Spread My Wings [Tom]

The clock ticked by, minutes dragged on like slugs. Time left a trail of slime on him, making him want to rub it from his eyes and wipe it from his face. Traces of it would forever remain on him, though, a gooey aftermath of the ever ongoing beat of the planet. His eyes had watched as a well-manicured hand reached dainty fingers into the reaping bowl once, twice, to select a slip of paper. Each slip of paper had been written on, in ink there was stained the name of a child. The slips of paper were the death warrant of anyone whose name was drawn, as it had been for not one but two of his family before. "Jabber Jay!" The ring of a name long past echoed in his ears, followed closely by one more recent. "Storm Jay!" The corners of his mouth, weighed down by the years and the pain, sagged into a frown.

He had watched as first one, then the other, brother died - bated breath held and lost as the last blow ended what was once a member of the family. In his hand he gripped a piece of paper, held carefully in an attempt to avoid creases. There was a list of names, each with a list of attributes. As the only organized member of the family, he had taken it upon himself to create a record of those who lived with the name of Jay. Gently he traced a finger over the two names that had been stricken out. With a sharp flick of his wrist and the scratch of a pen tip, he had ended the names of not one but two members of the family. That act had been almost more painful than watching them die in the first place. In crossing off their names he had finalized their deaths and signified that they meant nothing more to him - they did not live, he did not keep them on the list - and yet he could not bring himself to write a new list without their names on it, so he remained with a list with two items crossed off.

A sickening feeling rose in his gut as he looked at his list with new light. No longer did it resemble a running tab of those in his family, but more closely it seemed to resemble a checklist - a tally of how many were left, how many had to die. If not for his need for neatness the list would have been crushed in his fist, just as the lives of Jabber and Storm were crushed and changed - eliminated - forever. He was getting older and soon he would be free of the Games' grip, but his siblings would be stuck with nothing and no one to protect them from the horrors. Already he had failed to shield Jabber and Storm from the fate of the Games, as well as his siblings and parents from the pain of watching them fall to it. He was a failure of an older brother, and the icy thought of seeing yet another family member die clawed down his back.

Still there was time to relax, to breathe a live with those that still lived. With the names drawn from this district not being from his family, there was a year without that terrible horrible fear. Even so, the loss of Jabber and Storm felt like a fresh wound in his mind. However much he might want to drive it away it kept coming back. The logical side of his mind, rational despite all that was going on, told him that productivity was not possible when he was trying to live in the past. To hell with reason, I lost two brothers and I intend to mourn them. But that was one and two years ago, whispered his reason, it took you this long to feel anything about them? There was the slightest crinkling noise as his fingers gripped the paper harder, a look of anger beginning to burn in his eyes.

That was because I listened to you! He was angry at himself, angry at the voice, angry at the Capitol. There was anger for Jabber, old anger drenched in a loathing for the relationship between his cousin and his sister - so close they could have been siblings. He hated how they had been together, disgusted at how they crossed the line of family and lovers when the borders were so far apart. It was no fine line shaded in with a pencil, it was a thick ink line - unbreakable, immovable. Still they had dared to cross it and he was left to glare and warn with no avail. Now Jabber was dead, and Fawn had not been the same since. Curse that boy for wrecking his sister, curse him for being foolish, curse him for being weak, curse him for bringing so much pain.

And your brother? What of Storm? There was anger at Storm too. Anger at how he had been so eager to leave home at the call of his name, and how he had denied any act of salvation by his elder brothers. Instead, he had gone off to the Capitol and his eventual death in mimic of the very thing he was named for. The sickening twisting in his gut came back in a wave as he remembered knowing in some small piece of his mind that Storm wasn't coming back. It was part of why he hated himself, that lack of hope, the refusal to give the possibility a chance. Reason had told him that it would hurt less if he knew it was coming, but if anything it made it worse and now here he was, a year later, still torn to shreds over the loss of someone he knew was going to die.

There were more years when the Jays would be in the reaping, more years he would spend holding his breath as names were called while all he could do was pray that he didn't know them - and yet in his gut he knew the familiar ones would keep coming and coming until he was the only Jay left aside from his parents. It would then fall on his shoulders to keep the Jays lineage going and yet how could he when bringing up a child in this world meant putting them at risk for seven years of their lives. If the Jays were going to die out, so be it. It was better than seeing his children suffer. Putting the paper down on his desk, Westimer Jay carefully picked up and pen and drew a line underneath the last name. From now on, he decreed, there would be no more Jays brought into the world.

The pen dropped from his hand as soon as the line was finished, making a clattering sound and signifying the finality of it all. Quietly, he leaned his elbows on his desk, putting his head in his hands, and gave in to the feeling of loss. An unwanted sob pressed at the back of his throat and he desperately tried to choke it down. He was supposed to be the logical one, the reasonable one who was in check of his mind and his emotions. This wasn't him, and it scared him just how lost he was. The mess of his emotions was overwhelming, the lack of organization panicking. What was he going to do? On his desk, the clock ticked away. A minute crawled forward, its trail of ooze shiny upon the surface of his desk as it inched steadily forward. Millimeter by painful millimeter, the beginning of the last of the Jays moved forward. There was no turning back now.