Otto Caverly {{ District 12 (fin)

Her coughs shatter silence like a rock going through a glass window.

I was dreaming, just as I do everynight, when sleep blankets me and night falls on the district. It is always a different scenario, a different scene a different place. It is better, better than this coal filled polluted district, where the smell of sweat lingers in the air and where, if you stick out your tongue on a particularly smoggy day, pieces of the black, undesirable product will settle on your it like falling snowflakes.

Tonight, it was a garden.

Even in a dream, I knew it was false. Flowers ripped from books that I had stolen off our makeshift bookshelf long ago and flipped through mindlessly, stopping at the pictures and gazing at them, awe-filled by the colorful plant life and flora that adorned the pages. But even if it was all fake, a false sense of reality fabricated by the never ending void that was my imagination, I still enjoyed it. And each step I took, it was as if the flowers grew around me, the sun shone down on my skin, warming me and for once, the blonde, long locks that were my hair were not dirtied with the smog that hung over our district. I could feel the earth beneath my feet, smell the flowers that had sprung up beside me, I could hear the sound of an insect buzzing. It was perfection, a false, fabricated, desperate perfection.

But then, a cough. And another, and another. They were light, at first, a slight tickle in my throat, a small rumble and a light cough. Hardly anything out of the ordinary (of course, in a dream there is no such thing as ordinary). But they continued, the tickle stayed, festering inside of my throat and for each footstep I took the cough only grew worse.

I step. I cough
I step. I cough
I stop. I cough.

I am no longer noticing the plant life around me. I no longer hear the buzz of an insect or the song of a bird and I no longer feel the intense heat of the sun beating down on me. It is just cough- after cough- after cough, my arm covering my mouth like a blanket as if that had any chance to stop them. A small rumble and one loud, deafening cough later and I can finally breathe again, though the echoes of my fit are still hanging, replaying in the background of my mind. Those I can hear.

I remove my arm from my mouth and a dream turns to nightmare.

For in my arm, there is blood.

My eyes snap open, a dream shattering as quickly as it started and, instead of a beating sun I am met with darkness. A never ending, never forgiving void of black. Normally, upon awaking from a hellish nightmare I would be out of it, my mind thrown quite literally into a daze and my body still half dead. But I do not awaken with the sole intention of bringing myself to reality, not tonight. No, for I awaken to the sounds of coughs, real coughs and not ones that came from my own mouth, constructed by my mind inside of a dream in response to what I was hearing in the real world. It comes from a different presence, one who I promised i'd stay up with all night, sit by her side cause she was scared, a presence who i'd broken a promise to by letting sleep overcome me, attach weights to my eyelids and watch them droop down until I fell into slumber.

Her coughs are maddening, hoarse and quite honestly, scary. That, combined with the writhing movements that the horrifying coughing fit is causing only serve to strike fear into a deep, nearly unfindable hole in my heart. My body groans in protest as I shoot up, neck cracking in response to the uncomfortable position it had been in. I am unaware of time, for all sense of reality has escaped me, but I know that within a few short moments the light that sits next to the couch my sister is on has lit up the room, blinding the both of us for a few split seconds before our eyes become used to it again. She lays writhing, hand over her mouth just like mine was in my dream and her body fidgeting back and forth with each rumbling cough that escapes from her lips. Her eyes show fear, a crazy, maddening fear of the unknown and what was happening and as I lay a hand on her cheek, whispering words of comfort I see them glance up at me, longing for an answer as to why a cough had plagued her for the past few nights.

"Lucia...Luc, c'mon, you gotta breathe. Breathe for me."

My words do nothing if to comfort her, and the next best thing I can do is simply squat down next to her as she coughs the night away, each one slowly getting slightly less audible, slightly less aggressive before it finally leaves her altogether, placing silence in it's wake. For a second, there is relief. Utterly euphoric relief, settling in between us and for a moment I nearly smile in the silence, mouth muscles twitching upwards into a half grin.

But before I can, her hand is removed from her mouth, and the relief that had spread itself around in her eyes is crushed by panic and - once again - a state of unknown fear.

For laying in her hand, reflecting the light that shines from the lamp next to us, are three spots of blood.

They crash through every soft comfort I have whispered in her ear for the past nights, through ever wall I have built up with bricks of a brush of her cheek and a kiss on the forehead, tearing through it like one of those giant metal balls they use to knock down old, abandoned buildings in the square. Her eyes widen, fear taking hold and a small, nearly inaudible whimper forcing it's way up her throat and out her mouth. Her body fidgets again, but it is not one caused by a coughing fit. No, it is a fearful twitch, scared, lonely, desperate. My lips part and I mumble a few inaudible phrases, eyes as wide as billiard balls and face as white as a ghost. The words don't put themselves together, I cannot form a coherent sentence to spit at her like a gun shoots bullets. Instead it is a stare, mindless and enthralled, fear circling my mind and my mouth half open, fingers scrunching up the edge of the couch she lays on.

"Otto I.. Otto why am I-, why am i coughing up blood? Otto?"

My ears have shut down, and her words have twisted into quiet mumbles. "I-..." The stammers that escape my mouth do not comfort her like they are supposed to, like I am supposed to. Me, her brother, her protector ever since Mom passed away after Lucia's birth and ever since Dad stopped coming home every day, ever since I started noticing when something was wrong with her, a language of faltering eyes, small fidgets and weak smiles speaking to me like words couldn't. I swallow, more gulp if anything, but my throat has gone dry, spit disappearing as the pale, cracked skin that stretches across her hand contrasts the bright red spots that lay in it. "...Otto? Whats happening to me? Please-" Her words are filled with desperation, and although my mind is shattered by the unknown I pull myself together as much as I can, and paste as much of a reassuring look on my face as I can.

"I... It'll be alright, Luch, it'll be okay. We'll get someone to come around tomorrow. You're fine, it's fine. Just... Try and sleep, okay?"

Her face fills with doubt.

"It'll be alright."

Please let it be alright.

Please let her be alright.

__________

The sun awoke us with an eery shining, memories of the night prior still fresh in our mind and corrupting our thoughts. I have always liked the darkness, not because it brings sleep with it but because it is a blanket, a sheet, a cover for everything I hate about this district, about this house that we live in, about the cracked windows and creaky floorboards, worn down furniture and broken bookshelf. I was up before she awake, as always, and with each aching muscle I made my way through the house, a daily morning routine. Put the blanket that I had used to survive the cold of the night on top of Lucia, making sure every part of her body was covered, protected from the harsh winter cold that had tiptoed it's way into our house, through every crack in the windows and broken floorboard. Make myself breakfast, a single slice of bread with some long expired and long since bought butter spread on it, stomach grumbling for more with each bite that I took. It did nothing for me, for the thin frame that was my body and the weak bones underneath pale skin. Checking my Father's room was always the hardest part, because with each step I took towards a long since shut door my mind always convinced itself more that he would be there, that someway, somehow he had managed to come home last night, that I had not been awoken by his footsteps as he made his way to his bedroom. "He'll be there, Otto. He'll have realized that being gone for most of the month was wrong, he'll be there.".

My face always drooped when I opened the door to an empty room.

And it was only made worse by the fact that something rested in the back of my mind. It grew, festered with every glance I took as she slept on the couch. My words had spread comfort to her, reenforced the assumption that she was okay, that everything was going to be okay. It was my job, my duty to comfort her, a self-proclaimed guardian that my father had never been. But those words were not just for her, I did not lace a false reassurance just so she would sleep again. It had been for me, too. Because somewhere in my mind there was a never ending fear of whether or not she would be alright, of whether or not the blood that nestled itself in her palm would truly lead to something that I would never want to happen.

It was cold that morning, winter's breath circling me like a predator circles prey, working it's way down to my bones and knocking on them with hands of ice cold shivers. A short walk down the road, each crunch of the snow under my feet bringing with it an incredibly dark sense of foreboding. The man was a family friend, the one who'd examined my mother when she was sick after Lucia's death and the person i'd watched with wide eyes through a crack in the door, awe-struck at the plethora of medicines and tools he carried with him.

"It's Lucia, I think she's sick."

That was all it took, a simple sentence laced with the concern of her older brother to get him to help, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and a questioning look on his face.

I did not watch him through a crack in the door this time, I was not focused on the jars of medicine or metal tools that he had brought with him. My eyes hovered between Lucia and the man's glasses, passing a reassuring smile at my sister whenever she glanced at me, silence swallowing the house besides the sound of my nail being bitten down to the core, hands running themselves through the overgrown blonde hair on my head. When it was done, he took me aside into the other room, his hand on my back and a concerned look on his face.

[font color="E1DSon, where is your father?"

His glasses are pushed up to his eyes, and I cast a glance towards the ground, sighing slightly before shaking my head.

[font color="E1D38F""I.. Don't know. Why?"

It was true, I had no idea where the man was. I never had any idea where he escaped to, nor had he ever told me.

[font color="E1D38F""Is there...any way you can get a hold of him? It's about your sister."

I remember being tired of it all, of my father being gone ninety percent of the time and not knowing where he was. Of cold nights and starving mornings, having to show off a useless talent I had on the streets just to try and make us some money to feed ourselves. Of him coming home for a single night and blaming it all on work, that he'd been working really hard and that's how he'd have enough money to buy us the amount of food he had, the sound of the door closing as he left again. And every time, every moment that he came home I never found it in myself to say something to him. To tell him that he shouldn't be doing what he's doing, that it was hurting us, tearing us apart even though we were already ripped to shreds by Mom's death. And each time, I held my tongue, cast dirty glances and side glares at him instead of speaking. I had stepped up as Lucia's guardian, more than just a brother, a provider, someone to chase away nightmares and bad dreams. It was time I started acting like it.

[font color="E1D38F""Haven't seen him in two weeks. I don't know where he is, so if you're gonna tell anyone anything, you tell me."

His face was one of concern, doubt as to whether I could handle what he was about to tell me.

[font color="E1D38F""Otto I don't kn-"

"I can handle it."

He stopped, biting his lip for a second before looking me in the eyes, eyeballs behind the glasses he wore filled to the brim with doubt and unsureness.

He sighed.

[font color="E1D38F""Lucia is... She's very sick, I.."

His words hit me like a pile of bricks, breath knocked out of my lungs and my mouth hanging half-open. My eyes closed, shut tight as I took a deep breath in, each breath becoming more and more labored as the life, my life ground to a halt. And, just as I did with Lucia the night before, the words come forced out my mouth, lips barely parting and shock clinging to my words.

[font color="E1D38F""What-... What do you mean she's sick? What's wrong with her?"

"I...don't know,-"

My face twisted with anger and astonishment.

[font color="E1D38F""What do you mean you don't know? How do you not know? You're a fucking doctor!"

"I'm not a doctor, boy. I don't know exactly what's wrong with her, I can never be sure. I just know it's bad, it's bad."

The spit had evaporated from my mouth, shock punching me in the face with a fist of grief. I stole a glance at Lucia, twiddling her thumbs as she sat on the couch, legs crossed and head down. She looked up and smiled at me, and I met it with a worried glance.

[font color="E1D38F""I... What can we do? Can't you like... Heal her or something?"

I actually believed he could do something for her. Fix her up until she was good as new.

[font color="E1D38F""I can try some things, and we'll have to keep track of her for the next few months, her health and such. I can do some treatments, but it'll-"

I know what he is going to say before he even says it.

[font color="E1D38F""Cost money"

He nods, a silent sigh escaping his lips before he bites his lip again, hand clasped around the sack of tools and medicines he had in his bag. [font color="E1D38F""I'm...sorry, I must be going. But Otto, just know i'll do everything I can to make her better. I'll try and make her alright again."

He nodded before leaving me in the side room, eyes faltering.

Please let it be alright.

Please let her be alright.

__________

Within the next few weeks, Winter reluctantly let spring take it's place, the snow fading away and leaving goodbye presents of puddles and rain showers. The District came out of it's hibernation, the District Square bustling with the sounds of people day in and day out.

I saw my father once in the beginning of the Spring, when the food and money my Father had left for us the last time he had decided to remember us two was running frighteningly low. It was his footsteps that told me it was him. Not the creaking of the door opening and closing, the sound of crinkling bags or change in his pockets. His footsteps, heavy and loud, his feet never fully leaving the ground but instead shuffling (something I had picked up as a child as well) through the house. I watched, tongue in cheek as Lucia hugged him, her face brightening even though the illness was still plaguing her body. They exchanged kind words, my father smiling at her and squeezing her arms and noting how fucking skinny she had gotten since he'd last seen her.

And then, he turned to me.

All one hundred eighty pounds of him, embracing me in a hug long since due, filled with false happiness and a pretend attitude as if everything was alright. My hands were at my side, eyes staring straight ahead, ignoring everything about the hug, the attitude, ignoring everything until four words spoken in my ear shattered the wall of removal I had built up.

[font color="E1D38F""She's too thin, Otto."

Anger coursed through my veins, through my mind as he broke the embrace, hands on the sides of my arms as he stared at me with a face filled with concern, concern that should have been there weeks ago, when Lucia started coughing up fucking blood and when the apothecary had told me, me, not him that something was wrong. He should've been there.

[font color="E1D38F""You should have been there."

"Son, I was worki-"

An excuse filled his mouth, the same one that has been laid on us for the past two years, after every open and closed doors and exchange of money.

[font color="E1D38F""Working, you were working. Working for three weeks, right?"

I had never fought him before, never had an attitude with him for being gone for so long. It was a routine before, greet him, take the money, watch him leave. Greet him, take the money, watch him leave. And with nothing but words, I had broke a routine.

[font color="E1D38F""Don't take that tone with me, Otto, you know i'm doing the best I can."

He tried to chastise me, force his power over me even though it evaporated long ago.

[font color="E1D38F""It's not enough, y'know. It's never been enough, Dad."

Shock filled his features.

[font color="E1D38F""Oh come on, Otto. Don't tell me I haven't given you enough to eat or enough money, you guys always had enough. This is the first time i've seen no food on that table-"

No, it was not. It was the first time he had forced himself to notice it.

[font color="E1D38F""She's sick, Dad. She's sick."

His face drooped, hands on his hips and a heavy sigh escaping his lips. He said nothing, no words to counter mine, nothing. And with words of venom, I continued to spit them at him.

[font color="E1D38F""Yeah, coughing up blood and everything. We haven't had food, we've had little money because i've had to pay that shitty Apothecary for all his treatments."

The man had done nothing for us besides fill our ears with false comforts and reassuring lies. Sort of like what I had done to Lucia.

[font color="E1D38F""I...How'd you pay?"

I had not paid with labor in a coal mine, or through black market trade or drugs and alcohol on the streets. No, I had paid with ice cold knees, purple fingers and toes and art mediums long since stored in the back of my mind, pushed to the side after I stepped up to take care of my sister. I became a street performer, in some ways. But I did not breathe fire or contort myself like that Victor from District 2 (what was her name? Grasshopper?). No, it started out with paintings, the snow covered sidewalks becoming my canvas and my fingers as the brushes. It had been there, the artist side of me had always been there. It, however, had been locked up with chains of hunger and survival, tossed to the side as maturity swept over me like that drought they talked about hitting some of the other Districts. And, it had waited, biding it's time until it had an opportunity to blossom once again like it had when I was younger (only four years ago yet it feels like centuries). Of course, it's opportunity came with a heavy price, and leaving Lucia at home by herself for hours at a time hardly did anything to quell my fear of what was happening to her.

Every day, for the past few weeks I had wedged it into my morning schedule, a schedule that had been locked in place for years suddenly broken. Get up, eat (some days I had to skip this step), check my father's empty room.

And then, I would depart.

Paint tubes that I had received as a gift from my father years ago in hand, along with any other tool I used to draw with in hand. Chalk, pencils, whatever I could stuff inside the rucksack I carried. Through puddles and mud i'd walk, away from the run down hole I called a home and into a better part of the District, where the people were more likely to drop a dollar if they were entertained enough by a blonde haired, skinny teenager drawing on a sidewalk. It was not grueling work, no. Instead, it was a patience-draining work, frustration making itself clear for ever line that was not straight, each hand that was not shaped right because I had not picked up an art medium for years.

Through cold days and wet days, I drew. And, at the end of the evening, when it started to drizzle, I would watch whatever I had drawn be swept away, and i'd count the money before departing yet again. It was not enough money, never enough money, and in the end, I would always have to barter some of our food with the apothecary as well as the money I had earned just to keep what he was doing going. Because, in a weird way I had clung to his treatments and medicines, tools and practices because they allowed me to feel like I was doing something for her, not just sitting around helplessly and watching her go through pain and suffering.

One day, whilst I was in the middle of drawing what was supposed to be a girl on a swing set, sweat marking my brow and the hair on top of my head disheveled, my eyes met with the form of an old woman, hands clasped together and eyes staring down at me, curiosity dancing through them. At first, my immediate assumption was that she was going to tell me to leave, take my drawing and begging elsewhere and be gone. One small sigh later, my hands had put down the chalk I had been drawing with, and I was about to collect whatever money was in the jar I had put out (none). But then, with a trembling hand and creaking bones she held out a small bag of coins to me, enough to pay for the treatment for Lucia for the next week, two weeks if I tried to barter with him.

[font color="E1D38F""You know, you would probably get more money if you did some unique art. People always used to love art that was unique."

And then, she was gone, old, tired body making it's way down the road and disappearing from my sight. For a second, I was shocked, hands cupping the tiny bag the woman had placed into my hands, small tears of shock and gratitude forming in my eyes. I never saw that woman again, but her words stuck with me, and within a day I was not just considering her suggestion, but accepting it. And, through a single book on our bookshelf about art styles, I found what I was looking for.

Sand.

The pages provided me the information of the art style, but it was my fingers that did the work. And, through some extra sandbags I had been given from the coal mine, I went to work. It was, at first, a terrible medium. Always too much or too little, never able to get the faces or bodies just right. But over time my fingers grew accustomed to the tiny bits between them, to pushing away extra sand and to dropping just the right amount to make the artwork look realistic. The woman was right, for when I took the new art style to the streets of District Twelve, I did get a bit more money than I had before, even if it was only a little more.

All of it, the story of how I had used art to pay for Lucia's treatment did not escape my lips, did not reach my father's ears, for my mind was too full of raw anger to give him anything more than simple sentences.

[font color="E1D38F""People are kinder than you think."

He looked puzzled, brow furrowing for a couple seconds before it undid itself, and he again fell silent, eyes going towards the floor.

[font color="E1D38F""You need to be here now, Dad. You can't just run off again. She needs you. We need you."

Our eyes meet and my arms cross, straight face even though I want nothing more than to berate him for everything he's ever done.

He nods. I leave the room.

Four days.

That is how long my Father stayed in that house with us for. Four long, draining days filled with coughing and soft moans, blood splatters and shoulder pains, heavy breaths and comforting. I could see it in his face, could see it in the way he acted that he wasn't ready for this, that he wasn't expecting any of this when he came home. He didn't want to be here, he wanted out, back to wherever he went when he wasn't here with us.

Eery night, I went to bed preparing myself to find him gone the next morning.

But when I awoke to find the house disturbingly empty, nothing but the songs of the birds outside making their way through our house, I knew something was up. I knew he was gone.

I knew he was gone, and yet, finding the note on the kitchen table, coins thrown next to it and three sentences furiously scribbled upon it still sent chills down my spine.

Otto,

Money is running low. I must work. I'm sorry.

-Dad

I ripped the paper in half, watched coins meet wall as I whipped them towards the other side of the room and listened to my fist hit the table, a half-scream of pure rage escaping my mouth before I collapsed into the chair, and sobbed.

Sobbed for everything that was happening, for believing he might actually stay, for not being able to take care of her when the weight fell off her bones and bloody coughs kept her up all night. For Lucia, for me, for everything.

[font color="E1D38F""Otto?"

One look at my tear stained face and she knows what's wrong.

[font color="E1D38F""I'm not going to be alright, am I?"

It's never going to be alright.

Shes never going to be alright.