Rites of Passage // [Colgate/Open - Party]

The hands that pull me away from the fight are relentless, but soon, after there's blocks of distance between me and the man who insulted me straight to my face, the crowd begins to thin and the hands release me.

(But their eyes don’t.)

There’s a group of about five or six people – some men, some women – staring at me incredulously, having dropped me on the sidewalk like a sack of potatoes. Silence fills the air for a good ten seconds, but I just kinda sit there and look up at all of them, wondering if that guy back there was their buddy and now I’m gonna be beaten to hell and back for trying to kill him. Wouldn’t that be something else? Being beaten to death in my own District, when four years ago I was afraid I was gonna die away from home under the cruel sky of the Arena.

(Ah, let them try to kill me.)

I decide not to move or run anywhere, and instead I’m just staring up at them like a fool, my lip kinda bloody, I guess because somebody’s hand smacked it to keep me from struggling. They’re circled around me like dogs, waiting for me to answer for what I’ve done. But the silence is stretching on and it’s getting a little bit awkward, and finally a man speaks up, stepping forward with his eyebrows raised.

”What the hell do you think you were doing, kid?”

That’s when I feel the need to stand up, ‘cause I don’t like the look of this guy or how he’s standing over me. I push myself up from the dirt and the dust off of my pants, holding my chin up like I’ve learned to do, and now I’m standing above him. And I don’t say anything at all as I turn and push out of the crowd, striding quickly away as the group yells after me.

I kinda wander around for awhile after that, heading in the opposite direction because I don’t know where else to go. It’s still early - odds are all those people were heading off to work – and my family probably isn’t even awake yet, because they’ve taken the day off to celebrate with me even though I asked them not to. That’s the thing though – I don’t have anywhere else to go or anyone else to see, so I wander home and sit down on the doorstep, staring out at the ever-changing sunrise.

My heart’s still pounding from the adrenaline of it all, and I remember more things. Not concrete things, just.. the mindset of it all. Like the feeling of an axe beneath my fingers, or the deep ache that accompanies the loss of an ally. More than anything, I remember what it was like to feel anything at all, whether it be sad or angry or even just the primal instinct to survive. Those were meaningful experiences – terrible, but meaningful – and I forgot how it was to be anything but indifferent.

Indifferent is safe.

Indifferent doesn’t have to think about the losses of the past, or the prospect of the future, or everything that’s wrong with the world. Indifferent doesn’t have to worry about how it affects other people, or if it’s going to take responsibility for its actions, or if it’s going to be able to care for other people. Indifferent doesn’t feel pleasant, and it pretends it doesn’t feel any pain.

I like indifferent, but right now.. Right now, I feel the cracks beginning to spread.

That’s why I throw myself up and rush into the house; the morning air feels too crisp on my skin, and I’ve got to do something to take my mind away from whatever the hell it’s doing. I end up wandering into the kitchen, and my mom’s sitting there with a cup of coffee nestled in her palms. Her presence takes me by surprise, but I can’t look at her. My chest’s starting to get all tight and there’s a lump in my throat that won’t go away, so I turn away and put my hands on the counter, trying to breath.

Got to do something. Something other than talking.

”Are you alright, Col?” she asks, not moving from her seat at the counter.

”Fine,” I say, opening up the cupboard to pick out an apple. I take a bite of it and keep my face away from her, ‘cause one look from someone that worries about me could make me fall apart, and I don’t want this to be happening right now. ”I think I’m going to go sleep for a while longer – I woke up early.”

Without staying to hear what she has to say in return, I walk up the stairs with careful, quiet steps, pressing the door to my room open and closed.

Indifferent is messy, too. There’s stuff thrown around everywhere – dirty shirts, old apple cores, a few empty mugs that once held hot chocolate, but sit there waiting to be taken to the sink. I ignore it all and curl up into a ball under the covers, pressing my face into the pillow and falling back into nothingness.


I’m woken up a few hours later by my mother, who looks worried.

”Are you sick?” she asks, pressing a hand to my forehead. More than anything, she looks a little pissed off. ”It’s almost dark. We were wondering if you might want to do something.”

Like anyone who wakes up after a long nap, it takes me a minute to realize that it’s not another day and I’m not waking up to a new, lonely morning – this is still my birthday, and my family has likely been waiting hours for me to wake up in order to celebrate, if only with a cake.

I sit up, wiping the sleep out of my eyes. ”I didn’t have anything planned,” I mumble, looking down at my hands. I should have thought of something, because I know this day is important to my family, but what was I supposed to do, throw a party?

For some reason, my mother looks smug.

”Good. Because we’ve planned something for you.”

”What?”

”A party.”

The word party surprises me, and I feel more awake than I did. Who the hell is she gonna invite? I’ve got all of 0 close friends besides my family, and if she thinks that eating a piece of cake while sitting at the kitchen table counts as a party, she’s wrong.

”What do you mean?”

”We figured you could get out of the house. Talk to other people. Have a drink.”

If she’s planned something, I don’t want to defend myself and hurt her feelings, so I roll out of bed – hair sticking up in a hundred different directions – and look at myself in the mirror. I was sleeping for so long that my face still has the outline of my pillow pressed into it, and before I can even ask what I should wear, Mom’s opening the closet and picking out a suit.

”Are you serious?” I ask, raising my eyebrows up. ”If we’re going to a bar, I can’t look like that. People will think I’m.. “

”A victor?”

”An asshole.”

She quiets down at that, but she hands me the suit anyways and crosses her arms. ”We’re not going to a bar. You are. With your brothers and sisters.”

I suppose that counts as a party, seeing as there’s so many of us, but I don’t say anything. I just nod and agree, and she strides out of the room.

Despite the fact that I look like a total mess after having napped for most of the day, I tame my hair a little and wash my face before putting on the suit, which is neatly ironed and altogether too clean and too nice for District Nine – especially for one of the only run-down, dimly lit bars we have. A few minutes later, I walk down the stairs and my entire family’s there, trying not to smirk, but I can tell that they look nice too, all clean and ready to go.

”You look handsome,” Mom says, patting my cheek.

I nod – not in agreement, but to move on from this conversation because I feel horribly awkward – and we head out the door. The center of the District’s only a short walk away, and we’re there sooner than I’d like to be. I’ve never been in this bar, but when we walk in the smell of alcohol is unmistakable. It’s a warmer place than I expected, I guess because all of the Capitol bars are sleek and air-conditioned, and it looks friendlier than I thought. There’s even a little stage in the back, if people wanna stand up and play a song for everyone to hear. It’s actually packed with people who seem to be waiting around, and after a few seconds I hear a few people cheer and throw their arms in the air – never letting go of their drinks - yelling “Happy birthday!” at different times, running to pat me on the back. A beardy old man walks up and offers to buy me a drink, and a minute later he presses a tall glass of something into my hand.

I smell it before I drink it, and the man laughs. ”Cider!” he says. ”You’d think for a victor you’d drink more than you do.”

I hesitate for a second and take a sip, but the man just throws his head back in laughter and tips my glass forward so I’m forced to drink even more.

(And then, a few minutes later, I go up to the bar and order another.)