Public Training Session's

“Are you ready Amerika?” a voice whispers quietly, offering my hand a warm grip, like it’s already time for the bloodbath and my fingers are drenched in crimson, like my pretty, oval nails are torn down to the beds, drip-drip-dripping my life force slowly, like a vice or a shackle ready to take me back to my masters as if I were a dog-

No. I shouldn’t think of Star that way. Star reminds me a lot of who I used to be back in six, that excited go-to girl ready to do anything to get a step up or two. She’s just trying to do her job with as much passion as I have for acting. Besides, it's probably been rough on her over the years- pessimistic children force-fed to an arena bulging at the seams with lost souls already, knowing before they ever walk in that their days are limited, heartbeats, breaths assigned an arbitrary number.

This includes me.

My time here hasn't exactly been the most pleasant, but without a mentor nor a solid companion to lean on, I've found myself more lost than ever before. At least the few allies I've managed to make are willing to accept me, though weather it's as a living meat shield or an invaluable asset, I can't yet tell. Oh well- at least someone likes me I guess. I don't think I'll be alone when I die.

It's ironic.

The man my sister called 'Wolf-boy' has a brother,

who wanted to ally himself with me.

He's younger than me by a year or two, but like me, it's like his eyes have seen the entire world over and have found no sliver of innocence left.

It makes me think back to the things I'm about to do, while Star offers my hands another friendly squeeze before she dismisses me to the snapping jaws of the game makers, like sending a well-loved child to the dentist for the first time knowing its going to be painful for them, but better off in the end. What would they say about me? How would they react?

Jack's bloody arm and scarred skin foreshadowed exactly what she did when she left, but I'm absolutely certain my 'Talents' will leave no physical marks on my body and as I step into the large gymnasium, my heart catches. Which of these blades did she use to carve her own name into her flesh? Or did they confiscate the contaminated blade?

My jaws part like they have so many times before while the realization slaps me across the face- this is a fucking audition. I've done that before, this is something I can do!

"My name is Amerika Eckhart~!"

"Amerika Eckhart- District Six female."

Already the memories flood back to me, of that last audition.

"I'll be performing a monologue Eurydice as from Polaroid Pictures, by Naomi Iizuka."

...

My name is Disappear. MY NAME IS D I S A P P E A R.

My feet falter below me and I gracefully sit, stroking the small, black bracelet upon my wrist, a gentle breath escaping my chest as I slam my fingers against it until it vibrates five times. It's set then. I'm completely silent, but the words are echoed, screeching in my head.

I'm talking to somebody who knows how it goes- You know how it goes, I know you do too- see it in your eyes. So you tell me then, cause I want to know, tell me about the places I've never been to, tell me about all the places I'm gonna go to-

It begins.

My eyes are staring directly at the grey wall below which the makers sit, and it's my audience, my solace, my muse, my executioner. I count the seconds as they pass with my calm breaths, shoulders still, only parts of me moving my stomach, and my quietly blinking eyes.

"Amerika I don't see why you've come to me-

"Because you're the best damn director I know."

"It doesn't matter anymore, why does it matter?"

"You're letting her die."

"How dare you accuse me-!"

I'm not accusing you, it's just a simple fact Rio."

My hands tap tap tap against the manuscript I've laid across his desk, an old relic from less turbulent times. The main character is particularly boisterous and sarcastic, right up my alley. This is my play, this is my masterpiece, the creme de la creme of acting for me and he's just going to deny me! Who does he think he is, sitting curled up in his damn office all the time like a vampire.

He needs the air, the applause, the stress of theater, and I'm just the bitch to give it to him.

"It's been six months Rio and we haven't had a single production- no practice, no rehearsal, nothing. How can you ever start to make a new mosaic if you don't pick up the pieces first!?

He's silent as he watches me, fingers shaking. I've never talked to this man that way in my entire life, never have I been so insolent, but he needs someone to shake the grief from his bones and air him out like a shag carpet after a dust storm.

Still, with my shaking hands I begin to flip through the pages. "I'm holding auditions-"

"You're holding auditions?"

"Stop interrupting, it's rude. Anyway, yes, I'm holding auditions. You wanna come watch or hide up here and sulk and let her die in your memories? She lives in your songs, in your productions, you know that as well as I do."

That, and this game of pretend will help me too, in fragments.

"They're on Sunday and the flyer is out there. People are excited- they're coming out of the woodwork to work with you again. This is gonna happen, regardless if you're with me or not."

His jaw clamps shut, and I think for a moment I've done it- completely shaken him to his roots that he sits up in his chair, and glance down at the title. "I've... Never heard of this one..."

"It's a good one. Trust me."

I said to him, this town is too damn small for me. This town ain't good for nothing- I want to get out of here, I want to see the world, I want to see some fireworks in this life, is what I said to him.

I've counted over a hundred breaths in and out, in and out, my gaze forever locked on the wall. My heartbeat hammers heavy in my ears, nervous, and tentative. How is it going, what do they think?

I hear her voice before I see her, know that they decided to do an open casket after all even though I fought and argued and bit and spit at them, but they just don't listen. My core is shaken and battered and I can't handle it anymore but it's okay because we're all here, one last time. Her lying in her horizontal cage and the rest of us, an impenetrable garrison around her corpse.

She looks absolutely beautiful in a pale white dress, a wedding gown she'd never wear. No one teases Rio today, no one gestures playfully, no friendly banter. We're quiet and grieving and in pain. Her eyes are closed, and she looks so peaceful she could be asleep but we're all older and know this is no fairy tale- no one could kiss our snow white and rouse her from her eternal slumber.

We hold hands and hum old spirituals, and I'm about to completely lose it- I can feel the pressure building high in my chest as I sit beside my girls and I allow the words to form on my lips- I sung it once as part of an audition, but my trembling fingers rise and flicker with a length of my hair, and I sit straight up, my jaws parting. Though I can't recall the lyrics, they join around me in a chorus, but we only know the first verse and most of the repeating lines.

It makes me laugh when we stop and look around at each other, half expecting a wicked violin solo but it doesn't happen and I've got tears running down my cheeks and it's absolutely ridiculous but I'm so thankful we're all still here even though she's gone.

She didn't think it funny.

Her arms slither around my shoulders as her face meets my chest, an ugly sob building in her chest. I want to ask her what's wrong as my trembling fingers pet her hair, but she says nothing- at least not real words I can comprehend and besides, I know exactly what she'd say anyway. I've lived with her for almost ten years. She pushes me backwards and we're a mess together, all limbs and flailing mouths and she's sobbing and wailing into my chest and there isn't anything I can do but stroke her hair and whisper. "I love you Elvaina- more than anything. But she doesn't want me, she wants the girl in the casket and it rips me apart-

I want to be famous, I want to sleep in satin sheets.... I want to dance and dance all night long. I want to go someplace in this damn life, is what I said to him-

It's been too long now. I can't even comprehend how long I've been sitting here, and I'm starting to feel the itchiness of my skin, the hard concrete against my coccyx and I know already it's going to be painful to get up and stretch after sitting sedentary for so long. I don't even know if they're still watching, if they even understand that below every slated face they witness today is a lifetime of memories, of triumphs and defeat, and I wonder if they would do what I do if they were in the place that I am but it doesn't matter because in the end we are the sum of our words and actions and I don't think I've said or done enough to make me memorable and that absolutely horrifies me.

But I have because like Jack, I'll live on as long as they don't forget about me, as long as they remember-

It's about midnight, and I've just finished brushing my hair. The face in the vanity stares out at me, satisfied. It's been about fourteen hours on the job between rehearsal and travel, and I only got home two hours or so ago but it's an exhaustion that comes with a good days hard work, and I'm perfectly fine with that. Jack and I walked the way back hand in hand, excited. She earned first chair as always and I absolutely nailed the leading female. We're both excited, and with that excitement comes a gentle shiver as I picture my first role as something meaningful.

The light on my vanity flickers and I let out a yawn as I slip into my nightgown, putting my hair in a silk cap before slipping into bed. The sheets are cool against my skin and I'm eager to sleep if it means getting me one step closer to tomorrow.

My eyes are closed and I'm in that strange place between waking and dreaming when I hear the squeak of my door and a few hushed whispers of my curtains. I stay low, but my gaze flashes to the mirror and it's our talkative one, our Lucy. The ferocity in her gaze makes my skin crawl- where'd such a little girl learn an expression like that? But she isn't so little- she's a year older than me but still, I don't look like that.... Do I..?

She hovers there like a ghost and I can see the relief beginning to take hold on her face, roots pushing outward to relax her stature. She closes my door and creeps away and I sit straight up- what the hell was that? My legs swing across my bed and I follow suit, already moving to the closed oak door, ear pressed against the wood as I listen for her hushed footsteps and the tell-tale mouse squeak of another door being opened, then a minute later, the click of it closing. It happens three more times, then silence follows, and I allow my feet to carry me outside of my room, tiptoeing to a tall door mirroring mine.

My knuckles gently grace the surface of the wood but I don't know for certain she'd answer and I'd like answers now.

So I push it open with all of the confidence a newly granted lead could have.

"Whatcha doin?" I question as light floods the hallway, my eyes bright and curious, no trace of sleep or exhaustion on my countenance now.

She jumps, like she wasn't expecting a girl looking like me to answer and I grin and laugh. The door closes behind me and she's talking at that thousand-word-per-minute stream, and I can only ease myself onto the bed and listen.

I can't catch much- I'm not even sure if she's speaking English with the speed she talks but it makes me giggle and soon I'm doubled over on her bed, with a look of silent indignation on her face. "I'm sorry I just- It wasn't expected.... Mom." I tease, though my arms wrap around her shoulders. "I didn't know you cared so much Lucy."

"Of course I do what makes you think I don't, I tell you I love you like every day-" and she's off on another tangent, but my eyes fall to the hastily hidden notebook crammed below her pillow, and I let the giggles escape.

It has a solid black background on the page she was stroking, and I let my eyes wander to her face. "Can you draw me something?" The interruption jars her words from her lips and she gazes at me with an unreadable expression. "Draw me the Summer Country." I ask, and my eyes are alight and full of wonder. "I'll explain it and everything."

So I do.

The summer country to me, is an endless meadow with trees and a river and mountains and dogs and cats and horses, and it only rains when you want it to, and there are flowers and it's spring every day but the pollen doesn't make my nose run like the buds do here. I explain about the sun and the shimmering rays of liquid gold, and the amazing people.

We're up until the sun shines through her window, both of us tired, but staring down at a beautiful picture of heaven.

I hang it in my room and go to the theater for rehearsal.

But see, it's like this: I got a man like a bad dream, follows me no matter where I go.
And he's all 'Shut up,
you ain't goin nowhere, what are you thinking girl, who are you kidding?
and I'm looking at him
and all I can think is
who
are
you
to
me?
Who were you ever to me?

They don't understand- or maybe they do. They aren't immortal like we hold them up, their pedestals are only supported by our swiftly decaying bodies, swaying and bubbling with rot as we pass on our torches to the next generation, and it takes every ounce of my willpower to not look up at the two forms deciding my fate, and I know they've already chosen. I'm a useless girl, as determined as I am, but that's exactly what I want- for them to think I could be swallowed so simply by the sea, like I'm not a fearsome thorn to make it gag and retch, stained crimson by my life force.

Her hands push for my face and I'm completely stunned- none of the other Eckhart girls have been so aggressive towards my taunts and I swear to god I only called Frances that because I wanted to laugh and make her laugh with me but it didn't make her laugh, it turned her into a ferocious creature, with elongated teeth and claws stretching for my neck.

I'm too fast for her and dive below her window while her hands seize anything to pelt at me as she screams inhuman cantrips at me- "WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU TO ME- and I've never been cursed at or screamed at by any of my new family but it reminds me so much of the ditch I crawled out of, of the raging inferno of pokes that were my siblings and the one time Marcus took a razor blade to my flesh when I was three to see if it would grow back pink, or black and I screamed and screamed and scream like I do now but I'm nearly full grown and the mirror lunges at my face and it cracks over top my skull sending me down down down down into an abyss of unconsciousness- all I said to her was to loosen up and talk to us every once in a while, but I caught her on a bad day and that's all it took for her to snap at me like a she-wolf with a bad tooth.

Like you matter to me
Like anything you say is going to make a difference to me
Like I want to stay in that nowhere town doin nothing all my life
Like I want to be with you forever
Like I want that

My fingernails dig into my wrists as I remain, stoic. I don't even glance at the clock but surely it's almost time? The reflection itself is almost too much to bear but I can handle it, I'm a strong girl, they always told me so. I'm so powerful I broke the fucking mold they tried to but me in, I clawed my way out of the very bedrock itself to be here. I chose to be an Eckhart girl, it was always my destiny to seize and I am not going to ruin it by moving now. I've committed to my role and I'm destined to play it out-

I spin and duck like she told me to but I'm already dizzy and I don't think I can keep my eyes on the wall like she told me to. My stomach is already bubbling in my throat and she stops me but only because I think my face actually turned green for a second.

"I don't think I was meant to be a dancer." I groan, allowing the world to spin me to the ground, my back pressing against the hardwood den, the light fixture overhead twirling and twisting like the ballerina I so desperately want to be.

"Maybe you're not." she answers rather thoughtfully, and I can't help but look up at her like a god herself dipped down on the earth. I'd never heard such insight before, but I prop myself up on my elbows. "You're only like... Eleven. Maybe your calling is something else. Have you tried drawing?"

I frown and allow myself to collapse to the ground while she settles beside me, he legs stretched in a perfect one hundred and eighty degree straddle-sit, her elbows falling easily onto the floor. "I did, and all it was was a bunch of blobs."

"That's because you didn't care about it." she explains with a knowing smile, while my head finally calms itself, and I sigh. She's right- I don't really care about dancing, or about drawing, or music, or anything really. I wanted so hard to be one of the porcelain dolls, but I forgot the one thing that truly sets them all apart from the rest of our district- they all have talent.

I don't. I'm just a girl with mottled skin, kissed by the devil himself.

"I've seen you read though, maybe you can write?" she suggests, and I know she's only trying to help me but I can't write anything worth a damn either and I finally scramble to my feet. "Yeah- you tell stories really really well. Maybe... Maybe you could be an actress? I'll take you to the theater tomorrow. They have an open audition."

This goddess-

She wants me to act? Like on the television screen, of all the plays and movies and things they show us? She thinks I can do that?

Okay, yeah. Maybe.

She helps me to my feet, and gets me out of the door.

You look like someone who know how it goes, so I'm going to tell you how it goes
I'm high, right, and this guy
he says to me, where are you from --bitch--
he wants to touch me, get inside of me, know everything about me
he wants to know how I got all these scars on my pretty little body
I tell him, sweet as I know how: baby I forget.
I drink from the river of forgetfulness.
I forget the names I forget the faces I forget the stories I forget all kinds of shit.

I wonder if they know who I am inside, if they've done any research into my life? Do they know me of the scared little girl from six who can barely hold a spear? Or do they know me as someone else, do they know me as ----- Do they know me as-----

DO THEY FUCKING KNOW ME-

Her hands are so small.

It's the first thing I notice, aside from the gentle curve of her dark hair, and her amazingly clean skin. She' seven, but could be an angel. Jack looks like the kind of child who grew up living a lavish life, while her pretty painted features listen so well to our teacher. In comparison, I look like a damn animal someone dumped in a trash can and left for dead, but I don't realize that yet, not until we're out on the playground and she walks so gently in her perfectly fitted shoes, not following, but leading a line of acrobats balancing on a bench.

I want to play with her but I'm afraid because I've already gotten too many stares and questions about my skin, about this body I was born into but I don't care, because she's so beautiful and I want to play with her and brush her doll hair and stroke her face and it's just so soft- but I hold myself back because my mother's words are in my ear and my face is crimson as I angle my gaze down.

We go back inside at the sharp whistles of our teachers, and I run my fingers though waist-high weeds as we travel back inside, and I sit across from her at our grouping of desks. The teacher has us practice cursive- Stay in the lines she hisses at me, but offers nothing but praise to the Eckhart girl and her majestic hand.

Her parents had time and love to give while mine hoarded everything they ever earned.

I smile at her though she doesn't look up, doesn't notice my stares and I think I was really rude looking back on it but I don't care because she's so nice and she finally looks up and smiles and says "Hello!"

But I just stare. I can't bring myself to say anything to her but she isn't uncertain, she promises to play with me on the playground tomorrow.

And she walks me home today, holding my filthy hand, but she doesn't shy away from my mottled skin, from my tainted body. She thinks it looks cool and unique and I want to go home with her instead of to my family, who birthed me but never loved me.

She takes me to school the next day and we play on the playground at recess and I'm invited into the open arms of her mothers, our mothers and I never looked back- not until now.

When he's asleep, I roll him, I kick his ass, take his cash, take his fancy watch
and I'm looking at him
and all I can think is
who are you to me,
like you know me
like you think I'm going to tell you the truth
like you think I'm going to give you that---

Do they even know that I'm not just Amerika Eckhart, but Maria Lee Smith? Did they even bother to look into our backstories? We are all a script with dialogue and notes, an actor upon a stage and we will leave and enter at our leisure, and we aren't just their puppets. We're living, breathing things, but that's the thing- when you shut yourself up in a tower for so long, you tend to forget living things sometimes don't stay where you put them.

Yeah baby, I got scars.

I feel the vibration on my wrist, and I stand without using my hands. Like a great origami crane unfolding, I stand without swaying and don't even offer them my bark-brown gaze. I've memorized every inch of that god-forsaken wall, and I can see all of the Eckhart's faces staring back at me.

I got scar all over, but I don't even know this story, see.

My feet turn as the hour passes, and I clack-clack-clack my way out.

Ain't no story, cause I forget.