Get Me Bodied [Open Feast; Day 6]
Apr 15, 2017 23:53:16 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Apr 15, 2017 23:53:16 GMT -5
You awoke to Larry the lobster phone’s buzzing, only to discover the copper colored fabric of the balloon resting gently above your head. The balloon atop the bicycle has finally deflated. Sitting up slowly, you don’t move from the basket, but instead enjoy the gentle quiet of the confined space. How nice would it be to remain tucked away in your basket forever, until the last cannon sounded? You much preferred the thought of never having to face a single soul again than setting foot outside of your balloon cocoon. It would mean never having to face Tamron, or Riven, or any of the others ever again.
Lo, it’s Lena. You press the receiver to your ear. Magdalena’s voice cuts through the silence of the night. You don’t get to go quitting on me. Do you hear that? Now’s not the time for tears. You think you have to prove what good there is or—something—but it’s time you get something straight. Come home. Don’t go playing the martyr, or victim. You got yourself in there, now get yourself out.
You find it hard not to cry at the sound of your sister’s voice. She is a remnant of the world far away. What would she think of you now, having cut down Fallon for a shot to come home? You were all pith and vinegar then—but the hours spent alone had you turning the thought over and over again in your head. District Eleven ached for change (as did you all). How could they see it in a girl that played the same game as everyone else?
Mija. Your heart flutters at your abuela’s voice. She is the warmth of a blanket on a cold winter’s night, the sun to your world. Just one word and your heart is already so full it may burst. Don’t forget that no matter how alone you are we are right there with you. Ten cuidado. Your heart was made to carry the burden of your body. Your spirit will be the one to bring you home. We love you, Salome. The words ease the pain of your loneliness. You brush away the fabric of the balloon and expose the night stars, and lay watching them burn above.
Hey Lo, it's me. Wilson. I- You close your eyes. Can you see his face, Salome? They all see something in you that you refuse to believe. Perhaps the choices you’ve made will never write you into history like they have for one like Harbinger or Katelyn, but that didn’t stop you from being the sixteen year old girl that has hung on for five long days. I miss you. We aren't as close as some of the other cousins, but we're all here. Waiting for you. We all love you. I love you. Stay strong. His words twist and stir, bringing you close to tears. Just, please don't die. Don't die like my big brother, Lo. Love you.
There’s no tears left.
It’s electric across your skin—this taste of home. As though you can feel each of them around you, their hearts and hands with you. Were the gamemaker’s trying to buoy you, or break you with these messages? If they had intended to shred the last of your spirit, they were sorely mistaken.
I was wrong about you, Lo. They all hoped and prayed you just wouldn’t go down in the first two minutes. But… you come this far. Fuck. Don’t get me thinking you’re coming home. Won’t do it. Just—know that I love you? We love you. No matter what happens, you won’t be forgotten. I promise.
Sampson had always taught you not to believe in all the smoke and mirrors of the capitol. Every bit of theatrics for the games had an ulterior motive. The way they cordoned off districts and turned one against another, all of it was to keep them weak. He had tried to tell you that duty to their way of life saved no one. Perhaps if you’d seen that, you wouldn’t have been sitting underneath these stars. There would have been no itch to save anyone but those that you loved, no need to stand for a whole district.
“Larry, I didn’t want to go home before.” You speak to the patient crustacean. “I wanted to—be something, something different. To be like Benat, who didn’t kill anyone. Except now…” You were no Benat Izar. Day six was uncharted waters. Only one other Izar had made it further, and you were certain there was no similarity between the two of you. “I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.” Larry, as always, gave his silent stare of dead eyed approval.
Rebellion still itched in your mind, but how could you ever send any sort of message without them blocking you out entirely? Would anyone even listen to the foolish girl from eleven, who had only just now begun to ponder all the things that Sampson had tried to teach her? But you have always been clever, Salome. There are other ways a girl can be subversive than ranting about the inequities between the capitol and the districts.
You spend the morning ambling across the salt flats, and realize that it is a much farther distance to the mansion on foot. The balloon bike, for all of its troubles, was much more convenient than walking in all the armor covering your hundred pound body. You wondered about whether or not you were heading to your death. What awaited you was likely not a sea of the friendliest of faces (though to be fair, you barely knew any that remained at this point). Somehow you didn’t think you were all going to hold hands and do trust falls into one another’s arms that afternoon. Still—you put one certain foot in front of the other.
Walking through the doors of the mansion and through the cubbyhole that led out into the rose garden, the fear washed away in the first breath of sunlight. Flowers all in bloom brought a smile to your face. Sun reflected off your star shaped sunglasses, and you made your way to the long and empty table. Perhaps a bit of the first day returned to you, when, meeting Rio and Cassie, you’d tumbled from one Rose garden to another. You had to laugh at yourself for managing to tumble, fall, and trudge your way through six days.
What did you have to be afraid of now?
Perhaps someone would saunter in like an asshole and try to slice your head clean off, but it seemed a terribly rude thing at this point. The least they could do was wait until the food was finished.
The only thing to disappoint you was that you were very much alone. Sure, there had been the tardigrade bellhops that nooted and nooted until you shoved your flail into one of their slimy gullets, but beyond that, no one. Were they afraid of the feast? Plotting who they would kill, and how they would do it? Were they simply lazy sleepyheads that couldn’t be bothered to come?
“Maybe this will help.”
You pull out your megaphone, and press the button on the side. The delightful horn sounds of la cucaracha begin to echo throughout the garden, and you start to laugh to yourself. You play the song again and again, letting it echo across the way and through the garden. By the seventeenth time you press the button, your face turning red and eyes tearing with laughter. Static clicks as you begin to speak into the megaphone.
“HELLOOOOOOOOO…” Your voice carries across the bushes, and you move to take a seat at the center of the table. The rose-colored quartz colored gift bag caught your eye (you dispute the veracity of the name of the color, simply believing it to be pink under another name). Beside it you smell the steeping peppermint tea, and are reminded of district eleven in winter. Throwing manners to the wind, you begin stuffing your face with eclairs, the chocolate squirting out onto your plate in front of you as you munch. You sample a macaroon or two for their crunch, and decide to speak to the emptiness around you.
“YOU KNOW THERE’S A LOT OF GOOD STUFF HERE TO EAT IF Y’ALL JUST WANT TO HAVE TEA.”
“OF COURSE IF YOU DON’T THAT’S MORE FOR ME! PUTAS.”
With a loud belch, you place down the megaphone and wipe away the chocolate and other remnants with a napkin. Popping open your sunset orange lipstick, you begin to reapply. After all, you had to look good in case anyone decided to show their faces.
[Salome enters the feast]
