Never Grow Up [Mylee & Death]

When I had casually mentioned my intentions of spending the day somewhere that wasn’t my own room, my mother had been ecstatic. From my place across the breakfast table I could see her clap her hands together and come only an inch from knocking over her glass, and I laughed as she realized her close call. “It’s not that big of a deal, Mother.”

“Oh, but contraire, Sunny. You haven’t spent time with someone in your age in heaven knows how long, and the fact that I didn’t have to nudge you out myself makes me quite happy.” She’s right, I suppose, but it wasn’t as if I was ever unhappy in my hours spent in solitude. In fact, I had enjoyed them greatly, the company of silence being broken only by the ticking of the monotone clock that sat above the desk, thoughts lingering in the air like particles of dust that would eventually evaporate as quickly as they had appeared, none being important for longer than a split second at most. Seconds had turned to minutes and minutes to hours as I sat at that desk, red hair tied messily back for productivity rather than show as I poured over books and manuals and objects themselves, really anything that caught my interest upon the hoard of items that overflowed the confines of the cardboard box that sat at my feet.

Between the food on the end of my fork and my mother’s constant drawling on about her plans for the afternoon, I linger on the thought of spending the day tucked away, with time on hold and responsibilities irrelevant as I could—

“Sunny, are you listening?”

Not in the slightest.

“Yes, Mother, of course.”

She rolls her eyes in disbelief and I smirk as she turns on her heel and walks out, leaving me to the empty table and dishes to clean, but she had never specified that they were my duty to take care of, so I set the three chipped plates in the sink as quietly as possible before making my way to the front door. First instinct is to call out and announce my departure, but the thought of accountability causes me to leave a note instead, my hand scrawling across the page illegibly as I sat the piece of paper on the table, “I’ll be back later, going to Thimble’s.”

I would get there eventually.

But for now I wandered, straying from my main path of travel to make note of the plants that grew on the side of the road or to pause and watch children play in a patch of grass. They found company in each other, hearts worn upon sleeves as bruised knees and scraped elbows marked the only detriments to their friendship in their own minds, and oh, how sometimes I longed for it. I longed for pointless conversations shared at three in the morning, minds lost somewhere among the starry sky above our heads, but regardless of how much I longed for it, the occasion never seemed to come to pass, and I suppose Thimble would be the closest I could get. She was a sweet soul, undeniably putting her siblings’ needs in front of her own time and time again; she was selfless.

I had never worked on anyone’s terms but my own.

There were many conditions I could blame my lack of willing to compromise on, from my lack of siblings to my own stubbornness, but neither would excuse my firm, unyielding mindset. Thimble knew this, and for that reason our friendship had worked to the extent in which it had, her fantasies grounded by my realities and vice versa.

Our main conversation as of late had been that of the Sixty-seventh games, and though I had been able to spark interest of my own in the statistics that crossed the screen at random intervals (the boy from eight and his will to fight, the boy from eleven and his skill at ending the hopes of another win for districts one or two, or the duo from four and their ability to finally secure a victor for a district that had for so long been deprived of one—that, that was interesting).

These were not things that Thimble and I saw eye to eye on.

She had been captivated by Leon Krigel from the moment she lay eyes on him, and despite his undeniably nice physique, I couldn’t quite grasp the concept on which she firmly anchored. Regardless, it was nothing short of entertaining to listen to her ramble on about his greatness, and in general, she was a nice change of company compared to the silence of my own home. Her house always seemed to be bustling, with a multitude of children occupying its narrow halls and filling them with shouts of joy and laughter that could warm even the coldest heart.

But today it’s quiet, not a sound to be heard as I step up to the front door, knocking quietly before pushing the door open to be met with the sight of Thimble holding the youngest of the bunch in her arms. I pull the door shut behind me before sitting down across her, crossing my legs before scanning the room.

“It sure seems quiet in here today.”

“The girls have the day off, so they ran off to meet their friends—” There’s a pause here, long enough for me to take inventory of the siblings left but too short to say anything about it, “I’m glad I have you to keep me company. Holly has been kind of fussy, though, so I haven’t been able to put her down for a nap.”

It wasn’t that the baby she held dearly wasn’t cute—she was precious to say the least, but I was never one to enjoy the company of children, and to put it lightly “they didn’t enjoy my company either.”

It’s by accident that I shift away slightly in discomfort as Thimble sits down beside me with the child on her knee.

I’m pretty sure that I get my maternal instincts—or complete lack of—from my mother, which explains why I’m an only child, I suppose.

And I try to force them, really I do, and I make the attempt with stupid faces and cute noises but nothing works because all I get in response is a blank stare from the child and an amused one from Thimble, and both are accompanied by the worst kind of silence, the one that only occurs when you’ve embarrassed yourself so deeply that the only thing to be heard is your own heartbeat.

I hear my own now, in the passing seconds that follow.

It’s in those same passing seconds that I stretch out on the floor, desperate to find some sort of distraction that isn’t my own stupidity. And instead of something typical, I pick at the carpet.

(“There’s a reason you don’t have any friends, Sunny.”

“But I’ve got Thimble and Matilda, and I think they both count.”)

“So, besides running the household in its entirety, what have you been up to?”

“Keeping up with Leon Krigel—”

Ah, shit, that’s—that’s

It’s an immediate embarrassment, that’s what it is.

I think it’s the sudden influx of time I’ve been spending with Matilda or just the lack of concern but the name registers nothing in my mind as she speaks it, and I’m more than thankful that she continues to talk rather than turn the conversation over to me.

“I’ve started a book about him. It’s not as good as some of the other stuff I’ve read—like Argentina’s peace keeper stories. But who knows. Maybe it could be good enough for the Capitol someday. If they’d take the work of a district eight-er.”

I can’t help but crack a smile at this—one that’s genuine, not the same as the one I tried to pull in front of her little sister. Thimble’s always had an imagination bigger than the both of us, and though she seems to have her head in the clouds more than I’ve got mine buried in the things that make me tick, she definitely strikes me as the one to write a book.

“He’s the one—he’s,” and with this I make a gesture to the top of the head that’ll probably strike her as completely idiotic, “he’s the one with the hair as golden as the sands he fought through or whatever you compared it to last? He’s the—the uh victor, right?”

There’s that silence again.

But it’s not my fault that I haven’t been given maternal skills or the interest in current culture that so seemingly flows through Thimble’s veins.

At least this time I made an effort.

I do think it’ll be the last time.