Falling to pieces <//3 [Cici]

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If given the option, they all say they’d rather live my life than a tribute’s. They are all fools, for they have yet to understand how daunting time can be. Wouldn’t you rather die fighting than waiting? I have time before my death, although in such a narrow frame. The girl and the boy that get picked from the crowd at random once a year—they don’t have time. Yet, they have hope.

There’s a one-in-twenty-four chance they may survive. Their deaths are so quick, with a sword through the stomach or a tear across the neck. Some, of course, are not fortunate enough to have such a painless death, yet some still are. It seems daunting, to be pitted against twenty-three others in a fight to the death.

Still, the idea that one child will always make it out safely strikes me with an immense amount of envy. I’d rather die with hope than with nothing.

I am empty, now mere fragments of a torn page, a boy ripped to pieces by life’s unbalanced, hazardous behavior. I am only waiting for death, waiting for it to enwrap me in relief and take me away from this dreadful feeling.

Knowing that you have nothing left--it seems so much worse than being able to hold onto that last breath of hope. The only thing that separates me from death is time: so little time. When I watch the children dying on television, I see the drive and the determination sparkling in their eyes.

I wish I knew how to want something that badly. Yet, I don’t. The emptiness that fills me is real; I can’t want anything, for once I do, my life’s end will have already caught up.

Sure, I may be overdramatizing this all; I don’t actually know when I will die, but the doctor who came to our house other day says my deformities are becoming more severe. Severe enough to end my life? Maybe. Yet, that doesn’t give me any more hope than the doctor straight-out saying, “You’re going to die tomorrow.” My future doesn’t exist. And it isn’t even a battle of life vs. death. Instead, it’s all a battle between dependency and self-sufficiency.

The fact that I am basically glued to this wheelchair beneath me only goes to show how little of an impact I will ever have on this world we live in. There’s nothing I can do that will ever change who I am, or even moreover, change the people around me. I’m just Rix McKinney, and it will be a relief when the world finally rids itself of my existence.

I couldn’t help myself this morning. Even though I really shouldn’t be out on my own, I am. My parents are both asleep and Sadie—well, let’s just say that pulling her out of bed before three is going to be a challenge. Saturday is the one day of the week when I finally allow myself to be free for a few minutes, as risky as that thought may be.

I grip the sides of my wheelchair, rolling it just a bit further. I have to work hard to get it to move, for my arms are too frail to handle such a task. Pain fills the bones in my arms, yet I push a little harder. I don’t want to fracture anything, but what’s life without a bit of risk? Especially when you know your death is approaching anyways? Especially when every happy moment you have left is worth a century of smiles? Careful is a word long-erased from my vocabulary, for I am much too desperate to grasp all of the life that I never had the chance to experience. #YOLO

I’ve covered up the mirror in my room with a thick layer of cloth. I’m too afraid of what I’ll see when I look into those hollow eyes, so devoid of life. Sometimes, I think of what those eyes could have been—full, happy, successful. I think of how tall I could’ve risen, with my chin up in the air, my confident stride leading me down the path to happiness.

Yet, nearly everyone towers above me, looking down at my infinitely deteriorating state. They all have a future ahead of them: a future that I could have possessed too. Maybe they’ll find a job in the district, fall in love, or even raise a family. But me…I know I’ll never get that far, no matter how long I live.

I push myself only a bit further, until I’ve reached the park at the end of the block. I should be allowed this much independence, shouldn’t I? When I arrive, it isn’t empty like it usually is on early Saturday mornings. Rather, a small cry fills the air. I don’t hear it at first, for my reception of sound isn’t the greatest—but when I do, my eyes scan the trees until I finally spot the girl. Black hair, darker skin, short in stature: she looks young as she pounds her fist against the tree. I can’t see much, but I can tell that she is only doing herself harm. I inch forwards in my wheelchair, ignoring the unsteadiness in my arms.

She drops to the ground, her eyes closed as she sobs against the tree. Again, I inch forward, my heart beating faster. Maybe it would be better to merely walk away, get home again. Yet, my naturally good instincts are compelling, pulling me towards this distressed young girl.

Still, I don’t want her to see me; I don’t want her to see the frail deformed boy in the wheelchair, so useless and helpless in every way possible. Modesty pulls me back, but empathy pushes me forwards. The stalemate I’ve put myself in is finally broken when I arrive close enough to see the girl’s hands. The blood that seeps from them is an effect of the bark’s rough texture, and my protective instincts quickly kick in.

I wish I could bend over, help this girl up, and tell her to stop crying; but my physical contact with people is so limited. Everything about me is limited. Why can’t I just be like all of the other boys, tall and protective, ready for anything to come their way? Why can’t I even give someone a proper hug without fracturing something in my spine? Oh, yeah, because I’m unlucky. Whoever decided to hand out luck sure decided I didn’t deserve half as much as everyone else.

Those are the people I am most envious of: the lucky ones.

“Are you okay?” I finally manage to let out, only a few feet away from the girl by now. I doubt she noticed my presence. “Your hands...” I say with pity, yet I don’t know what else to add. I’ve never been good at cheering people up. I have so much empathy for people, but so little communication with them.

I immediately feel intimidated by this young girl. Although I am years ahead of her in age, she is most likely years ahead of me in ability and independence. Nevertheless, I try not to let it get to me as I move my wheelchair an inch closer, self-consciously.

Suddenly, I see the resemblance and the puzzle seems to fit together much too perfectly. Chole. This girl. Same skin tone, similar eyes, similar hair. Sisters? I feel guilty for not knowing everyone in the district. It isn’t that big of a place to be quite honest, but when you’re stuck inside all of the time, I guess that’s what you get.

“…You’re Chole’s sister,” I say timidly, trying my words. Again, I’m at a loss for speech. My throat is dry and I don’t know what to say. Maybe she can see it in my eyes—the empathy, the pity, the lost feelings. Maybe I don't have to say anything. But I do. “I’m sorry,” I manage to murmur. I really am.

I want to help her off the ground, but I can’t.

I guess that’s what you get for being unlucky.

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