffed animals as mutts and each other as tributes. Aranica squeezed her eyes shut and clutched one of the arms on her chair, trying to block out the noise.
It's going to be all right, Aranica.
I don't know, rock. It isn't, usually.
You don't seem to be dying.
That doesn't mean anything. Everyone is always dying. We kill each other, when we're not killing ourselves. Despite herself, she peeked at the children. How old were they—six, five? And playing with death. In a clinic, of all places.
Not so different from what you did, cloudhelper.
Enough, clouds. She has enough cracks for now.
Her own fault, as usual. And to the contrary, there is never enough lightning in a life.
"Ms. Petros?"
Aranica looked up gratefully. While she wasn't ready to face the possibilities that the man in front of her represented, they were better than the past that waited for her behind her eyelids. The future, at least, was not indelible. "You're ready for me?"
"Absolutely. This way, please..."
None of this matched her expectations. Prior to this, Aranica's only experience with professional medical attention had been directly after her own Games. She had been on the verge of death; there had been no time for formalities or comforts. Her only memories of that time were black thoughts and white walls, overlain with a devastating cold that could have lingered from the ocean or slipped in from the doctors' instruments through the very holes they were trying to fix. Summoning the courage to set foot in another medical center had taken hours, and even now the back of her mind simmered with a mixture of cloud-thrown taunts and her own anxiety.
So half an hour later—after several tests, three overly perky adults in white coats, a series of confusing questions, and a great deal of not-always-comfortable poking and prodding—Aranica did not entirely trust the final doctor's cheerful, "Good news, Aranica!" The fact that nothing bad had happened to her in this building did nothing to dispel the sense of dread that spurred her to clench one hand around her rock and look up at him with wide, frightened eyes. Pulse pounding behind her eyes, she nodded hesitantly, willing the man to go on. He did so with merriment that frightened her more than any sober delivery could have. "You're pregnant!"
"Fuck." Aranica sighed the word without malice. It was resigned more than angry, and segued almost seamlessly into a soft groan as the victor crossed her arms over her stomach. Looking anxious, the doctor reached for the small trash can beside him, but Ara shook her head. "It's all right, I'm not going to be sick. I just... I don't... Shit." She lifted her head to look at the doctor. Suspecting and knowing were entirely different things, and while she didn't feel the sharp sting of shock, her fear had deepened considerably. "I don't know if I can do this."
The doctor's smile wavered, as though he couldn't entirely believe that someone would be upset about this news. She supposed that was reasonable—young children were such bright, happy presences—but a small part of her couldn't help but resent him for not recognizing how bad this was. How horrible a mother she would be, how dangerous it would be to ever take her baby outside, how terrifyingly high the odds would be stacked against it, how unfair it was that she was just starting to pull her life back together and now it was going to be torn to shreds all over again in an entirely new way.
Aranica put her face in her hands and sobbed once, a dry heave that did nothing to relieve her feelings. A hesitant hand touched her shoulder, then pressed down harder, a gentler warmth than she would have expected from the previously overbearing man she was sharing the room with. Surprised, the young woman raised her head to find the man looking at her with an expression that had solidified somewhere between regret, determination, and compassion. "You may not have to, but that depends. What are you willing to do?"
---------------
Another two hours, and Aranica still didn't have the answer.
Half of that time had been spent in the office, first talking and then pouring over brochures that held more mechanical encouragement than actual advice. The rest had been spent on the streets, hands shoved in her pockets as she meandered down the least Games-besieged roads, hugging close to the buildings and staring through the sidewalks into nothing.
Of one thing, she was positive: adoption wasn't an option. The child of two victors would have lines of Capitolites applying to take it home, but she didn't want anyone to grow up subjected to the scrutiny of cameras. Staying in District Twelve would be even worse; at least if she left it in the Capitol, she would always know that the child had no unfulfilled needs, and she would never pass one of the dilapidated orphanages back home and wonder whether she had subjected another child to that life. Either way, no child of Aranica's was going to grow up wondering why its mother hadn't wanted it.
Keeping it was hardly better, though. What kind of mother would Aranica make? Disregarding the possibility of turning into her own mother (and it would make so much sense, so much horrible sense), she had no idea how to take care of anyone. She couldn't even take proper care of herself, as Bellezze was fond of pointing out irritably. Include the aforementioned possibility, and the mess became a tragedy waiting to happen.
Which left abortion, the one option that seemed to make some proper sense. Thinking about intentionally ending another life twisted something deep inside of her, but she couldn't ignore the odds stacked up against the baby—odds that, given her family history, were sure to come to life in the worst possible ways. Forcing anyone to live in this depraved country was cruel enough; throwing them in the face of the clouds and the Capitol was worse still.
And besides, as the mostly-useless pamphlets had reminded her several times, she had her own life to think about.
Aranica groaned and dropped into a bench, putting her face in her hands. This would be so much easier if she could hear the fetus. Who better to talk this over with than the very subject of deliberation? She didn't understand why she couldn't. Was it already human enough to have a hidden mind, like the people she passed on the street? Or was it still too much a part of her to have a mind at all, a mere mass of cells like her hand or foot?
Of course, Mace had to have a say in it. Aranica was trying not to think of him, but she really couldn't avoid it. He deserved to know, and deserved to see his opinion have some weight—and she could use an extra opinion, for that matter. But she was so nervous around him these days, one moment smiling at him and the next fleeing, and she didn't think she could handle talking to someone who terrified her about something that terrified her. Not yet.
A thought sprang to mind unbidden, one that she had not had for some time: What would Dru do? For a moment, Aranica remembered her sister's pale hair and cold, beautiful hands, and allowed herself to smile fondly. The expression—and the sentiment—faded slowly as she realized the answer. If she thought having a baby would help her, Dru would keep it, and if she thought it would harm her, she would find a way to get rid of it. It was perfect logic, but it was too black-and-white a view for something that seemed so complicated. In life and death alike, Dru had preserved Aranica's life and sanity, but she could not help with this.
She hardly had anyone else to ask, though. The obvious answer was to go to Lethe, who must have been in the same position at about this time last year, but she hardly knew the other victor well enough to waltz in and start personal conversations, especially while they both had tributes to worry about. Bellezze was the only female in the Capitol who Aranica knew particularly well, but she wasn't comfortable enough with the stylist; she could never figure out whether the woman cared about Aranica for her sake or for the sake of having someone famous to display her fashions on every year. Arbor was hardly an option.
Was he?
Adjusting her cap idly, Ara considered whether going to her former mentor was a good idea. The two hadn't been talking nearly as often lately, even with the Games to put them in direct proximity. Actually, the Games only widened the distance. Aranica hadn't had a proper conversation with her fellow victor since the very night that had landed her here. As with the past few Games, he had been spending more of his time out drinking than paying attention to the Arena—not that Ara blamed him in the slightest. There were times—usually twenty-three to a Games—when she ached to join him, and would if it hadn't been so hard to hear properly with alcohol clouding her brain. The clouds got louder and the rocks got fuzzier, and old memories swam up to haunt her. Time bent like in her dreams, only worse, because she was awake enough to think it had to be real. And when she came to, head aching and stomach roiling, all she had to show for the experience was a pile of guilt exactly as large as the one she would have accumulated while watching the televisions.
So no, Aranica couldn't begrudge Arbor the escape she so often longed to find for herself. But it did drive something of a rift between them. Besides which, he was truly awful at offering advice or comfort, and they both knew it. A conversation about this would undoubtedly leave the younger victor exactly as confused as she had started and the elder rather more uncomfortable than he otherwise would have been.
But he was her friend. And even when he wasn't being technically helpful, being around him was comforting all on its own.
Shrugging, Ara stood and brushed off her pants. It was the best idea she had.
---------------
Doubts continued to spiral through her head the entire way back to the training center. Reason after reason why this was a bad idea crossed her mind--he would be out, she was intruding, this conversation would be too straining--but she kept going, too afraid of the dearth of options that would face her if she turned around. She kept walking, stayed in the elevator, found his room, raised her hand to knock.
Then she stopped. For a split second she suspended time, holding her breath and her hand in place as if she could somehow stretch the moment into an eternity. If she never knocked, if she never talked about this, maybe she could ignore it. Maybe it would just go away...
But then she had to breathe, and the moment of cowardice was forcibly dragged from her with the dregs of air from her lungs. Nodding to no one in particular, she completed the arc and knocked, a rapid series of soft raps. "Arbor? It's Ara."
You've got half-formed sentences
Explanations for a life half-broken away
(( "Shasta (Carrie's Song)" - Vienna Teng ))
