Where My Heart Used to Be {Geebs}

Stand in the shade of me
Things are now made of me
The weather vane will say
It smells like rain today

One, two, three . . . Memory silently counted the stitches as she crocheted, all her attention focused on the hook and yarn before her. Over the last few hours, the blanket she was crocheting had grown, slithering across her lap and down to the floor. The yarn was in some garish color; they wouldn’t send this one to the Capitol. It was too tacky to be thrown across the couch of some Capitol elite. Instead, it would go to District Eleven, or Twelve, where the ugly colors would blend in with the worn-out surroundings, and no one would care about Memory’s shoddy work.

All her life, she’d resisted this kind of work. Despite the livelihood of her district, Memory had never been interested in making clothing or textiles or any of that. She’d always naively thought that if she stayed in school and studied hard, she would have the opportunity to travel to the college in District Six and make something of her life. It was a stupid dream, she realized that now, which was why she’d quit school three weeks ago and joined the working population. Her mother had made a living out of crocheting and knitting various items, so it had been easy for Memory to slip in beside her and take up some of the work.

She paused at the end of a row and looked up to stretch her neck. This was her life now; hours upon hours of yarn slipping through her fingers, twisting around her hook. She worked until her neck was sore, her wrists and fingers stiff from the repetitive motion. Then she slept, and when she woke, she began the process all over again. Her parents worried about her, she knew. It wasn’t just that she’d stopped going to school. Once upon a time, hardly a day had passed between Memory’s visits to the library. But she’d stopped going. She no longer found comfort in the rows of musty books. The last time she’d been there, she had gone to the row of books about the Hunger Games, and plucked the one marked 57 off the shelf. She’d searched it for a picture of Enigma, the sister she’d never known, and when Memory was sure no one was looking, she tore the page out of the book and stuffed it in her pocket. She hadn’t been back since.

Sometimes, Memory took the crumpled picture out at night and examined it in the dimness of her bedroom. Enigma was a stick of a girl, far prettier than Memory could ever hope to be. Even now, all this time later, Memory could hardly believe Enigma was her sister. She was angry, too, because her mother had only told her when it was too late, and Enigma was as good as dead. I should have had a chance to know her, Memory thought. It isn’t fair. But that was life, wasn’t it? People kept secrets from you, and when those secrets came out, you got hurt, one way or another. Wishing wouldn’t bring Enigma back from the dead. It wouldn’t give Memory the chance to get to know her sister.

“Memory?” her mother called. She set aside her crocheting and turned to look at her mother. Her mother had her hands knotted together as she stood in the kitchen doorway. “Darling, would you mind getting some groceries for me?” Memory knew what this was. It was her mother’s sad attempt at trying to get her out of the house. Her parents had stopped trying to figure out what was wrong, which Memory was glad for, but even worse, they were now doing everything in their power to subtly nudge her back towards her old self. “The fresh air would do you some good.” Her mother’s mouth twisted into a tiny smile, the worry on her face just deep enough to twist a knife of guilt into Memory’s gut. With a sigh, Memory folded up the horrid blanket and went to her mother, who handed her a shopping list and a handful of bills. “Take your coat,” her mother said gently, “it’s cold outside.” Memory did as she asked, wrapping a coat around her shoulders before she stepped into the chilly afternoon air.

Caden would be coming home from school soon; he hated the place, and it was only a matter of time before he decided he was done with it. Mother and Father would let him, too. He’d use Memory as an excuse – if she doesn’t have to go to school, why do I? But it was different for Caden. District Eight was the perfect backdrop for his dream of designing clothes. He had the advantage of having been born exactly where he needed to be.

There wasn’t much traffic on the streets at this time of day, so Memory had the advantage of having the sidewalk all to herself. It was a few blocks to the nearest grocery store, and despite the biting wind, Memory enjoyed the walk. She’d been purposely staying inside the last few days, an absurd sort of punishment for trying to follow her dreams. She’d always prided herself on her intelligence, but how smart could she really be if she’d thought she would be allowed to leave her district? How many years had she wasted chasing a fruitless dream? She could have made dozens of blankets and contributed to the family income rather than waste all those hours reading. She was glad she’d given it up. Who needed the soft caress of pages, anyway, the whisper of words as she cracked open the spine? It was stupid. You couldn’t feed a family with books. You couldn’t pay rent with a chapter’s worth of fancy. She was older now, more practical. She had no use for books anymore.

As she neared the grocery store, Memory pulled the list from her pocket, scanning the contents. Luckily, she could get everything she needed at this one store. She spotted something in a store window out of the corner of her eye and stopped. In the wide window, illuminated by lights, stood a row of books set up in a careful display, their covers pristine and shining. It took her breath away. Unconsciously, she reached out a hand and touched the glass, as if it might shiver and disappear if she only wanted it hard enough. Her eyes skimmed across the titles; these were books she’d never seen before, ones the library had no copies of. Her fingers itched to turn the pages, to uncover the secrets lurking between those two slabs of leather. Pain stabbed her heart. She did not belong to that world, not anymore. She did not belong to the books. She belonged to a crochet hook and a basket full of yarn, not a bundle of pages and ink. Reluctantly, she turned away from the display, trying to hold her head high and appear resolute. Just as she took a step away, the wind picked up again, snatching at the grocery list she still held in her hand. Memory stared after the white slip of paper in shock for a moment. It tumbled down into the street, skimming across the ground, flitting between people’s feet. Then, snapping out of it, she launched into action, desperately pursuing the list as the wind egged it on, out of her reach.