Lucretia Louis || d2 || [fin]

I stare into an endless wall of black. The walls box me in. The air grows thinner, thinner, thinner—but I can wait. ("I dare you, Lulu.") Wait until my head aches, until my lungs scream. Inhale, exhale. ("Don't call me that.")  I count until I can't remember what number comes after twenty-three. My heart races, my body grows weaker. But I can make it longer. I can wait. ("You too scared?")

("I'm not scared of anything.")


I reach for the door, my fingers slowly curling weakly around the handle. I can go longer, longer—I'm not afraid. ("Lulu, listen to Papa--") My muscles grow weaker with every second that passes, my lungs screech for oxygen I can't find. Just a little.. longer. ("Don't go in the mines.") My head aches as I force my muscles into action, pulling on the handle until the tiny door swings open.

I gasp; my lungs expand. One... My head spins and the sound of my frail bones crashing against the rails is all I hear. Breathe, breathe, breathe. Two. I let my fingers curl into the soft dirt beneath me. It feels like my mother's garden—soft, cool, relaxing. Only I don't smell the wisteria. Where am I? Three. I'm in the mines, sitting in a shaft, seeing how long I can last without letting air through. Without breathing. Because he said I couldn't...

I smile. And the dark tunnel is the only one to hear me whisper, "I won."


Twittering birds curl up in their nests as the sun paints the sky a soft tangerine. My hands shake, but not because the chill of dusk is lacing its fingers into my hair, sending chills across my scalp and shivers down my spine. I lace my fingers together, squeezing until the shaking ceases. ("It's the oxygen deprivation she suffered from as a child.") I take a deep breath, remembering the doctor's words which forever remind me that the mines are no place for children. The mines are the reason I do not sleep.


Along with the muscle spasms, the doctor concluded that I will forever suffer from insomnia. ("It's called cerebral hypoxia. We see it most often in the miners here.") When I was 8 years old, I proved I wasn't afraid of anything. When I was 12 years old, I helped Dad open and close the mine shafts. I would wait patiently, silently, counting. Until I saw the soft glow of a headlamp at the end of the tunnel—("Papa!")—upon which I would leap to my feet and pull open the small door that led home. ("Ahoy Captain Lulu! How's it lookin' up tharrrrgh?") And his voice would bounce off the walls and echo until I had heard the his pirate impression for at least 20 seconds. And I laughed every single time.



"Dark."

It was always dark. The mines, my room, the night sky, his headstone. It cost my family a fortune to afford the sleek, dark granite and to engrave the words, "Loving husband and father" just below his name. It's been 6 years now since I first started visiting his headstone. I wait until I hear the sound of my brother's slowed breathing and my grandma's harsh snoring.

(["Where are you going?")

A question my Mom stopped asking me a long time ago.

("Out.") And though this had been during my streak of rebellion, I always paused in the doorway. ("I love you.")

("I love you, too, Lucy.")


Now I visit two graves. Side by side in the moonlight, every Tuesday and Saturday, I sit with my back pressed to the cold stone and stare up at the stars, teaching myself the constellations. ("I found it in the old library down the street. Happy birthday, Lucy.") My brother always seemed to know what was best for everyone, even if he never said much. It was better than any talent I possessed.

I can name the stars and the constellations. I know exactly where to find the best canned peaches in District 2. (Mrs. Porter's pantry. A little breaking and entering while she slept and my brother and I had peaches every Wednesday at dinner.) And I wasn't half bad when it came to mountain climbing. But my brother seemed to beat me in most everything else. He's blessed with the gift of sociability; he got that from Dad. I inherited Mom's temper.

It's part of why I don't mind being awake all night and popping pills to get my few hours of sleep during the day. Even in the mining slums of District 2 there is peace in moonlit streets and starlit skies. The darkness is much kinder to me than any people have ever been. Easier to get along with a thing who offers nothing but comfort and silence. The only words it offered were the whispers of those who slept both 6 feet below and tucked in their beds.


"Look here comes Cuckoo Lulu!"

And today was the day I was going to beat the shit out of him. But he didn't know that yet; I'm not close enough—("Lulu! Hey, Poo-lu!")—but I can wait. I beat him once in a game of patience, I sure as hell can do it again. He stands behind me now; I can feel his breath on my neck. One. "Lulu."

I meant to count to ten. But he uses the name only my Dad ever used as a jeer. And after just one second, I can't wait to knock his teeth in.

I swing around and punch him as hard as I can, hitting him square in the jaw. I don't bother waiting for his reaction. I hit him again, this time in the stomach. I jump on top of him, pulling him to the ground as he struggles to breathe with my arm wrapped around his neck. I throw him as best as I can before jamming my boot into his nose, kicking at his ribs. He grabs at my ankle and pulls me to the ground, but I move quick enough to jam my free foot into his teeth. He stumbles again and I take the opportunity to tackle him, rolling him over so that I can punch him as squarely in the face as I can.

I scream. I don't know for how long or why. But I scream until my throat hurts; I throw my fist until his body goes still.

And then I cry.