.:directionless {cici}

They don't see the price tag, stretched across my forehead, consuming every part of my existence. The dark circles beneath my eyes, the stomach that curves inward, and even the thin, mangled hair that just keeps falling, falling, falling—I come at a cheap price. Back when I was younger, I would formulate a written list of questions full of things that confused me throughout the day, yet most of them were left unanswered. I constantly dreamed of asking Angela, my adoptive parent whom I felt so in debt to, until the day I finally managed enough courage.

“Why do we have to give the food we harvest to the Capitol? Why can't we eat it?”

“Everything has a price.” It was that moment when I realized just how much she'd been paying; her hands were so dry and callused, her face so many years older than her life. “Even freedom isn't free, Khiyyi.” Free from what? It had taken me a year or so before I discovered what it was we were supposed to free ourselves from. And it took me even longer to decide that I would have to pay up, in order to keep Angela from falling into any deeper debt to herself. She payed for my mistakes, and it was about time I took the initiative to take them into my own hands.

There's a price tag on my past, and I can't rip it off until the debt is paid. I look down at the cuts across my forearms; I've never let myself forget that debt, and there's a high guarantee that I never will. Bailey thought it would eat me away; she thought that someday, the personal debt that I've buried myself in would end in a knife driven deeper than just my forearm. But she left. Figures.

I suddenly focus my mind back on the present, increasing my pace as I head towards my night job. My stomach is crying for food; it's realized that grumbling will solve nothing, yet I push the thought away. Still, hunger is like a bouncy ball. Every time I toss it to the ground, it comes back up even stronger. I can't let myself eat, or else I'll have become just as vulnerable as I was twelve years ago when I told those men where I lived, and when they came back with mere ashes. I don't deserve food like my siblings deserve food, and like my adoptive parents deserve food. Taking food from the dinner table has an untold price and I still have so much to pay for.

My steps across the grass are careful and almost silent, as though even walking has a price as I trail through the familiar darkness, yet the silence is interrupted by heavy breathing. I look up from the ground, my eyes flickering to it's source—a boy sitting beneath the streetlamp, hugging it as though holding on for dear life. My primary instinct is to go ask him if he's alright and help him up, yet the pain in my stomach is overwhelming, so overwhelming that I'm not sure how much longer I'll be able to keep myself up. I walk over to the boy with as much stability as I can muster and put my hand gently on his, which is still clutching the lamp post. His hand is cold in comparison to my warm overworked hand. The look in my eyes bleeds empathy as I ask him, “Are you alright?” I hope he doesn't notice the shaking in my knees—the shaking that only gets more severe as hunger takes my mind from me.

Hoping that he thinks I'm doing it for his sake, I sit down on the ground next to the boy and the lamp post, but really, it's only because my knees have given in. I suppose that a few moments of rest wouldn't hurt, nor would a chat with this boy, so I stay there. Good deeds and kindness are always a good way to pay back. Of course, kindness isn't worth much, but considering how much moral debt I've put myself in, being the indirect reason for my parents' deaths, every penny counts.

Maybe someday the pennies will add up and I might actually go down as someone who made a difference in the lives of others. Who ever said there is nothing selfish about being selfless?--because there most definitely is. No one's really selfless, are they? They're all helping people for at least some sort of personal fulfillment. At least, I know I am. If I didn't have a lifetime of mistake following me around, who would I be? Would I still be the girl who works every hour of the day, only to slip her salary into her parents' savings? Would I still be the girl who starves herself for the sake of others? And would I still be the girl who stops to make sure that everything is running smoothly, to make sure that Bailey was okay and that Azalea was okay, and now if this boy is okay? However, I know that the boy will leave. He'll leave and won't come back, just like Bailey and Azalea, because at some point they all tell me that I need to get help, that this isn't normal.

Why can't they see that I'm just trying to help?--I absolutely have to help. Looking at the boy and brushing away the heavy thoughts, I smile slightly. “What are you doing out here? I get that it's nice and quiet, but really, this area gets pretty buggy at night,” I say in my usual light style of voice. “I'm Khiyyi by the way.”

ooc -- Oh hey, look who finally posted. Sorry this is so late and sorry it's like a;orijgoaijfoij

Hunger nips at my stomach like a monster eating me away. This happens too often for me to be concerned, so I brush the feeling away, listening to the boy's words. "I don't usually come out so late... I guess I was just restless."

There's something extremely unfulfilled about hearing that—knowing that some people can be restless, that they can just wander outside and sit down and lose any sense of time. Time is constantly binding me to this dangerous, unhealthy lifestyle I've pulled myself into. I wish I could just stretch time like putty. I wish I could walk across it and even stop it, pause it temporarily. Yet, even I know that this unfulfilled feeling only stems from jealousy, impatience, and possibly contempt. While I'm out here, constantly punishing myself by leaving my bed sheets untouched too often, giving my plate of food over to my siblings, and sweating day and night just so that I don't have to listen to my adoptive mother cry about poor income ever again, I don't see any of those families with food on their tables every night, working anywhere near half as hard as I work.

Every feature in my face screams, “I'm happy,” “Talk to me—I'm listening,” or something along the lines of “I don't judge,” – except for the sinking eyes and the stress, so evident in the lines across my forehead. Yet, I sometimes doubt that loving, innocent Khiyyi that I seem to radiate across the district. Sometimes it's hard not to hate everything, every other part of me seeking to deny that idea.

The guilt in feeling hatred, however, only causes me to hate myself even more. I don't want to be anything but optimism, but when my stomach is too tired to growl and my eyes too tired to remain open for much longer, it's hard to look at the world from an optimistic standpoint. In fact, I find myself drifting off now...

"Oh, and uh, I'm Axsoa,” the boy says, pulling me back to reality. Hunger. I push it away. He's pretty thin himself, covered in dirt and obviously worn down just like everyone else in the district. Trying to keep my eyes open, I start to panic, realizing that I have absolutely no time for this. I don't have time to get to know this boy; I don't have time to get to know anyone for that matter. Do I really know anyone? Does anyone really know me? Sure, I love my family, but what do I know about my adopted siblings' pasts? What do I know about Angela's past? All I know is that she took me in as a foster child before adopting me, and never married. Why hadn't she married? Why had she brought me in? What is this world, that I'm so oblivious to, as I try to conquer something even bigger than myself, trying to erase the past I've been so trapped in?

Where am I going? Who am I? Who are these people? All I'm focused on is my past, my past, my past, but why can't I ever spare a thought for anyone else's? More importantly, why can't I spare a thought for the future? I say I care about others, but do I really? Wouldn't I have substantial, lasting friends if I did? No one wants to be friends with the girl who has a strict schedule with not a second to spare—the girl who falls asleep in the fields, often too weak to even hold the rake right before her. She has issues, that girl.

Questions, so incomplete, fill my head, and I have the sudden urge to understand this boy, my judgments falling to my sides. I can't, though. Time is choking me.

Trying to keep my focus, I take a glance in the direction of the factory. Why had I stopped? I shouldn't have sat down in the first place! I have to get to work! Work, work, work! Refusing to face the consequences of being late, I ponder the idea of getting up, but realize I have absolutely no strength to do it. "So, enough about me. What're you doing out her so late?"  Axsoa asks, and all I'm thinking is “Oh great, what if I don't make it to work on time?” I position the palms of my heads on the ground, ready to push myself to my feet, but the hunger.

“Oh, well, I was actually on my way to my night job,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant although I am quite nearly out of breath and completely devoid of all energy. “I work at the food-processing factory. Should probably...be on my way.” I'm desperately trying to hide the exhaustion and the insecurity in my voice but even I know it isn't working. I push against my hands, managing to get onto my knees. From my knees, I try to stand, but suddenly my vision starts to get blurry and my head starts spinning and I can't...I can't...

I'm back to where I started. I try again, but this time, I don't even get to my knees. I need help, but I don't want it. I need sleep and I need food and I need love, but I don't want any of those things. I just want my parents back, and I don't want to live the rest of my life knowing that the only noteworthy thing I ever did was get them killed.

I don't want...

I can't complete the thought. My head is spinning.

I don't know what I'm doing anymore.

I'm hungry; too hungry, too tired. All I see are black dots, sweeping across my vision of Axsoa, and I don't want his help, yet I find myself reaching for him as I cling to the lamppost beside me. I'm shaking so hard I can't breathe. “Food,” I whisper, finally giving in to my body's pleas, shame filling my insides. I give up. The pain is too much.

My eyes wander to Axsoa as I remain glued to the lamppost, hoping that he might have even a grain of food on him. “Sorry,” I whisper, so silently I wonder if he can hear.

ooc -- ugh, I'm sorry. Such unnecessary ramble D:

"What're you sorry about? Do you want- Here, hop on my back." I'm sorry that I'm not strong enough to deal with this on my own. I'm sorry that I'm putting this all in your hands. I'm sorry that I'll never be whoever you hope that I am. But I can't say the words, not without circling back into the black that I've come to know quite too well. I hate having to accept the help of others; I hate seeing their worried eyes as they all say the same thing;“Khiyyi, we need to get you some help.”

In only a matter of moments, I'm on Axsoa's back. I want to tell him that he doesn't have to do this, that I can try to walk on my own, but I've lost any sense of speech at this point. He starts running, and I'm almost surprised that he hasn't dropped me yet. Putting my sole faith in Axsoa, I keep my hands wrapped tightly around his neck. The act reminds me of my father, how I used to wrap my little arms around his neck after a long day as he carried me home. I drop my head onto Axsoa's shoulder, the pain in my stomach transforming into an even worse feeling of longing for my father, and then a shameful emptiness. I shouldn't long for something terminated by the work of my own hands.

Trying to ignore the pain, I tighten my grip, ever so slightly. Axsoa's shirt smells so clean, so fresh. I feel my thoughts falling, my vision slowly diminishing, his scent so reassuring. However, I barely manage to catch myself before I've lost it. My grip begins to loosen, yet Axsoa's distinct scent keeps me alert and hanging on. Finally, he drops me carefully to the ground, and I'm immediately against the wall of the house, clinging to consciousness as I pull my knees tightly to my chest.

I breathe heavily, waiting. Waiting. Waiting. I don't want to wait, but at this point, I have no other choice. "Here, I know it's not much." It's more than anything I could have hoped for. I've already ripped open the bag, consuming the chips. The pain is even greater with actual food in my stomach. It would be so much easier to faint and deal with it later, yet I force myself to endure.

I don't remember the last time I ate chips; I think I was four or five, still living back in that other world that now seemed like such a distant place. I take slow sips of water, and stare at the lifesavers, knowing that they would be too much for my stomach to handle. Even this...even this is more than enough. How am I supposed to pay for this deed? How will I ever be able to give Axsoa everything he just gave to me?

I can just see the price tag, stretching across the street, all the way back to where we started. Then there's the price tag on the chips, on the water, on the lifesavers, on the window. No one can see it; Axsoa most definitely cannot. He probably thinks he's just doing a good deed, and he is; but that means I have to repay it. In my mind, it's all such a literal process. Someone does something nice for you, you're obliged to give back a favor. Goodness, care, love--it's all entirely irrelevant. Yet I don't have time—to get to know this boy, to make friends, to give him any sort of kindness! I'm sick of being kind when really, in the end it barely makes any difference! If I had the energy, I would get up and go to work right now. My insides melt into fear; they're going to fire me! They're definitely going to fire me! I've already been caught dozing off on the job, and now a missed day?

Calm down, I tell myself. I take another sip of water, with such a polar opposite taste to the water I drink at home. The chips, the water—both such luxuries that I've so rarely been able to experience. There's no question that Axsoa and I come from opposite ends of the world—at least, there's no question in my mind; he seems so well off.

He probably deserves it, though. I, on the other hand, am lucky to be where I am in the first place. Then again, what a relief it may have been if I weren't. Oh god, I think. This is so bad. I have to get to work. I don't even want to think of the consequences if I don't. However, my eyes are fighting to stay open, and Axsoa is just beside me, and I still haven't said a word. “Thank you,” I say, yet my gratitude is mixed with drops of shame as I gaze at him--so skinny, much too skinny to have made that carrying at all an easy job. In a moment, I'm at it again. “Sorry, I'm so sorry, you really shouldn't have had to...it's my fault. I really should start eating better and oh god, I'm just...sorry." However, Axsoa's clean scent, of trees and air and home--real home--pulls my head back to his shoulder, and all I want to do is sit there, beside him, and forget.