Nobody Knows What It Means (Morgana)

Caden McCaughtery

I remember crowds
Where you stand alone right now.

Mondays suck. It's common knowledge. It's the day teachers spring a pop quiz on you, the day you remember that enormous project that's due, and the day the bullies decide to beat you up. Honestly, I had it coming. I don't allow myself to get beat up unless there's a good reason. Telling someone that the particular shade of yellow they're wearing is a monstrosity that looks like it came out of a cat's mouth is a good enough reason for me. How can you live in District Eight and have such a horrible fashion sense? People are probably rebelling due to the terrible clothes we're forced to wear. It's sad, really. Peacekeepers should focus their attention on those of us that dress badly. The world would be so much more peaceful if we all knew how to match.

The boys that beat me up thought they were getting revenge for what I said. I prefer to think that I'm a martyr. Martyrs are always remembered. Except for that old guy that was trampled by a cart last year when he said he refused to move until the Capitol sent him a turkey dinner. But he was crazy, so I don't think that counts.

My ribs hurt, and I'm pretty sure I have some bruises on my arms and legs. It won't be easy going to sleep tonight, seeing as it'll be nearly impossible to find a comfortable position. At least I'm not limping. Mom always gets worried when I limp. And when i tell her it's no big, she thinks I'm lying because I don't want to make a big deal about it. Which is true. Even if my bullies were expelled from school for what they do to me, it wouldn't stop a thing. They'd just drag me into an alley and beat the shit out of me. Needless to say, they'd enjoy every minute. Besides, I don't care. Someday they'll be working for me and wearing my designs. They'll treat me like a god, and if I so much as mention their past torments, they'll beg for forgiveness and kiss my feet. Just three more years, and I can start working.

It's unusually sunny today, so the walk home from school is actually enjoyable. The streets are bustling, people crowding everywhere, pushing to get where it is they need to go. Giant pillow-like clouds float low in the sky. You could almost touch them, I think. Someone shoves into me. I look up, trying to figure out who pushed me. And then I see her. A girl my age, maybe older, crawling along the dirty, trash-infested road. She stops by a building and leans against it. Something's wrong with her, I can tell that from one glance. People don't just go crawling through the streets for no good reason. I pull out of the crowd and make my way toward her. When I get to her, I crouch in front of her so I can see her better. "Hey, are you okay?"

I don't have much experience with drugs - or alcohol, for that matter - but even I can tell she's high. Being high, being on a crowded street, and being a girl is a terrible combination. She could get kidnapped or raped or something if she's not careful. I really don't want to be the one to help her, because honestly, I don't know what to do. But it doesn't look like anyone else plans on helping her, so that just leaves me. I try to remember what my health teacher said to do if one of your friends gets high. Roll them on their side? No, that's if they're crazy drunk. I rack my brain, but I can't think of a single thing. The best thing would be to bring her somewhere to wait it out. But where? Who knows how long this girl's been high, or how long it'll take to get the drugs out of her system! The only place I can think of is home. And Mom and Dad wouldn't be too pleased to discover I'd brought a random high girl I found on the street home. Still, it's better than nothing.

"Come on," I say, pulling on her arm to get her upright. "I'm going to take care of you, don't worry." What am I getting myself into?

Caden McCaughtery

I remember celebrations.

It's a good thing I didn't think this would easy. Otherwise, I would have quite a wake-up call. As soon as I start pulling the girl after me, she writhes in my grip, tries to hit me, get me away from her. She probably has no idea who I am or what I'm doing, so I just keep trying to pull her up and after me. People on the street stop to stare. They shouldn't. It's none of their business, and when I shout at them to stop staring, a few go red and turn away. The rest shift around uncomfortably, but don't seem to care enough to resume their daily lives. They probably haven't seen something this interesting in weeks. Their own lives are too boring, I guess, so they have to watch others to get their satisfaction.

After a while, she gets pretty quiet and just lets me lead her. I check to make sure she's still okay a few times, just to be sure she hasn't keeled over or fallen asleep or something. But I guess she wouldn't be so easy to tug along if she's passed out. It's a lot longer of a walk to get home than I remember, but I've never had to drag someone weighing nearly as much as I do and out of their mind besides. I stop a few times to catch my breath, and I don't think the girl even notices. When we finally reach my house, I pull her quickly through the house and to my room before anyone can see. It doesn't take me long to figure out I'm the only one home, so it didn't really matter, anyways. My parents are probably still working, and Memory's most likely at school, getting some studying in.

I set the girl down on my bed, making sure she stays before I start going around my room, picking up my things. I shove sketches into my desk drawers, pile clothes into my closet. I don't want her getting into anything and hurting herself. When I look back at her, tears are falling out of her eyes. What do I do? I've never had a girl cry in front of me. Or anyone, for that matter. I sit down next to her, considering my options. I could just do nothing, and wait until the tears stop. But that seems kind of cruel, worse than leaving her out in the street. So I reach my hand forward and wipe the rain off her cheeks until she's dry again. When that's done, I don't know what to do anymore. So I just stare at her for a while. She'd be the perfect model to build some clothes around. Her body's perfect for that. The clothes would fit just right, fall off of her in a way that would reveal the full beauty of an article. Maybe when she's back to normal again, I can ask her to be a model for me. That would be amazing.

The best thing for her right now is probably sleep. I leave her for a while, hoping she doesn't move, while I raid the medicine cabinet for sleeping pills. I shake a couple out into my hand and get a glass of water from the kitchen sink, balancing it carefully as I head back to my room. I press the pills into one of her hands and the glass into the other, hoping she understands what to do. If I'm lucky and she falls asleep, I wouldn't mind taking a nap myself.

Caden McCaughtery

But now my reign has run
all the color from
all my decorations.

Thankfully, the girl takes the pills. She probably doesn't have any idea what they are. Maybe she's even hoping they'll be more drugs. On thing is certain: she's fighting sleep like it's death. Struggling to stay awake even as sleep claims her. I try to watch as she fights it, because it makes me feel uncomfortable. I know that I did this to her, and I know that she's suffering. If there had been an easier way to get her to sleep, I would take it now. Anything to stop this.

I move away from the bed, seating myself instead at my desk. I pull out some designs I've been working on and start sketching, adding detail and finishing up lines, connecting them to the rest. I try to ignore the sound of the girl writhing on the bed, falling into fitful sleep. Though I work for twenty minutes, I'm getting nowhere at all. If anything, I'm ruining what once had the potential to be a gorgeous dress. Finally, I put it away, knowing I can't fix it now. I'll start it over later, keeping the bits I like and scrapping the ones I don't. Almost the second after I've put it away, I hear the front door open. I glance at the girl, seeing that she isn't jerking around as much now. I could probably leave her for a second to see who's here.

The second I pull open my door, Mom shouts hello. I walk over to her, ask her about her day, give her a hug. She kisses my forehead like she's done as long as I can remember, then launches into a lengthy story about everything she's done today. When Mom gets to talking, it's hard to stop her. She just goes on and on until she's done, barely stopping to breathe. It's impossible to get a word in. So I just stand there, listening and nodding for nearly half an hour, until she finally stops. Then she asks how my day was, and I give her the standard, one word answer. I tell her I'm going to go take a nap, and it isn't a lie. I'm exhausted. My ribs still hurt from my beating earlier today, and dragging that girl halfway across the District took a lot of energy.

Back in my room, I try to figure out where I'm going to sleep. Not the floor, because, well, it's hard. And if I slept in my desk chair I'd fall out and crack my skull open on something. After a short struggle, I manage to get the girl underneath the covers and sort of to the side, so there's enough room for me to sleep on the edge. I close my eyes, already feeling sleep coming. I'm too tired to care that there's a strange girl in my bed, and that when she wakes up, there's going to be a hell of a lot of questions. I'll deal with that later. Right now, I just want the black to pour over me, for sleep to claim my eyes.

Caden McCaughtery

And I'm fine; I'm just a little lonely.

I dream that I'm swimming through a ocean. I've never seen the ocean, except in books, and I never learned how to swim. There's no place to, and no reason. So I'm just swimming, or drifting, or floating, or something. You'd think it would be boring, but it's nice. It's just me, no one else. I'm not lonely. I just go on and on forever, never getting tired. I am at peace. Suddenly, the water to starts to swirl and drain, like I'm in a giant bathtub. I wait for the water to disappear, and when it does, I am left in a vest, sweltering desert. It's too hot to move, so I just lay there, let the sun bake me alive.

My throat grows dry and parched, my tongue fat in my mouth. All I want is water, so I start to crawl, desperate. But I'm not strong enough, I can't go on. So I stay a little longer, closing my eyes against the red hot sun. When I open them again, I am lying on a bed of feathers. No, not feathers. A bed of geese. They move beneath me, carry me somewhere. I don't know where, and I don't really care. There are bottles of water resting on the bed next to me, and I open them, drink them one after another. I don't care where they take me, because I have water now, and my thirst has been quenched.

The next time I open my eyes, I'm staring at the ceiling of my bedroom. A quick glance at the clock tells me I've been asleep for about five hours. Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I roll out of bed. The girl's still there, sleeping peacefully now. My stomach growls at me, demanding food. My family's probably eaten by now. They usually don't knock on the door ore than once, because they know I won't eat until I'm done with whatever I've working on. I can sleep through pretty much everything, so it makes sense that I didn't hear the call for dinner.

Mom and Dad sit on the couch in the living room, watching something on our blurry television. I slip past them and raid the fridge, returning to my room with two apples, a couple cinnamon rolls left over from breakfast yesterday, and a half-full jug of orange juice. Not the best dinner, but I don't care. I've got more important things to worry about.

I sit at my desk again, eating one of the apples while I wait for the girl to wake up. Juice dribbles down my chin, and I wipe it away. There's darkness outside my window, another sign of the late hour. Well, not that late, but it's proof of how long I slept. I'm nearly done with the apple when the girl begins to stir. I set it down, wipe the remaining traces of juice from my face, and place myself inside her field of vision. "Hello. I know you don't know me, but I-" I cut myself off, realizing I sound a bit creepy. I swallow hard, try again. "You were on the street all alone, and I was afraid someone would try to do something to you, so I brought you here. To my...house." I slow down as I hear the end of my sentence. I don't think there's any way of explaining this to her that wouldn't make me sound creepy, so I just stop and stare at my wall.

"I just, um...I wanted to help," I say quietly, hoping this will fix anything I've said that sounded wrong in any way. Maybe it would have better to leave her. I get the feeling this is going to turn into quite a mess.

Caden McCaughtery

So can I ride on your back for a time?

I know I wasn't expecting a good reaction. You don't just wake up in some strangers bedroom and thank them for peeling you off the street. Even if they did save you from potentially being raped by another random stranger. Honestly, I was expecting her to scream and storm out of the room. Which would alert my parents, leading to even more explaining. Memory might be home by now, too, and though we've never had the best relationship, her finding out I had some strange girl in my room would definitely change the way she looks at me. We barely talk now, so I can't imagine what it would be like if she had that knowledge.

With my parents, I've never had to hide. I can say anything to them, and be myself, wholly and completely. They accept me no matter what, and I know that they love me. But it's not the same with Memory. She's so good. All her time is spent studying. I don't think she has any friends, and I don't think she cares. She's at the top of her class, whereas I'm somewhere near the bottom. I'm not the best at anything. Our parents don't say they're proud of me when we get our report cards; they tell me I've done my best. But for Memory, I don't think my best is good enough. Though it's probably not true, sometimes I think she looks down on me. All I've ever wanted is to be accepted by her. But for some reason, she thinks leaving me alone is good enough.

The girl on my bed starts hurling words at me. I don't flinch or wince as they hit me, I just let them come. She goes on about ugly she is and how all I want is to get in her pants. That particular comment nearly makes me fall off my chair. I've never even thought about that, which is probably strange for a boy my age. I think about random girls getting raped, but I've never had a single thought along the lines that this girl is talking about. I've never even looked at a person and tried to decide if they were attractive or not. It never mattered before. So if this girl says she's ugly, I can't exactly deny it. I don't know what pretty is, except on clothes. And a girl is not the same thing as clothes as at all.

She pulls herself out of my bed and starts heading to the door. She's barely started when she doubles over, clutching her stomach. I jump u from my seat as she falls to the ground, rolling around so she's laying on her back. "Help... Don't want... puke... please," she manages. I grab my garbage and set it next to her, hoping she won't feel the need to vomit. I really don't want nasty smells in my room. But still, if she has to puke, she has to puke. I look around for something she can drink to settle her stomach, but all I see is the orange juice. I don't think it's going to help.

"Do you need me to get you anything?" I ask, bending close to her. I'm not really sure what to do. All of this is quite new to me. "My name's Caden, by the way. Maybe we should get you back in bed? I promise I'm not going to do anything." Isn't that what people say when they are going to do something, though? I'm terrible at this. "Okay, I know you probably don't believe me, but really, all I want to do is help. I don't want to get...in your pants." I can barely say the last few words. I have to force them off my tongue, choke them out of my throat. I'm not comfortable saying them at all, or any words like them. I hope she gets the message so I don't have to repeat them.