Stranger Danger {rosetta/shrimp/zori}

I a g o
I z a r – M c C l a i n e

•••

{ I feel numb most of the time }
{ The lower I get the higher I'll climb }
{ And I will wonder why }
{ I get dark only to shine }
{ And I light up the sky }

•••

I can barely hold a sword to save my life. With a single step forward, the trainer had disarmed me and sent me to a bruising fall on the mats. I should not be jealous of the children—maybe they have a natural talent. Physical affinity wouldn’t be the only thing that wins these games. Still, I need to be able to slice someone up into pieces if I’m to have any chance. I think of my cousin for the briefest of moments. Yes, the boy that got a two and lived to day 5

I am standing in the dining hall. It is filled with faces and voices and yet I feel alone. I can’t pick up distinct words of conversation, but I can pick up on the air of the conversation: it’s polite. It’s forced. Each bite carries a plan for murder. In the dining hall, my stomach aches, but not for food. For Ardal. For Bertie. For Carlos. My shoulder droop forward, my back aching from the lack of sleep acquired last night. It wasn’t that the bed was uncomfortable or anything-in fact, it was more comfortable than my pallet back home. Yet, it smelled too crisp, to clean, not musky and a bit unclean, like soil is lodged between the sheets (which is probably is). Carlos wasn’t snoring in the corner. I wasn’t throwing my shoe at him. It was silent.

When Bertie left to go live with his girlfriend, the absence of his snores had left me uneasy. Each night, I was plagued with dark dreams, ones where I couldn’t run nor scream, not until I woke up. Eventually, Ardal hung something up over my bed, something webbed, that he called a “dream catcher” which had been designed specifically to keep the bad dreams away. Well, it worked well enough. But here, in this feather bed, and the lavender-scented pillows, there is nothing to trap the bad things and so they grip and grab me. This morning, I arrived at training still drenched in sweat, my hair awry, but I didn’t care. I trudged on up to one of those instructors-one in unarmed fighting-and began to fight the way I did best: fists and all. The instructor asked me if I had older brothers.

I am standing alone in the dining hall. I’m swallowing hard. There are butterflies in my stomach. Then, I spot a familiar face. Iago. My district partner. He was sullen, but manageable. I knew that much from personal experience. However, as I approach, I see him glaring at another girl, one who had just sat down across from him. “You can’t sit here.”

My eyebrows shoot up, but before I can speak, another voice intrudes: “Why?” I glance around and now there’s another boy and my jaw slackens and drops. The way he’s moving. He’s something different…maybe he’s hurt? My knuckles are still bruised and achy from my last fight, but there’s something different about the way he walks. Like he knows this is the way it’s going to have to be. A permanent acceptance. An unwelcome ease. Now, I frown and look back to Iago. Why was he acting so rude?

When I speak, Ardal stands next to me: “Iago Izar-McClaine!” I sound out his name long and full, cocking a slim hip. ]“I’m sitting down next to you and you just gotta deal with it. Like you gotta deal with her,” I point at the girl, “and him!” I point at this newcomer boy. I move forward, arms crossed and take a seat, rolling my eyes at my district partner. “See, not so bad?”

[please disregard. Written at 2 o’clock in the morning. My eyes have begun to glaze over. The walls are moving!!]