sherlock lovelace, district three

The door is open, the lights are on. Her room is vacant. Cool air floods into the room from the window--the open window, where a length of sheets tied together into a rope hangs out.

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She's gone again.

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Celine leaves all the time, and Ripred knows where she goes. I have the outline of an idea. I imagine she goes to parties or goes to smoke cigarettes with her friends. (Both unhealthy choices.) Perhaps she is a nomadic party girl because of our strict parents, but they are only strict with her because she is the only one who breaks rules.

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I do not break rules. I find exceptions to them. Loopholes.

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To be blatant, I do not understand Celine. (I do not understand most human beings.) I wonder why she would choose an unhealthy lifestyle such as partying, going out as soon as the sun goes down, drinking and doing who knows what while under the influence. Celine is an intelligent girl. She's street smart and knows how to interpret people, how to talk to them. (I wish I was like that, sometimes.)

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Humans are many things. We are a maze of twists and turns and atrocious surprises, we can be light or be submerged in darkness, we can be the helping hand that guides you along or the harsh tug that sends you toppling down from a tightrope.

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Machines are complex and onerous, but I understand machines. I do not have to converse with machines or untangle their emotions. I do not have to decode their words. (Who was the idiot that began sarcasm, anyway? Why would you say something and mean the opposite? It simply is an inefficient method of communication.) Machines are created with a purpose and run a certain way, and when they break down, they can usually be fixed, and there is a clear, exact procedure to make the repairs needed.

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But human beings, from what I have learned, do not run the same way. Humans are not created with a purpose and we do not run in a static way. And when we are broken, not all of the pieces can be found to put us back together. Even the smallest missing fragment can enlarge over the years into a gaping hole of despair.

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I never found a particular human very intriguing, I never found a reason to form a bond with people outside of my family. And then John Thatcher came along. Before him, I had never truly developed feelings--romantic feelings--for anyone. There had been cute boys with wide angel eyes and soft curls of windswept hair that caught my attention. There had been small crushes, vague feelings. But John hit me like a train.

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I remember the day in clear, precise detail.

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It was a quiet, tranquil Monday morning in January. The sun was blotted out by dark clouds that looked like thick smoke and the skies were crying up a downpour and the wind was howling like a wild wolf. (My favorite kind of weather.) Thatcher shuffled nervously into the room, his eyes fixed on the floor. He caught everyone's attention like a beacon firing into a night sky.

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The teacher, Mr. Chapman, smiled, but it did not reach his cold eyes. "Class, it appears we have a new student. If he would only look up so we could see his face and welcome him," Mr. Chapman said glacially. Thatcher did look up, and he met my eyes. I remember my heart skipping a beat when I looked into his eyes, engulfed with unease and nervousness. (Mr. Chapman keeps everyone on edge.) My lips just barely curved into a smile. (My mother said this is a friendly gesture you should use when greeting new people.) Thatcher smiled back at me, and I looked away when heat and redness flooded my cheeks.

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We did not fall in love . . . I believe the correct word is stumbled. I stumble upon or into most things in life. Nothing is as precise as I would like it to be--everything is unpredictable, or perhaps I am just not good at predicting things.

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It was wonder that dragged Thatcher into my heart. I am not good at reading people, but I can read Thatcher. He is an open book, his pages filled with blissful thoughts and kindness and light. There are certain things in his past that have grown into obstacles in his life, but he manages to shine like the stars in the obsidian night sky.

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I wish Thatcher was simpler, but he is less complicated than most humans. He does not use sarcasm often, he is clear about his emotions, and he is direct. The bond between Thatcher and I could only be severed by death. He is the only person who fully understands me. My mother does not understand me. Or my father. Or my brothers. Or my sisters. They look upon me as an eccentric child--and perhaps I am. My mother is a brilliant inventor, but she does not comprehend the high value of machines to me, how I prefer them over human contact.

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I do not pay much mind to the opinions of those around me. I disregard most of them. Children in my classes have always viewed me as strange, identify me as a loner. And I am a loner to them, but to me I am a tinkerer, an inventor, a mechanic. I lose myself and time in the world of steel and gears and wires. (Being in solitude has never bothered me.)

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Thatcher is the one who usually yanks me out of it. Sometimes, I will work for days with barely enough time to eat, and Thatcher will come find me and pull me away from whatever machine I am working on. And he will say, "Sherley, when was the last time you ate? Or spoke to a human being?" I do not usually recall either of those things. Thatcher will then laugh and me and shake his head. "I'm not sure how you're still alive," he would say.

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I do wonder, very often, what Thatcher sees in me. He is not eccentric, like me, although he is not one for social settings. But he does know how to communicate with people, and he is warm and kind. He says I am warm and kind as well, only I do not know how to act this way. Thatcher says it must come naturally to me, then.

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But of all the boys at school, and in District Three, Thatcher chose me. I am not insecure, but I wonder why, simply because everyone else seems to find me to be strange and unsociable. I am not unattractive in any way--and I say this as a fact, not to brag. I do find myself to be good-looking, though I am not anywhere near being muscular, with my neatly brushed and styled hair, the color of dark copper with slight flaxen streaks. Thatcher says that my eyes are very pretty. "They're the color of the forest," he had said. And I replied, just for clarification, "In the fall, winter, spring, or summer?" Thatcher responded, "Spring."

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I did ask Thatcher why he liked me, and he said, "Because you're the purest person in this district, and maybe even Panem. You see the world in black and white, to the extend that you're so honest, I'm not even sure you know how to lie. There isn't anyone like you, Sherlock, and there never will be."

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His answer made my heart flutter.