beatriz xiaoqing {nine} fin

I fall like a King at battle.

False hope and empty promises; that was my sister. I longed for her to be on the receiving end of mercy—but she was killed far from softly. No lullabies aided her as she made her descent, no assurances or seconds for reflection; it was short but not sweet. And I watched, childishly, and I recited a silent prayer which I hoped would see her through until morn. 

But she let go—Maya Xiaoqing gave herself up and was taken into the hands of a machine with an engine heartbeat.

I sigh.

Perhaps she took the easy way out. Tribute for the games and death by Cornucopia seems so serene compared to dying a slow death. Living whilst dying—we work in polluted air and are helpless at it sinks into our bloodstream. A silent killer is Nine, because it works without a tremor or a sound. And so, our blessings can be counted on one hand.

One china hand which bears four digits and a thumb. The blessings extend to and are limited to the first finger; for we are blessed to have lost ourselves.

I lose myself all the time. The first time was the worst. It was in the brisk moment between consciousness and unconsciousness; I swear I could see her before me, I thought I could feel her touch. I believed that it was my chance to run the unexplored hills with her but quickly, he complexion faded blue. Her hair went dry and my eyes said more than my mouth.

And it all happened to me, too. Weathered skin laced with red thread, hair like nightfall and even in the summer light, we are completely frozen. Wide eyes retain sadness and everything else is beyond dry and beyond saving by a storm.

Dead, really—I'm just like Maya.

Except, no. We were sisters who fought all the time, sisters who looked above blood to the intricacies of each other's personalities. Petty things would tear us apart; strange, petty things like unwillingness and loss of self-confidence. Her mind was incredible but not once did she try to understand me, she would shoot a glance and make assumptions which were all wrong. And I regret every second of it: of shouting and screaming, because we failed to realise that each other is all we really have.

I wish we recognised unison. But too quickly, bridges were burned to the ground and in their place was nothing but ash and thoughts of what could have been—every time someone mentions her name I'm reminded of pointless squabble.

Her passing has left a hole in my heart. I can still breathe and I'm relieved of the constant voices over my shoulder of judgement, but I cannot spread my wings to fly. My mother tells me that it'll come in time, and one day, I'll see the wonders of this world and another.

I smile.

Flesh and blood—I am hers as she is mine. But still, we miss the piece to which we promised. Gentle, simple words to Maya were not fused together with deceit or delivered with crossed fingers. I meant what I said to her, through and through.

I'm beginning to think that promising empty promises burns in the bloodline, because this promise is destined to break. Forgotten times of love lie in shreds and I do nothing but lie with them, weeping like a willow as I cry cold tears.

I inhale and I'm standing at the foot of her gravestone, I exhale and it's all lost.

And a promise is something so basic and brittle, it took only a second for it to break.

I wish it didn't hurt and I wish I didn't care.

I wish it didn't matter.

I wish I was happy.

Maybe if she won that would've happened. I clung to the dream of her coming home victorious. A crown placed upon her head like a princess, but forced to walk a path paved wit horrors. Her triumph would have meant stability for the Xiaoqing name: riches, a home beside Colgate O'Leary in the Victor's Village. But these possibilities are made of glass because surviving is the hardest part.

I wish it was easy.

I wish I could sleep at night.

I wish I enjoyed living.

I know that if it was me, I would fade. Dead: eyes rusting shut and the beating of my heart to come to a sudden end. I have spent countless nights trying to glorify the thought and bags have appeared under my eyes to tell the tale. Symptoms of mourning are not limited to just that, though, and I find myself becoming old before my time. And I wish that I could still play without breaking.

It'd be different if Maya was here. I wish that she was here,

and I wish that I meant what I promised.

Perhaps this is just my destiny. Everyone grows from their mistakes: physically and mentally. But I wish it was different.

It could've been different.

It could have been different because there was one night where I was first introduced to the concept of loss. Baby sister, barely out of the womb before there was a devastation of red liquid on the floorboards. Tiny heartbeat lost in the chaos, I held Maya's hand because it was the only thing I knew how to do then, and there was nothing we could do. We tried to help, but she was too far gone.

One sister lost, three years later and it becomes two. I'm more alone than I've ever been and

I wish that I'm not really here, and

I wish that this isn't even real.

Ultimately, I wish that I didn't have to exist.