Broken Hearts Make Bright Eyes (Cici)

May be surrounded by
A million people I
Still feel all alone
I just wanna go home

“Freya, we can’t go… please…?” The words resonate so indistinctly as I rush from the scene, only managing to bring more tears down my fragile cheeks. Is Rum Tum stupid? Does he not get it? Maybe he really doesn’t. Maybe he’s so heavily adapted to loneliness that he’s forgotten what it’s like to have it pulling at your nerves, stealing oxygen from your lungs, and bleeding into your soul when you aren’t quite used to it yet. Perhaps he doesn’t understand that sort of pain – the sort of pain that can only be healed by warm embraces and gentle words. I suppose he’s found a way to be immune to it, seeing as he obviously hasn’t known the feeling of a sincere hug for years. He’s never had a duty before, never owed any responsibility to another human being, at least not since his mother. He wouldn’t know.

Thus, I have no reason to expect him to have any empathy for me right now as I run from the menacing stares, the bitter words, and the girl who threw a punch at my face. He hadn’t defended me: not with his fist, not with his words, not with his eyes, even after I had valiantly tossed myself in to protect him from these maniacs. Now he’s probably hugging that stupid kid and smiling and there’s nothing I can do, nothing I can blame him for, nothing I can call him but ignorant, unaware, oblivious – so so oblivious.

I stumble through the corn, my mind in complete turmoil. I don’t know where my feet are headed: any place but here. Home, maybe. Home would be nice. I used to hate home, hence why I left: ignorant heads, discerning stares, people walking around acting like they understood feelings like love and pain without looking at what was two feet in front of them. But I guess it’s no different out here. At least at home I had a pillow that never ceased to catch my tears, (but also filled my nightmares with haunting images of Kormiko).

I didn’t belong there and I don’t belong here either, so I suppose I’ll just keep running. I’ll keep running until the pain stops. Of course, the pain never does because the next moment and I’m tripping over something, tumbling to the ground. Or rather, somebody… “God! Stay the hell away...” Oh good. Someone else here to kill my self-esteem. I struggle to push myself off of the girl I’d just fallen onto, turning over so that I’m sitting only a few inches away. “Who are you? You’re not from around here...”

“And thank God I’m not! I thought I was from Idiotville and then this place happened!” I shout without caution. I examine the girl with her disheveled appearance and her tear-stained face. I’m pretty sure this is a fairly accurate depiction of what I’d be seeing if I looked in a mirror right now, except for the clothes of course. At least hers make sense. To imagine just how out of place I must look in my ratty Capitol outfit, oh my.

“Well, you don’t look like you’re doing too great yourself,” I say, wiping the remaining tears from my eyes while wondering why she looks familiar. Then it clicks. She must have been the girl I saw leaving the party with the scowl-faced boy. “Oh.” I say, analyzing my own realization. “Did that boy leave you out here? Man, boys really suck. Sorry.” Most of the sadness has drained from my system, leaving me with this gaping hole in my stomach. Which is worse? “And also sorry for tripping over you, because yeah that wasn’t cool.”

I still haven’t answered the girl’s first question. “Anyways, I’m Freya and you should probably know that the reason your boyfriend hasn’t come back yet is because he’s apparently too busy getting all buddy-buddy with my friend right now, who so happens to be his long lost half-brother, but I wasn’t really interested in staying for the dramatic reunion…” I sigh and realize just how many words I’ve said in the past minute. This is what happens every time, every time I’m lonely. I talk, even if I don’t know who I’m talking to. Heck, I’ve been talking to videotapes for the past month. I put my frustrated face in my hands, peeking between my fingers only when I want to get another glance of the girl’s face.

“God, I think I just dealt with enough crazies to last me a century. Please tell me you’re not one them.”

I know that I'm not perfect
And that I don't claim to be.
So before you point your fingers,
Be sure your hands are clean.

“You’re from the Capitol,” the girl says, her eyes widening. I stand up from the ground, trying to brush the dirt from my already dirtied clothes. “Yeah, so?” I retort. This is the last thing I need right now: more judgment. “Don’t hurt me,” she pleads and I roll my eyes, trying to hide the sorrow that plagues me.

“Oh come on now. Do I look like I’m going to hurt you?” I ask, folding my arms, but she keeps going. “I didn’t mean to get drunk, please don’t tell a peacekeeper. I swear I’ll do anything just don’t get Deval in trouble, you can blame me if you have to have someone to fall on but don’t get the others in trouble.”

Her words are knives, sharper than that boy – Deval’s – words, sharper than the feeling of the girl’s fist in my face, sharper than even the voice of the young boy. I thought the pain from minutes prior was subsiding, but her desperate pleas, full of judgment, take my fragile heart by surprise. To her, I’m just a monster, back home I’m a humiliation, and to everyone else – to the Izars, to Kormiko, to Rum Tum – I’m an annoyance. I just want someone to know me. I wish it were that easy. Why is it so hard to be an open book? Why is it so hard to find something to love – something that can love you back? Maybe it’s because the whole world is ignorant. Ignorant, ignorant, ignorant. And what is there to love about ignorance?

“God, where do you people pick this crap up? You think that because I’m from the Capitol I’ve supposedly got an entire peacekeeper squad backing me up!? Uh, I’d be surprised if my drunk next-door neighbor even knew what a peacekeeper was. Most kids I know run around the Capitol and get wasted every night, so really, I don’t think I’m the one to stop you and those...freaks...from having some stupid corn field celebration,” I speak fervently. The rules are different out here, though. This isn’t the Capitol; this is District Eleven.

However, her words plant an idea in my head, as I’m reminded of how much power I actually have. How easy would it be to throw all of this frustration back in Rum Tum’s face? I could simply walk up to a peacekeeper and tell him I’d been kidnapped by this strange wanderer and so effortlessly they would accept it once they realized I was that missing Capitolite named Freya Hanig whose father was a high-ranked muttation engineer. And I wouldn’t have to deal with all of the feelings, all of this longing, this jealousy. I’d get to go home. Home. Doesn’t home sound nice right now?

But no, I wouldn’t do that…

Would I?

Maybe this girl does have a decent reason to be afraid.

Suddenly, she’s handing me corn and saying it’s the only thing she can give me. “Wait a second…you can just eat this corn stuff?” My eyes light up with wonder. “Just like…like that?” I peel down the leafy stuff and put my mouth to the cob and take a bite. “Oh my god, this is so much better than the stupid plants we’ve been eating.” It’s then that I notice that she’s been crying. Is she really afraid…of me? Or heartbroken? Or both? Or maybe she’s pulled herself into that pit of emotions that we all fall through time to time – the one I’ve been trying to find my way out of for far too long. There’s a mystery beneath those sunken eyes and that worn face; there’s a somebody that wants to be understood.

I take a few careful steps closer to her and try to manage an empathetic sort of smile, putting the corn inside my satchel to save for later. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you or anybody.” I look down at my feet and put my hands in my pockets. “I know what it’s like to lose people you love, and I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone. Not in a million years.” I think about Kormiko and quickly push that memory down. “Although, I suppose I did hurt a peacekeeper getting in here...” I pull the peacekeeper’s wallet from my satchel and toss it to the girl, grinning proudly in light of my accomplishments. “Keep it. Probably got a fortune in there.” If I had more to give her, I would. “You convinced yet?” I ask lightheartedly, and for a second, I push down the tears and the pain because it's been months since I've talked to anyone besides Rum Tum or my video camera, and I don't want to screw this up.