Louvain Cedar {D7}

Life isnt fair, we all know it's true. But when you're not an underdog, you have no right to say it to someone who knows better than you.

It's Saturday night. I should be sleeping or studying - anything that doesn't involve me running in the middle of the street in my pajamas. My lungs are on fire and I think my ankle is about to give out because I landed on it wrong when I stepped off the front porch. It doesn't stop me. Seeing her there writhing on the floor, eyes rolling into the back of her head; it's something terrifying that I'll never be adjusted to. It haunts me in nightmares and in reality. It is my reality, it dominates my life. I can't imagine how badly it effects hers. How hard is it to raise a teenage boy on your own when you can't predict your own worsening seizures?

I know when it's happening. The moment she dropped her knife and leaned to one side, I rushed to catch her. I always guide her gently to the carpeted floor and make sure there is nothing for her to hit. Her body always twitches and jerks every which way, like she's being electrocuted by her own nervous system. Sometimes there's frothy saliva leaking from the corners of her mouth, and when it's over I turn her head to the side to make sure she doesn't choke on it. Usually, I sit next to her with a glass of water, waiting. She's always disoriented when she wakes up. She says it's like waking up from a strange dream. She never remembers how she ended up there.

Tonight, she didn't wake up.

It was taking way too long, and I started to panic. Her pulse and breathing were okay but I don't care, if she's not waking up then she needs real medical attention. That's why I'm here, sprinting down the street in the dark with only the streetlights and the stars to illuminate my path. Sometimes it doesn't matter how pretty the sky is; there will always be some kind of hell on earth. This is mine.

Peacekeepers are always patrolling the creepier areas of the District. The walls have graffiti and there are people brave enough to sit on the corners of streets because they know a sadder, scarier life than mine, and adjusted to it a long time ago. I never come here out of fear We're not all about lumber, as the textbooks say. It's never like that. It may be our main export, but people are corrupt. There is more to life than cutting down trees and people have found that. I don't want to be here, but I have to. It's the closest place crawling with Peacekeepers.

I'm panting when I reach the first one I find. He doesn't take my emergency seriously by the way he just stares at me while I'm trying to catch my breath and talk at the same time. I'm just a kid, of course they don't take me seriously. It's a struggle to spill it all out without panicking further. I'm in a rush, I need him to help me now. He asks me to explain again. At least he's listening.

He doesn't even ask to come back with me. Instead, he asks for my address. He claims he can carry her to the medical center, and I'm so desperate I have to believe him.

I can tell immediately that he can outrun me, so I let him go. I'll be waiting at the medical center for her.

There is medicine meant to decrease the frequency and intensity of the episodes. I'm worried that they're not working anymore, because they're expensive. My job doesn't pay as well as I'd like, and my mom might have to quit her job if these seizures keep happening in the workplace. She cuts wood in a factory; an extremely dangerous place for her. I'd be there too if it weren't for my father's old connections.

Some father. He left when I was a baby. Mom never said why. He used to work at the graveyard, digging holes to put the coffins in. His boss recognized my last name and gave me the same job. I'm a gravedigger. Even when I say it, I can't believe it. I don't look like a rough down in the dirt type of guy. I'm dainty and I have a baby face. I'm not tall, either. The only defined muscles I have are on my arms and my back, and I'm still not all that strong. I just dig all day. Dirt isn't heavy.

If I have my way, I'll have a better paying job after I finish school. I'm one of the smartest kids there. I wouldn't have to work overtime to pay for mom's medications anymore.

I can only hope. We underdogs don't get the best of luck in these situations.

To my relief, mom wakes up in her hospital bed and squeezes my hand. Her tender smile makes me want to snap a picture and add it to my scrapbook. I know it's not "cool" to have a scrapbook. It's lame and stupid but it's my hobby, I put my life into that thing. It's how I organize my memories, my connections. I have a page for each important person in my life. Some have multiple, like my mom. I've never shown it to anyone but her.

It's hard to find people to trust when you're an underdog.

In reality, I'm practically invisible. I go to school and run errands and attend Reapings, but I don't have a memorable face. Yeah I have a friend here and there who will study with me, but it's purely for school. When I try to hang out with them outside of school, we never have anything in common. I end up being ignored because I don't know what to say. I'm the quiet one people leave behind.

Life isn't fair. You don't have to tell me twice.