avox | cb | fin

Even before my tongue was cut out, I barely spoke. There were too many words in my head, always so many floating about, but when I opened my mouth they caught in my throat like a logjam and trickled out as strange noises and meaningless sounds.

First they took away the outside world. Then they took away the toys. Then they took away their affection. The more they took, the less I spoke, but they only continued in their belief that the right incentives would make words come out of me again.

Silly of them, even children in Seven know not to force a logjam.

They gave up on me eventually, and my younger brother followed suit, resentment burning in his eyes. I was a burden to him, an embarrassment, an extra mouth to feed.

When he lost the family savings gambling with a neighbor, he murdered the neighbor. And framed me.

Well, I don't have proof he did it, but it wasn't hard to guess.

Big, stupid Rosa, touched in the head, of course she's dangerous - and with no words to defend myself with, who would believe my innocence over his incriminations?

I hope he's happy. I hope it sated his jealousy at last.

Nobody expects me to talk here, or thinks I'm stupid when I don't. Nobody looks at me with pity - they're trained not to look at me at all. As for freedom, I never got much more of it in Seven anyways.

Still, they underestimate me. People always have. If they spoke less and saw more, maybe they'd realize we're not the mindless robots the Capitol tried to make us.

It's ironic that although humans created speech in order to communicate with each other, it is speech - honeyed lies, dangerous rhetoric - that only gets in the way of true understanding.