{Daddy Lessons} | Salome Day 3

You are drunk.

To put even more accurately, you are three sheets to the wind, world spinning, ready to fall out a window drunk. You see, when Salome managed to force her way out of the tiny little doors and away from the swarming Nakom, she slid headfirst not into the rose garden (because of course she should have realized the gamemakers would not design both mansions the same way), but a crumbling conservatory of plants and weeds. When you finally managed to stop shaking from fright, you burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. Not because you are heartless, but because there were no more tears left for you to cry. How many days would you have to spend morning all those that went before you? Boys and girls that likely knew nothing of you, other than that you were small, and weak, and more likely to be picked up and throttled by a gust of wind than anything else.

A celebratory drink had been in order. You wonder where Atlas may have been, and Ophelia and Ronnie, too. One look back at the tiny little hole from whence you came brought only one thought about turning back: fuck that. While the buzzing and humming of the Nakom had subsided, it would be a cold day before you decided to chance your safety to go searching for the dead. Instead, you pull off your skull helmet, pop open your water bottle, and pour the remaining liquor. The scotch sloshed inside the metal cranium, and you tilted the helmet back to take a good, long drink. The warm liquid burns your throat, but you are happy to feel the heat flush across you face. It is easier to forget the sight of butterflies swarming Diorite and tearing away her skin, or Asriel swallowed up by a thousand famished winged creatures.

You set about starting a fire because that seems like a perfect idea while you can barely stand. You spend the next twelve minutes trying to get the wood to spark, with another six or seven minutes of cursing, followed by three of you staring up at the stars, another two of trying to fix your dress, and a patch of time where you’re not quite sure whether or not you fell asleep (though inconclusive, the drool down your chin was exhibit a). What had you been trying to do again? You squint your eyes and begin to rub the sticks together, making sure to keep a closer watch this time. When smoke starts to rise, you step back, and watch the little flames peek out from underneath. A tiny sprinkle of whiskey later (followed by your scream when the flames rush up toward the sky) and a fire is roaring.

Stars above have you thinking of home. You thank them for keeping you safe—because now more than ever, you believe that there is a higher power keeping you alive. Perhaps it truly was dumb luck that you had stumbled through the bloodbath, or slipped out of the clutches of careers. Your quick thinking had saved you from the Nakom—now how many were left in this game? And you want to push away the thought that you’ll get anywhere near a crown—because peasant girls like you don’t wear crowns. No—you had no interest in returning home. You’d done enough stepping forward for your district. But what now? Three days gone, nearly half of you dead, what purpose did Salome Izar serve?

“I really have to fucking pee. So if there are cameras around here, can you please not show me doing my business, thank you?”

Alone. That’s what looking out for everyone else had gotten you. Lonely was the heart that put others first. You need to learn ain’t nobody gonna look after you’n shit hits the fan. You can hear your daddy’s words clear as day. Ain’t nobody gonna save you, ain’t a boy on a white horse for you. Keep yer family close—nobody loves you like we do. He worked long hours in the fields, skin dark under the heat of the sun, hands perpetually black from working the earth. Tired as he was, no love was more alive than his for your mother. Unlike the other Izars, he’d been blessed with a household of women; girls that were left to face the hog heads and varmints of district eleven. And so what had a daddy to do with two beautiful young woman in a world that would always weigh them down?

Don’t let nobody tell you how to feel, Salome. You kneel in your dress in front of the fire, hands clasping your grandmother’s necklace, heart burning with your daddy’s worlds. The flames licked up toward the sky, and smoke had your eyes watering. Steel-magnolia, s’what you got to learn to be.

“Why does it feel like I’m coming apart?” You say to the fire.

Quit goin’ around your ass to get to your elbow. You blink—thinking of what your daddy would say back to you. You can imagine him and his bushy mustachioed face on the other side of the flames. You often would get into arguments with yourself at home, thinking of how to tease out an argument that would never take place.

“That’s easy for you to say, you’re just a figment of my imagination.”

And you got a case of complaining about livin.

You furrow your brow. The world didn’t owe you anything, just like you didn’t have a debt to repay. You wouldn’t be around to see if they’d celebrate you after you died. “I wish I could see you and Magdalena again…”

Take care of yourself first. You don’t get to worry about anyone else when you nothing but a ghost.

But your heart isn’t as certain as your head. You take another drink and liquor and your head swims. The liquid does nothing to soothe your thirst, and the dry mouth has you searching for water. Spying a spigot, you move to fill up your water bottle and boil it over the fire. Games past had the two types of people—the ones that looked out for themselves, and those that looked out for everyone else. What made him so certain you weren’t capable of both? As the water came to a boil, you pulled it back, and stood.

Your heart was just as strong as your head—you knew well enough how to take care of yourself. Chewing on a set of herbs, and sipping on your fresh water, you were well enough off for three days into a death march. Steel-Magnolia. You may not have been mighty, or bold. Those gambling in capitol’s city center likely saw you as a novelty—but you had enough sense (and drunken courage) to know you weren’t alone.

Atlas.

You turn back toward another door, and start to collect all your stuff into a pack. You weren’t going to leave him alone. You’d keep him safe, just as well as you could keep yourself safe. And this steel-magnolia was ready to show what she was made of.

[Salome makes a fire, collects water, boils it, drinks it, collects and boils some more, and eats her edible plants before heading to the rose garden]