Johannes Zedler - D5 - [FIN]

On my 16th birthday I was informed by the hospital that my sister was going to die. My supervisors wouldn't let me off work; we had this quota we had to meet and my skipping out was "unacceptable!" I tried to fight my way out but I ended up getting smacked over the head with a lead pipe. I woke up, concussed, blinding headache in the Peacekeepers Headquarters, handcuffed to a chair. I begged to be let out but none of them wanted to listen to a delinquent like me. The thing is, this was the first time I had ever been in any trouble. I'm a pretty straight-laced guy really. I come to work everyday, work diligently through each of my shifts, never question a single order or talk back. I'm compliant. That day was my first and only infraction.

She didn't die. She's a headstrong and stubborn little girl after all. I probably shouldn't have doubted her, but how could I not? My parents were dead. My older brothers were dead. It was only fair that she be taken from me too. But she didn't. It's true, I should've had a bit more faith, especially in her. Two years later and she is still kicking. She doesn't let the endless treatments and hair loss tie her down. But I can't seem to get out from under the bills that are stacked on the kitchen table at home. I work as often as I can, take all the extra shifts - Ripred I've even taken on another job shining Peacekeepers shoes and polishing their guns. But no matter how hard I try, I just can't seem to make a dent in the hospital bills.

Leukemia is what will take her life. The doctors tell me this every time I ask if she is getting better. I've been asking ever since she was diagnosed and been given tiny bits of hope in the form of Capitol intelligence and a few optimistic doctors. "She could make a full recovery." Six simple words that keep me going everyday. That and her precious smile are all I need.

---

Estelle and I moved in with our aunt Evelyn after our brothers, Ethan and Maddox, passed away in an oil rigging accident. The accident was a tragedy for the District, killing so many young men and breaking up so many families. But it had nearly orphaned me and my sister. I was fourteen then, and Estelle hadn't yet been diagnosed. My brothers had been making it work without having Mom and Dad around; they lingered in each of our memories.

You know how some families get torn apart when loved ones die? I've never really experienced that, even with four deaths so close to me. I've only ever grown closer to the people I love because of the deaths. I know kids who have pulled away, the kids that have lost their parents or grandparents or siblings and have torn themselves away from everyone who still loves them and blocks out everyone who could love them. Those kids are my friends who have taken to the streets. They deal illegal drugs or overdose in their homes. I could be those kids. I should be those kids.

I'm not saying I'm not devastated or upset on a daily basis. That would make me cold and heartless. I have my bad days - the anniversaries of their deaths, their birthdays, holidays with only three people sitting around the table - but I don't and can't let those days control me. I have a sister who depends on me, an aunt who cares for me, and I love them too much to let them have to deal with me as a broken man. They deserve better than that.

---

My sister loves books. And I mean, loves them. I think if she had the choice between a good book and the cure for her disease she would pick the book in a heartbeat. (I wouldn't let her, but I know she would try!) So I started a bit of a savings fund. Sure I was piled under bills, but she was just a girl. She needed a childhood for as long as she could have it. All the change I ever found went in a jar under my bed. Sometimes aunt Evelyn would contribute what she could, adding a few dollars here and there, but it was a slow process. So slow that at times that I considered stealing books from the local lunatic who had an entire house full of books. I refrained; Mom would've killed me.

Then, on the day that I knew I had enough to buy an entire book set, I came home to find the bills tossed across the kitchen floor, our refrigerator empty, the medicine chest raided, and all the change I had been saving up gone. That day I have to admit, I sort of snapped. I went to the Peacekeepers and reported it like I was supposed. They didn't care. I was just some kid and they were much too busy to worry about someone who didn't have money to bribe them with. It had been the same way with my parents. However, they eventually caught the girl who had done it and she was now an avox in the Capitol. At least that is what they tell me. I should probably assume they are liars.

Anyway, that day, I took matters into my own hands. I know it's illegal to go around serving justice based on my own terms of the word, but I didn't have another way to go about getting my money back. I went out dressed all in black, complete with a baseball cap, bandanna, and my aunt's trusty crowbar which to this day perplexes me because I have no idea why she has it. I managed to find the guy who had my jar of money, using it to buy drugs, though he already looked high on something he had gotten from our medicine cabinet. I hit him over the head with the crowbar without hesitation. When the dealer tried to flee the scene I shattered his knee cap. I took back my money, told the guy with the fucked up knee to turn himself in or leave the district or I would kill him. And that was that. The next morning I woke up and bought the books for Estelle.

I probably should've stopped after that. Sure there was scum in this world, but beating them down with a crowbar sounded, well, horrible. I felt like scum myself doing it, I felt ashamed knowing that Mom and Dad were cursing me out, and I swear I woke up in the middle of the night to what felt like a slap in the back of the head from her skilled hands. But then a knock at the door came a few days later - a girl named Raina - handing me and envelope filled with nearly quadruple the amount of money I make in a month. She thanked me for what I had done, said it had been her brother who I had hit over the head with a crowbar. She said I had stopped the drug deal and that I had actually saved a lot of people by getting that scum off the streets. Even when I started apologizing for beating down her brother she hushed me, said he had needed that. Said he was going to get clean now. Said I had literally knocked some sense into him. That I was a hero.

I gave her back the money as much as I wanted to keep it. But I wasn't a hero; I was just a selfish kid who wanted his hard-earned money back. I had had my own agenda and it had involved hurting someone when perhaps diplomacy could've been the better option. My parents always told me to stay out of fights and I had been brought up believing in peaceful resolutions, even in a place that had an entire game dedicated to violence. I'm not naive. I sure as hell know that to get what you want around here the peaceful way is impossible, but I am not stooping to the level of the Capitol and the scum of the streets. I will not do that. I am better than that. But a hero? I'm not that good of a man.

But then walking home one night I beat the shit out of a guy who had been running off with one of those rich oil monopolizing families here. A few weeks later I found myself getting a kitten out of a tree and walking home a very lost little boy who was getting threatened by some career type kids that barely exist here. When my sister made me a card for my 18th birthday, claiming me as her hero... I guess I knew I should be doing what the Peacekeepers refused to do. So now I barely sleep, hunting down the assholes of the night, stopping rapes, robberies, and drug deals left and right. Armed with a crowbar and masked by a baseball cap and bandanna, I help stop the crimes that the Capitol should be stopping.

---

Present Day

I'm covered in grease and dust has settled on my face after another long day of work. The hospital is cool, a nice change from the rather sticky air of District 5, and I only have to nod at the receptionist before heading toward the room that holds my sister. Room 103. "Good evening, Mr. Zedler," she says with a smile. I know she hates me because if I don't pay my bills she is the one who doesn't get paid, but she always manages to smile at me. She pities me. And I guess coming in sticky with sweat, covered with grease, and occasionally hiding a limp so I can come and see my deathly-ill sister everyday is certainly pity worthy. I try not to let it bother me.

The door is closed, and from inside I can hear the doctor's voice. I knock as I always do, peek in cautiously, and smile when Estelle squeaks in that cute little voice of her's, "JJ!" That's how I know it is one of her good days. "We were just discussing further treatment," the doctor says in her usual monotone voice. For being someone who works with children she has never been reassuring or fun in anyway. "JJ, I finished the book!"

I smile but look up at the doctor whom is looking at me sternly. "Can we talk later please m'am?" I know she wants to say more, giving me a sidelong glance as she passes me to exit the room. "You can't keep avoiding this," she says before closing the door behind her. can only sigh.

"She's been really sassy today," Estelle says, giggling like a madwoman. I laugh, our laughter soon meshing together in that way that siblings laughter does, as if we were the same person. I pull up a chair and sit down next to her. She sits up further in bed. To my dismay, even that bit of physical activity seems to suck the life out of her. As the light slowly fades from her green eyes so to does it fade from mine. I only keep a smile on my face to keep from crying.

"So, how was the book then? Did I do a good job?" She nods enthusiastically, and gets into a whole spree of praise and explains the plot to me in such great detail that I am convinced she has actually memorized the novel word for word. She is so much smarter than me when it comes to books. She makes me proud. "Hey, you listening mustache boy?" I snap back to attention when she calls me out but when I can't reiterate whatever she just said I'm caught red handed. "Punk."

"So you don't like my mustache?" I ask, exasperated. I've been growing the thing for awhile now. Full beard, too. She's never said anything before. "You look really furry," she says, giggling at me as I stroke it, pretending to be pondering something. "Like a walrus or something."

"A walrus!? You callin' me tubby?"

She giggles. Apparently I'm a big, furry walrus. That's a new one. I smile and shake me head. "Well I guess I'm shaving then," I say, silently mourning the loss of my manly face. "And losing some weight?" I pat my belly, though I am fairly certain I don't have much more weight I can lose, my muscles being as toned as they are from all the overtime I do. But I'll give her this satisfaction. She's smiling and as far as I'm concerned that's all that matters.

"She should get some rest," the doctor says, returning to stand inside the door as our laughter dies down. I stand from my chair, the pouty lip she is giving me almost impossible to resist. I kiss her on the forehead.

"Love you, JJ," she murmurs as she settles deeper into bed.

"Love you, too."