jj eon // d9 // fin

Mama and Papa called me their Little Lightning Rod, a flash of light brightening even the darkest of skies. They said they were the thunder, always following close behind, but never quite quick enough to catch up before I was lighting up the sky again. But they never asked me to slow down. And I never worried about wandering too far ahead or about losing them in a sky of dark clouds. I should've slowed down. Should've been more patient.

I should've just waited to jump, taken my time before leaping. Maybe then I'd still have the both of them. Maybe I wouldn't have fallen.

I was fifteen years old when I fell. It didn't hurt, but I cried all the same. I think because I'd never seen my Mama cry before or heard her scream so loudly. She kept apologizing, asking me where it hurt. But it didn't hurt, nothing hurt. ("Mama, I'm fine. Nothing hurts.") But that only made her cry harder, so I cried harder, too. She told me to lay still, not to move even just a little bit.

And I knew I could do that much. I'd already tried. But my legs wouldn't move. From then on they'd never move again. Not even a little bit.

("I'm sorry, Jacie.")

She whispered those words in my ear every night for the next year. I let her because I believed her and because I knew it helped her feel better. After my fall, she was never the same. Drowning in bills, looking at my useless legs everyday and growing teary-eyed, and carrying the guilt of what had happened around with her everywhere. I tried to make her feel better with jokes and smiles and gentle reminders of better days, but she found comfort at the bottom of whiskey bottles instead.

Papa left the day I fell. Hid himself away somewhere before the Peacekeepers could put all the puzzle pieces together and discover that I was the daughter of a criminal they'd been chasing for decades. He told me he loved me, but I think he only loved me for my legs. When they turned to useless mush, so did his love for me. If I wasn't running his drugs across the district then what was my purpose? What was the point of having a daughter if she couldn't help turn a profit?

Mama never forgave herself for letting me get so close to Papa. I tried to tell her. I tried so hard to show her that it was all going to be fine. That I was still her favorite little ball of energy and that none of this was her fault, but she never really believed me. She blamed herself until the very end. She blamed herself and that's why it had to end. I couldn't even reach the rope to cut her down; I had to call the Peacekeepers to do it.

I didn't have the money for a gravestone, so I made my own out of flowers. Mama always loved flowers and I knew this was something I could do. I change them every month, weave something new together and roll my wheelchair until my arms burn and chest feels like it might burst. She would tell me I'm working too hard, that I should let someone help me, but I've never liked asking for help.

Papa taught me to do things on my own. And it stuck. Even after he was gone and even after my legs stopped working and I couldn't reach the sink or figure out how to put pants on, I struggled to find the strength to ask for help. I'd always been an independent kid. Papa always said needing help was a sign of weakness. And he never tolerated weakness. He liked to teach that lesson with his fists.

It's hard to hate the man who raised you, than man who may actually be the only reason I've survived this long in this world without a pair of working legs or parents to lean on. If he hadn't taught me how to take a hit or throw a punch I may not have been able to get my last meal. If he hadn't spat in my face or yelled in my ears I probably would've given up by now. Just like Mama did two years ago.

Living on the streets for two years teaches you all sorts of things, but living on the streets for two years in a wheelchair? Well, that teaches you more. There are those that see you as an easy target and those that look at you with a kindness I have never and will never deserve. Those who will give up their favorite part of their school lunches and those who will dump you in the sewage and rip the clothes from off your back. So I bought a cattle prod off a guy who claimed he was from District 10. I set one good example and I was never bothered again—by the good or the bad.

No one wants to hire a paraplegic. Especially not a starving one, covered in dirt and smelling of sewage, garbage, and rats. I had a whole system down. First, check the bakeries around the District. They open early so all the burnt bread is thrown out before the sun even rises. After that, I'd circle back around to the far edge of the district where an old soap maker lived; he carved them into fun shapes and would always leave the extra shavings out for me. After that I'd struggle to find any scraps worth my time for lunch and supper, then sit next to the vents of the grain mills to keep myself warm through the night.

It was easy to sign the contract. I was hungry, I was cold, I was tired. The terms weren't exactly in my favor, but it didn't matter. Even if I was only here for a week—even if it was just one week of steady meals and a warm bed—I knew I'd be content. It's been so long since I've slept somewhere other than my wheelchair or since I've soaked in a bathtub. I'd take a thousand beatings just to enjoy even a day of peace and quiet. Black eyes and bruised ribs don't mean much to a girl who can't even walk.

Papa always told me just to use my legs. To run as fast as I could and not to worry about keeping my fists up. I was too fast to catch. ("You shouldn't ever have to fight." But ever since I missed that jump and fell between those buildings, his advice hasn't worked.So I've had to improvise to keep my spot in this house. Let them flip me from my chair and latch onto their ankles with my teeth when they kick me. I've learned how to break ankles and dislocate knees. Coughing up blood is just part of my routine; gotta take a few kicks to the ribs before I can latch onto their feet and twist.

They all tell me I'm too happy. Everyone I've ever met wonders why I smile so much. Through the bloodied lips and the swollen eyes, through the broken ribs and useless legs, through the dead mom and abusive dad, through the homelessness and the starvation. And I can't help but wonder why they aren't smiling back at me. I've got a place to sleep, a warm meal in my stomach, hair that smells like daisies, and I'm surrounded by people who have signed off on the same fate as me. What more could I really ask for?

Besides, I still run across the rooftops in my dreams. And that's a feeling that will always leave me smiling. Even if it only lasts as long as I'm asleep.