{brooke nelson} -- d1 -- fin

ladies all across

THE WORLD LISTEN UP WE'RE

looking for
RECRUITS    

When the lower districts see someone from District 1 or 2 or 4, their first reaction is usually 'Ugh, Careers.' Which is understandable. I would too, if I was them. Careers seem so despicable, the fact that they are excited to head into the arena and slaughter other children for the entertainment of the Capitol. What's worse for the districts is, usually 1 and 2 is the apple of the Capitol's eye, District 1 and their luxurious jewellery to offer them. I am from District 1, but do not judge me on first impressions. I was raised as a Career but I eventually realized - what I was doing was wrong. I realized it one day when a spear skewered a dummy's heart, the spear coming from my own hand.

Why are we doing this?

The question seems so ridiculous to most Careers. They'll probably wave it off with 'because we're Careers'.

But what are Careers?

I don't know. I daren't bring up the question to my family - who knows what my father would say if I ever questioned this. For now I just keep up with the pretence that I am a Career, I train for the Games before volunteering. Only I may never volunteer. I may wimp out before I even have the chance. Because Brooke Nelson is not a fighter. Brooke Nelson wants to stay home and look after her family, and her brothers and her cousins. All younger than her. But I know that's the true me, but who else will accept me for who I am? Not my parents - my brothers and cousins are too young to understand. Except maybe Lydia. She is just one year younger than me but she understands most things. She understands the Games are wrong. I can see it in her eyes.

So why hasn't she brought it up? She knows how I feel. How I feel about the Games. But I can't ponder on this thought right now. I just have to sit back and watch as 24 unfortunate tributes are sentenced to death live on television. The thought makes me sick - how do people get a kick out of watching this? As I sit, watching the Games, out of the corner of my eye I see my parents cheering on the tributes from our district. But why?

These are the questions that will never be answered.

Of course, life doesn't all revolve around the Games. Sometimes the simple things like going down to the bakery to get some breakfast or a treat after the reaping for everyone like doughnuts or cakes, makes me wonder why we're all following this same routine, day in, day out. But I usually keep my thoughts inside of my head. Saying them out loud is stupid. Writing them down is risky. Keeping them inside is smart for now, until I have so much bottled up it all comes out at once. I dread that moment. They may turn me into an Avox, a mute slave for the Capitol. Then I'll be even closer towards the tributes from our district. Close enough to be serving them food and providing a decent stay in the Capitol for them.

Maybe not my district. Maybe District 12. Which would be even worse, watching the poor starving children stuff their faces with food. Because they may never eat again. Although 12 was quite lucky a few years back with victors. So has District 1. District 9 recently got lucky with our latest victor. It seems like all life really means is you are born, live somewhat comfortably for 12 years of your life, then be thrown into the reaping ball. If you survive up to 18, you'll be forced to work until you are too old and fragile to do so any more. By this age, most people born in 12 have died. Either from starvation, sickness, exhaustion, exposure, whatever.

The safety of 12 shouldn't bother me, but it does. I shouldn't care, because I am in District 1, living in luxury, as comfortably as districts went. We came nowhere close to the Capitol in wealth and luxury. In the Capitol, food appeared at a simple press of a button. I knew from enough footage from previous Games and such that the Capitol would be a luxurious place to live.

"If I ever went to the Capitol," the girl dressed in pink said, her pigtails flying in the air as she skipped along the meadows. "I'd want to look just like myself. They look so stupid in their fancy costumes and everything. I would never want to be like that."

You were right, Caroline. About everything. And I never listened you...never until it was too late. And I couldn't save you.

That early winter's morning, sitting by your bedside, watching the life drain from your eyes, was the worst feeling in the world. Everyone had known about your illness. You slowly became less energetic, until I had to go out to the meadow by myself. It never felt the same with your bundle of energy. And everyone knew you could not be treated. But it never seemed real until you were right there, your hand desperately clenched in mine in an attempt to say the final words you didn't have the energy to say. You were almost completely limp then. You were about a minute away from death. And that minute went long. Just the sound of Mother's sobbing. She tried to be strong for you. But in the end, that didn't work.

"I wish we lived somewhere else," the girl said,  beaming. "Somewhere beyond the fence. I wonder what's out there? Other people living, in a new nation? A nation without the Games?" She dropped to the floor, cross-legged, starting to make a daisy chain. It seemed ludicrous, the idea of a place beyond the borders of Panem. "But there has to be something. Our world is much larger than just Panem. There's new people to meet..." She sighed and looked up into the blue sky. "It's a beautiful day, isn't it? It'd be even more beautiful on the other side of the planet. A beautiful night, stars in the sky, children safely sleeping, without the fear of the Reapings soon to come."


I hope you're in a better place, Caroline. Somewhere with no Games. Somewhere where you can be at rest. But no, you wouldn't be at rest. Other people will say that, they'll say you need to rest in peace. But I know better. I know you more than anyone else, Caroline. You'll want to be energetic and hyperactive somewhere off in the distance. Laughing and singing and dancing and doing whatever you like without death threats looming over your mind. You'll be happy. Maybe the light will finally reach your eyes.

"Hey, wanna make a daisy chain?" The girl surprises you with the sudden change of subject. "There are tons of daisies in this meadow. It's beautiful." She flashes you a grin, and you notice her front teeth missing. But you always knew that. "Hello?" she asks, waving her hand in your face. You smile at her and begin to pick daisies from the ground. She collects far more than you and makes two daisy chain bracelets, making them from grass and daisies. They're beautiful. She teaches you how to make them and for hours you are there, in the boiling sun, making daisy chain bracelets, necklaces and anklets.


You were wearing your bracelet when you died. So was I. When I held your hand, our bracelets connected. And so we were connected forever, even though you're dead and I'm alive. I wish I wasn't, though. I wish I was with you, or you were still alive. It's a cruel world down here, though. I'd rather be up there with you. But you'd want me to be strong. I can almost see you here with me, laughing, smiling, and telling me I'm still as beautiful as you said I was when we were alive together, side by side. You always made pleasant comments on my hair, my eyes, my face. Always above the neck. You didn't care what clothes or accessories I wore. You only cared about natural beauty.

I was never ashamed to be your sister. You were always the greatest girl I ever knew. You treated everyone with respect, even when they didn't treat you with respect.

"I'm ill," the girl says, and forces a smile. You know it's fake. She always does this to make you feel better. "But don't worry, I'll be okay soon!" That's a lie too. You overhear Mother and Father discussing how many months their daughter had left on this Earth. They estimated six. And that was right.

Six months later, you died. And my world split into two. Half of my life was your life. We shared it, together.


I stand up. I feel too cramped on this tiny chair, where they sat me down and asked me to write down my feelings. There's a mirror at the end of the room, with a hairbrush. I feel my hair. It's a mess. I walk up to the mirror. My blonde waves are tangled and my face looks hollow. My eyes have dark circles underneath. You haunt my dreams, Caroline. Although I am well fed and fairly strong, I do not have good posture. I always walk looking down unless I am actually told to keep my head up. It's hard. I can always pick out groups of sisters. It's like my brain automatically recognizes sisters. And I despise it.

Sometimes I hate you.

For leaving me when I needed you most. For giving up on me. And then I remember it is dreadful of me. Why am I always so selfish? Selfishness is probably my biggest flaw. Second is arrogance. Ever since you died I have become a worse person. I stopped trusting, because last time I fully trusted someone, they left me. In the worst way possible. I wish I could just see you every day. I do in a way. I see you in the daisies in the meadow, in every pair of sisters I see, in my brothers who grew up learning from you.

You influenced so many people. And I always watched you, admiring. And you always caught my eye and smiled. At me. And in those moments, you were the brightest star in the universe. Because you included everyone. Even the smallest of gestures made you shine even brighter.

I hope you are shining now, Little Star.

When I go to school I am greeted by my small group of friends at the front gates. They smile and I smile back and talk because I have to. There's no other option.

"You have to make friends," Mother said, her hands on my shoulders. "I know that Caroline was your best friend, and she always will be, but you need to make an effort now that Caroline is...gone."

I always needed you, Caroline. Especially now, tackling the problem of school on my own. You needed me in those last moments of your life. For our whole short time together, we looked out for each other. Protected each other. Now I rely on these strange people who call themselves my friends to protect me. I do not trust any of them like I trusted you. They smile and hug me and all I can do is smile and hug back, every one of them. I manage to remember their names. Aside from Caroline and the reapings, remembering things and people's names and things we learned in school was one of my top priorities.

We head into school together. People didn't respect me until Caroline died. Caroline was fairly respected, although some people liked to try and make her angry. Caroline was so tranquil, so calm and peaceful, nobody could break her. She always just smiled and waved and passed by. They tried and tried, and eventually gave up. Then she died, and everyone was silent for a few days. Then school held a memorial service for her, and even the bullies bowed their heads in respect for Caroline, the bright, intelligent, beautiful girl who had been admired across the school.

People supported me after that. They supported my loss. People put up 'R.I.P Caroline Nelson' signs on the walls of school and tried to give me sympathy. I did not want their sympathy. It was just a painful reminder of what happened. The lady who came to talk to me once a week told me to just forget about it and move on. How could I move on when she reminded me of it every single week?

Things have calmed down a bit. But she still comes to see me. Today, she takes a different approach on our twenty-minute session.

"Tell me about yourself, Brooke," she says, looking into my eyes. She doesn't seem to feel embarrassed, looking into people's eyes. I usually never meet people's eyes, because they can always tell what you are feeling. I force myself to look back into hers and hope she sees the anger.

Tell her about me, I think, processing the words in my mind. What does she mean? My personality? Who I am? Because I don't even know that any more. "I - I have blonde hair," I stuttered. "I don't care about your appearance, Brooke. I know what you look like. Tell me about you. Your life story, your personality." Who does she think she is, trying to pry into my personality? My history? The things I hold dearly to myself?

"I was born," I say. "I grew up. I'm sixteen now. I will die, I do not know when. I have a mother, a father, three brothers, five cousins, and a sister." I firmly decide to include Caroline in my family.

"Ah. Caroline is your sister, isn't she?"

"Yes."

"And you still count her in your family, even after all this time after her tragic death?"

I glare at her. How dare she bring up this subject! Who does she think she is? "Listen," I say, forcing myself to stay calm. "I really appreciate you trying to help me and all, but these sessions are getting me nowhere and just bringing up painful memories from the past. If you wanted to do that, why not join some of the people who post up signs saying 'R.I.P Caroline Nelson'. Because they are really starting to bother me, and so are you!" It's the most I've spoken in one go since Caroline died. It's the first time I've spoken what I wanted to say since Caroline died. It's the first time I've been myself since Caroline died. For once, I feel free, and the look of shock on the lady's face gives me a sense of satisfaction.

She gathers herself and smiles, but her lips are strained and she looks like it is forced. "That is good that you are offering your opinion. It is really what I have wanted from the start. We shall steer clear of that topic. Now, tell me about your friends. Are they loyal, supportive friends? Is there any drama?" I hate how she just drops it and expects me to forgive her straight away.

"My friends are fine, and so am I. Any more questions?"

She studies me carefully. What goes on inside this lady's head? Of course. She just wants the money for this job. The shorter I make our session, the less money she gets paid. She doesn't deserve money for being nosy. So I stand up and dismiss myself, leaving her behind, watching me go.

Caroline, I'll be with you soon. I promise.

Brooke

NELSON