little reasons // eden, cassie, shadow, hope

LAST NIGHT I DREAMT I was home again. It’s only what I expected, seeing as one night here certainly isn’t enough to calm my anxiety. In my dreamscape, it was clear that my attempt at fame had worked, because my father and I had all sorts of complicated, hi-tech gizmos with which to hunt out our prey. We ran down familiar alleyways, no longer having to look or listen for rats, just following the instructions given to us by the beeping, buzzing gadgets. It was exciting, but I also felt a chill somewhere deep inside me that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. We didn’t have to scrabble around in the dirt anymore, nor did we have to spend hours standing perfectly still, trying to detect the slightest movement. Instead, we just trusted our little heat-sensing compasses, that led us straight to our culprits. It was so quick, and so easy, too. We managed to catch over twenty rats in however long that episode of dreaming lasted – more than I’d ever seen strung up at once. My father put the rack in our shop window to show it off. I felt… pride? Yes, but that wasn’t what felt so cold in my head. Relief, that it has all worked out, sure; but at the same time, something conflicted with that.

Then my dream self looked past our own rack, out across the street, where an almost identical set -up bore twenty-one of the rodents. Was it some distorted reflection that my mind conjured in madness? But I knew that somehow it wasn’t that. Some other projection, who could have resembled someone real, I don’t recall, had set up their own business, and were more successful than us.

But how could that be possible? My father was the famous one, with the daughter whose name was on the lips of the entire District. He was supposed to have all the success, especially now with his new devices, he could get ten times as many jobs done in a day, and with minimized mess and expenses. In my head I walked down the street, peering into every shop window. All, or most, were filled with rats. This one has twenty-two, this one twenty-eight, this one even thirty, all spread-eagled on the harsh display racks. We weren’t just rivalled, we were totally outdone. Who would want to hire the rat-catchers with the lowest success rate, no matter how celebrity the young girl was?

On waking, at some dark hour after midnight, I understood what that dream meant, and it came like a stab to the gut with one of the cruel knives we were introduced to yesterday. Fame does not equal fortune, or even success. Even if father does eventually get enough new business to improve the quality of his wares, eventually, if only metaphorically, his tools will become so easy to use and foolproof that he himself will no longer be needed. When someone shows that a skill which once looked specialised is now easy and accessible, it’s no longer a skill, but a shared experience. And when everyone can catch their own rats, what happens to the rat-catchers?

I hurry through the halls of the Training Centre, descending floor by floor, shaking my unlightable lantern like a talisman and gently knocking on the skirting boards, listening for hollow spots. I have to rationalise my fear, and prove to myself that my dream was just that – a fiction, imagined and impossible. Our profession takes acute talent and immense patience, and no gadget could ever replace that. Kneeling, I push my ear closer into my cupped hand and strain to listen even harder. The burble of music from somewhere downstairs is distracting, but even so I’m certain that this is another rodentless floor. I have to check everywhere, just to show that this job requires diligence and care, too. Seventh floor, sixth floor, fifth floor now, and as I step out of the elevator I know something is different here. The corner of the carpeting, right by the entrance to the Five tributes’ bedroom door, is gnawed at. Gotcha. Quickly, silently, I drop to the ground again and lie flat on my stomach. Just as I expected, the scratching of that vermin that only a master could catch and kill quickly is loud and clear. Now, to get him before he escapes.

Fear, or rationality, can’t catch up with me before I’m hammering on the bedroom door. “It’s an emergency!” I yell, my fist pounding the wood frantically. “Open up!”

This isn’t about proof for myself anymore. If I can show others – these two tributes – that my talent is unique and inimitable, I’ll have some reassurance that everything must be fine back home. And I won’t have to face a nightmare like that ever again.