With Flames In Our Eyes {Cait}
Feb 15, 2015 12:09:38 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Feb 15, 2015 12:09:38 GMT -5
Words: 1215 | |
District 11 | [Notes: For Cait] |
When I was young, I prayed for my brother to return. I had the hope in my heart that he, unlike the other twenty-three sent into the games, would emerge with a crown on his head. He’d had the strength when he’d taken to the stage—he’d smiled, laughed and joked as though all of this was nothing. There he was with Belle… funny how I can remember her, too. Were they friends on that train? The Calloways had never come to call during the sixty-third, but that just showed that even a place like district eleven, the roots here weren’t so deep. Benat didn’t cry in that little room in the justice building, no. They couldn’t break him, even when Benat knew he’d never be seeing us again. I drank in Benat and Belle riding in their chariot, the crowds roaring at the sight of the two of them. He gave a smirk and waved both of his arms, and I remember thinking—he’s brave enough. Right up until his score shot up did we think he had a chance. All his jokes, smiles, and laughs—couldn’t save him from the two that showed he was more lover than fighter.
Iago had gone ahead for me—he’d taken my name back out of the bowl and substituted himself. Because he’d seen one brother go, I suppose he’d thought a second would have been too much. But I can’t help but think it was what he’d wanted, trying to destroy the games from the inside. He hadn’t cared for a single person while he was in District Eleven. Always called all of us idiots, or said we weren’t worth the spit that came out of our mouths. We were too poor, too simple for him to love. But what he loved less? Seemed to me, that they had him in a game that he knew was pegged against him. He demolished all the rest of his competition up until the end, but—he didn’t break down the games any more than put on a good show. In the end, he’d succumbed to what all of them do: ambition that at the end, a crown would mean more than all the blood on his hands. Well, he’d been buried just as Benat, though his ambition meant more weeds had grown over his stone.
We don’t take kind to the poppies growing out and above us. I should’ve seen what Iago had been talking about. All of us in this district just running around, rocks in our heads, trying to live the best we can. Well, they don’t want us to live, just to breath, eat, shit, and die. I’d spent the few months after Benat’s death thinking that wasn’t so bad. Deval taught me how to be a kid again, playing at the watering hole and sitting under the stars. But they tried to break all of that, and take me away, too. Iago had been the thin line separating me from life and death—it’s no wonder he’d played the devil. Walking through fire either burns you to the ground or turns you into something no one wants to see. Wish people could see he was no more evil than any of our other tributes.
Levi left yesterday.
I stand outside in the cold, burlap bag thrown over my shoulder. I’ve got the scarf my mother made for me, and Benat’s old overalls, with his coat wrapped tight against my body to keep me warm. The ground has a dusting of snow, but the cold has turned it to ice already. Capitol said the winter was supposed to be shorter. If we keep having the cold snaps that we’ve been having, won’t look too good for the crops coming in the spring. Not that they would notice. That just means there’ll be less to go around for the rest of us. Funny how that works. We get to pull all the corn from the fields, or the apples from the orchards, but when things get tough, we’re the ones going hungry. They break us that way—throwing us morsels of food when we get too hungry, because as long as we don’t speak up too loudly we’ll be content to farm their food and die. Would reckon that half the district got the idea that it’s some sort of noble thing, to be the ones that do all the hard work with their hands.
At the edge of the orchard stands the warehouse shed. I press my hand against the cracked wooden door and give a push. Inside holds the usual rusted tools. There’s plow’s for tilling the soil, and hoes for digging up the weeds; hanging on the wall are old fashion reapers, far too rusted to pose any threat to people. I drop the bag off of my shoulder and begin dragging it along the dusty floor. White beads spill out of the top of the bag and scatter into the cracks between the hardwood slats lining the floor. I grit my teeth as I pull the thing toward a work bench left of the door. For a second I stand, searching through the darkness. I press my knees against the floor and begin clawing at the slats, my fingers mixing with the mud and grim as I pull and heave one of them out of place. Underneath are my prize—a dozen mason jars full of a crude mixture of molasses and other odds and ends. One by one, I place the jars on the work table. I strike a match and press to light a candle.
I’m not going to sit around praying for Levi to come home. They want to have us believe that he won’t get the short straw, and that he’s got some sort of chance. Well, I’ve seen enough games now to know a boy as good as that has no place there. Those kids are too hungry for someone like Levi. They’re gonna eat him alive. Which means, which means that we’re going to have to construct another monument to an Izar. That we’re going to have to stand on a stage and praise some asshole that’s wearing a crown, all because they can. Well, it’s one thing to sit around crying, and another to try and move on, as though we don’t have to be afraid every day of our lives.
But I know that there’s another way—because if Benat, Rum Tum, and Iago taught me anything, it’s that I’ve got my own path to follow.
Benat failed because he played the game, one that he’d never had the skill to win. Iago tried to beat it by breaking it—by being so horrible that he was consumed by it. And Rum Tum? He’d lived entirely outside of their world, so the moment he stepped back in, he’d been broken. Because I know now that the only thing the capitol will respect is someone that shakes things to their core. I scoop a handful of the fertilizer pellets and slip them into a mason jar. I’m going to tear apart anything that gets in our way, because whether or not Levi comes back—things are going to change.
I’m tired of living this way.
Iago had gone ahead for me—he’d taken my name back out of the bowl and substituted himself. Because he’d seen one brother go, I suppose he’d thought a second would have been too much. But I can’t help but think it was what he’d wanted, trying to destroy the games from the inside. He hadn’t cared for a single person while he was in District Eleven. Always called all of us idiots, or said we weren’t worth the spit that came out of our mouths. We were too poor, too simple for him to love. But what he loved less? Seemed to me, that they had him in a game that he knew was pegged against him. He demolished all the rest of his competition up until the end, but—he didn’t break down the games any more than put on a good show. In the end, he’d succumbed to what all of them do: ambition that at the end, a crown would mean more than all the blood on his hands. Well, he’d been buried just as Benat, though his ambition meant more weeds had grown over his stone.
We don’t take kind to the poppies growing out and above us. I should’ve seen what Iago had been talking about. All of us in this district just running around, rocks in our heads, trying to live the best we can. Well, they don’t want us to live, just to breath, eat, shit, and die. I’d spent the few months after Benat’s death thinking that wasn’t so bad. Deval taught me how to be a kid again, playing at the watering hole and sitting under the stars. But they tried to break all of that, and take me away, too. Iago had been the thin line separating me from life and death—it’s no wonder he’d played the devil. Walking through fire either burns you to the ground or turns you into something no one wants to see. Wish people could see he was no more evil than any of our other tributes.
Levi left yesterday.
I stand outside in the cold, burlap bag thrown over my shoulder. I’ve got the scarf my mother made for me, and Benat’s old overalls, with his coat wrapped tight against my body to keep me warm. The ground has a dusting of snow, but the cold has turned it to ice already. Capitol said the winter was supposed to be shorter. If we keep having the cold snaps that we’ve been having, won’t look too good for the crops coming in the spring. Not that they would notice. That just means there’ll be less to go around for the rest of us. Funny how that works. We get to pull all the corn from the fields, or the apples from the orchards, but when things get tough, we’re the ones going hungry. They break us that way—throwing us morsels of food when we get too hungry, because as long as we don’t speak up too loudly we’ll be content to farm their food and die. Would reckon that half the district got the idea that it’s some sort of noble thing, to be the ones that do all the hard work with their hands.
At the edge of the orchard stands the warehouse shed. I press my hand against the cracked wooden door and give a push. Inside holds the usual rusted tools. There’s plow’s for tilling the soil, and hoes for digging up the weeds; hanging on the wall are old fashion reapers, far too rusted to pose any threat to people. I drop the bag off of my shoulder and begin dragging it along the dusty floor. White beads spill out of the top of the bag and scatter into the cracks between the hardwood slats lining the floor. I grit my teeth as I pull the thing toward a work bench left of the door. For a second I stand, searching through the darkness. I press my knees against the floor and begin clawing at the slats, my fingers mixing with the mud and grim as I pull and heave one of them out of place. Underneath are my prize—a dozen mason jars full of a crude mixture of molasses and other odds and ends. One by one, I place the jars on the work table. I strike a match and press to light a candle.
I’m not going to sit around praying for Levi to come home. They want to have us believe that he won’t get the short straw, and that he’s got some sort of chance. Well, I’ve seen enough games now to know a boy as good as that has no place there. Those kids are too hungry for someone like Levi. They’re gonna eat him alive. Which means, which means that we’re going to have to construct another monument to an Izar. That we’re going to have to stand on a stage and praise some asshole that’s wearing a crown, all because they can. Well, it’s one thing to sit around crying, and another to try and move on, as though we don’t have to be afraid every day of our lives.
But I know that there’s another way—because if Benat, Rum Tum, and Iago taught me anything, it’s that I’ve got my own path to follow.
Benat failed because he played the game, one that he’d never had the skill to win. Iago tried to beat it by breaking it—by being so horrible that he was consumed by it. And Rum Tum? He’d lived entirely outside of their world, so the moment he stepped back in, he’d been broken. Because I know now that the only thing the capitol will respect is someone that shakes things to their core. I scoop a handful of the fertilizer pellets and slip them into a mason jar. I’m going to tear apart anything that gets in our way, because whether or not Levi comes back—things are going to change.
I’m tired of living this way.
HAYANA OF CAUTION 2.0
