Gimme Something to Remember // [Open]

and so the sky becomes a dream
i never dreamt because i'm just too busy
waiting for nothing and wasting away
and so the sky, it watched my dreams fall to pieces right in front of me
'cause i'm just too busy waiting for nothing and wasting away

While there’s something about the plastic veneer of the Capitol that turns my stomach, something in the eager smiles of the people here as they pretty us up for the slaughter, at least the food is good. There’s more of it here than I’ve ever seen in one place in my entire life, whole tables of rich soups and exotic salads that I can’t help wolfing down despite the hate that simmers in my veins for the people that put it in front of us. Still, lunchtime fills me with a quiet sense of dread. It’s not the food that makes me apprehensive; it’s the other tributes. Every time I make eye contact with one of them, a spike of paranoia whispers that they’re sizing me up, figuring out the best way to kill me. They’ll find that I’m not so easy to get rid of. I hope.

“You really think the Games are just for sport?” the boy from Twelve pipes up, interjecting in another conversation. I grit my teeth around the scathing remark that rises in response, solid in the knowledge that I’m not the best at making friends but making enemies will do me no good. It’s not his fault we’re all stuck here. “It's historical. So that we all remember, right?”

“What difference does it make?!” I finally snap, slamming my fork down with unnecessary force and whipping my head around to glare at him balefully. My temper was never the easiest to control, and with tensions running as high as they are it was only a matter of time before I lost it. “What’s the point in knowing what we’re dying for? Being aware of the purpose we serve won’t make us any less dead.”

It’s a hideous, morbid thought, one that brings my speech to a stuttering halt as the table looks at me in the wake of my outburst. Prickly heat spreads over my cheekbones, and I duck my head quickly, a few curls that my stylists have conditioned into tendrils of crimson silk falling down to conceal my face. my hands writhe together in my lap, callused from work and home, and the sudden pang of longing that wracks through my chest softens the razored edge to my voice when I finally manage to find my words again. “Whatever it is, it’s sick.”

and i'd never wish for anything more than to find what i've been looking for
and i swore to myself i wouldn't lie to myself
how could i let this happen?
so i take myself aside to take the time to tell myself its alright
'cause you weren't there to dry my eyes

and so the sky becomes a dream
i never dreamt because i'm just too busy
waiting for nothing and wasting away
and so the sky, it watched my dreams fall to pieces right in front of me
'cause i'm just too busy waiting for nothing and wasting away

Stark Harper’s baby brother is all inflated condescension as he looks down his nose at the rest of us (you aren’t the only one who’s lost someone they care about to the Capitol’s loving trap, little boy. Step down from your pedestal before I decide to shove you.) in time with his reply, and it sets my teeth so far on edge that I barely even hear the boy from Nine chime in. “To the Capitol, maybe. I bet they enjoy these Games.”

District Twelve laughs shrilly, hysterically, like someone teetering on the edge of oblivion. I want to feel sorry for him until he opens his mouth. “You know what, I bet they do. What do you say to that, River?”

If I were smart, I’d realize that he was poking me with a proverbial stick just to figure out where my limits are, to see how far he can push me before I reach my breaking point. Patrick had warned me that some might take that approach (you best watch your temper, girl. You and Ripley aren’t going to make any friends runnin’ those mouths of yours), might search for the weaknesses that a whole country already saw bundled up in my arms on Reaping Day, told me that if I was smart, I wouldn’t let them get to me. But I’m not smart. I’m angry. I’m so angry at the world and everyone in it that all of the rage beneath my skin swells like a tidal wave and blinds me.

“Good for them. I’m so glad they’re entertained,” I hiss, lips dripping venom as I clutch the edge of the table so hard that my nails dig into the wood. “It’s nice to know that at least someone will be entertained while your familes watch you all bleed out in high definition. At least someone will be entertained while they bury us and while the people we left behind try to start over and while my daughter grows up without her parents. But hey, that’s the entertainment industry. So laugh it up, Twelve.”

It’s a dangerous move, my judgment whispers, making threats I don’t know if I can back up, but something so virulent and hateful sears in my veins as my eyes meet his that I can’t stop the next few words from blooming over my lips, low and deadly. “Maybe I’ll hop on the bandwagon and laugh, too, when I see that pretty little face of yours up in the sky.”

and i'd never wish for anything more than to find what i've been looking for
and i swore to myself i wouldn't lie to myself
how could i let this happen?
so i take myself aside to take the time to tell myself its alright
'cause you weren't there to dry my eyes

and so the sky becomes a dream
i never dreamt because i'm just too busy
waiting for nothing and wasting away
and so the sky, it watched my dreams fall to pieces right in front of me
'cause i'm just too busy waiting for nothing and wasting away

“I didn't mean anything by that, you know,” the boy from Twelve offers, surprisingly cowering under my stare. I’d never thought of myself as entirely intimidating, but there’s a sort of security now in knowing that I can scare someone if I have to. Asunder Hayes, as he introduces himself, seems kind of odd, but I’m not judging him for it. I’m judging him for being a blatant suck-up and shoving his nose so far up Viridian Harper’s ass that he can’t see the daylight. The girl from Eight, a mousy-looking thing who can’t be all that old squeaks out something about the noise level, and Asunder ropes her into the conversation as well. “Introductions? You're Ashby, District Eight and that's River, District Four. 'Course, name like that, easy to remember. Well, easier than yours.”

Viridian. Asunder. Ashby. A horrid, morbid thought strikes me that it will be harder to kill them now that I know their names. The boy from Nine across the table, the one who chuckles at the mention of Brooke? I could launch across the polished wooden surface and shove a butter knife in his eye right now, and not even blink. But maybe that has something to do with the fact that he’s laughing at our impending doom and has a distinct aroma of Eau de Douchebag floating around him. I decide I don’t want to learn his name. Looking intently at my plate, I take a bite of my salad even though the thought of all these faces in the sky a few days from now makes my stomach twist violently.

“I know you didn’t,” I finally reply to Asunder’s somewhat-apology without looking at him, my voice tense. “I just… rough day. Rough week, really, although I guess we all have that excuse.”

All the laughs and smiles seem so out of place. Here in Death’s waiting room, we should not be laughing. I couldn’t manage a smile right now even if I tried to; so how can the rest of them shrug off their oh-so-short futures as if it’s something years down the road? I understand that people cope with stress in different ways, but all of the sudden it’s me that feels like the odd one, the only sane person at a table full of bright-eyed optimists that will run smiling into the Reaper’s arms. I manage not to yell this time, but my glare is no less critical as I look around at all of them, wondering where they’re finding all these irritating reserves of joy. “Aren’t you all scared? How can you just sit here and speculate about all of this? It’s death. Am I off-base, because someone should tell me if I am, but the last time I checked it sure as hell wasn’t normal to be cracking jokes three days before someone shoves a sword through your chest.”

and i'd never wish for anything more than to find what i've been looking for
and i swore to myself i wouldn't lie to myself
how could i let this happen?
so i take myself aside to take the time to tell myself its alright
'cause you weren't there to dry my eyes

complex notes inside the chords
on every wall inflections carved
deep as lakes
and dark as stars
remember we were the volunteers

A hundred thousand daydreams about being a Tribute and yet I had never thought about the in-between moments. The quiet that haunts my sleeping quarters as I lie in bed at night, memories of poetry drifting through me like a second heartbeat named Denial; Wasted minutes spent traveling between somewhere I've been and somewhere I'm going; Standing in line in the dining hall, waiting to eat. It's all so trivial and mundane — so human — and the opposite of my grand dreams for spotlight domination. When I stepped up for Tribute, I traded something of myself for the sake of an idea I've spent a lifetime idolizing. However, that idea was never anything like this.

I order alligator, for no other reason than the way the word sounds extraordinary as it slips past my lips. My tongue twists around it, syllables writhing against my teeth, and for a split-second something feels worthwhile. However, it's gone just a quickly. The avox dishing up the food looks at me as if he doesn't know whether to believe me or not, but this is nothing new for me — I'm used to being stared at as if my reality were something questionable. A polite smile flutters across my mouth as I take the food, neither genuine or a lie, and I make my way to the nearest table. I'm not very good at being ordinary and it shows. My joints never settle quite right, even after I've sat down, all skewed angles and impatience that refuses foolish ideas like stillness.