Lessons Learned // [78th D8 Train]
Jan 29, 2018 11:30:57 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Jan 29, 2018 11:30:57 GMT -5
Gillian Imberline
It took all of two minutes for us to push our way through the crowds and into the justice building. I’ve heard it said that a mother’s strength in times of crisis is not to be trifled with, and more than a few men discovered this following the reaping. We didn’t stop to stare at the portraits of old mayors, at the marble floors, at the bust of Shelby sitting outside the heavy wooden doors at the end of a long hall. The peacekeepers pointed to the left when we told them you were our daughter. I gave one glance at the door holding the boy and—I prayed. Prayed that he could take care of you, that whatever harm may come to either, let not blood shed between those who’ve walked the same earth.
You were at the windowsill when we pushed through the heavy doors, head buried in your arms and hair covering your face. You looked the same as one of your dolls tossed on the floor, discarded as though your need had come and gone. The world has come to call, Gilly, a powerful, unrelenting world that grinds souls to dust underneath a heavy wheel. I couldn’t speak, because what is there to say? We couldn’t lie and say that this won’t hurt, that we may never see you (unless it’s tucked away in a pine box, ready to be placed beside all your brothers and sisters that never were).
“I’m scared.” You turned your head to face us, eyes all puffy from tears. Except you had nothing left to cry, and now—drew on strength from those that loved you most. “What am I supposed to do?”
“We love you,” Peter said, and in the light of the afternoon sun, he wraps his long arms around your tiny body. “We love you, we love you, we love you… promise you…” He wept like a child, body shaking, strength gone enough he knelt down next to you.
“Listen to what Shelby tells you. Trust yourself—you’re smart, you are.” The words come to me, and I’ll always wonder where I found strength. Perhaps it’s a woman’s curse just as much of a blessing, that she will never stop protecting her child even in the face of unimaginable sadness. Even with through tears, you nodded your head and looked at me, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed—the determination I’ve always seen—the rhythm of your young heart changing tempo, bracing for change. “Don’t forget to be kind, that bravery and foolishness are a step apart. And that there’s no shame in running away, no shame in anything, except if you lose yourself.”
There was a knock at the door, and just as sure as we began, it’ll be the last time I saw you before you’re plastered on a screen. I press your stuffed bunny forward, along with the book where we’ve pressed wildflowers. “I know you can only take one but, I thought you could choose. I just didn’t know what you wanted.”
“Keep me in your heart for a while,” You said, and with two little arms, you hugged us both. You took the book, and held it tight against your breast. “I want to think about all the times we pressed these together, Momma. It’ll make me feel better having you closer to me when…"
But the words end, and the door opens. Just like that, it’s not my story to tell for you, but your own.
⚜
You liked the carpets on the train most of all. You spent a few minutes brushing the carpet back and forth in the hallway, marveling how the pattern changed. Back at home, your old floorboards creaked and moaned, and needed sweeping every day. Nothing about the opulence of the train reminded you of home, and you imagined it was supposed to unsettle you. They did a pretty good job of that, you thought, because even though all you’d eaten that morning was a cup of oatmeal, your stomach was turning over and twisting up on itself. Despite the lingering smell of fresh cookies and cake further down the hall, you wanted only to watch the train station and the men and women running back and forth. Perhaps if you stayed motionless, life would not move forward, and you could have stayed here in purgatory forever.
Alas—
The whistle sounded, steam hissed, and as much as district eight had been a dream, it faded into the great beyond. You were left clutching an old leather bound journal across your chest, both arms folded tightly atop it. Between its pages are what you’ll use to remember—your mother, your father, the boys and girls from school, summer afternoons when you didn’t need to help with stitching, and you walked along the forest’s edge—a book of lessons, old and new. You wonder if anyone has a pencil or crayon that you can use to help keep track of all that you’re supposed to learn.
Would the boy that didn’t fear death teach you his secret? He was so serious; you wondered if he’d even speak to you. Did he want you dead just as much as everyone else? Was he like the careers, willing to gut you and tear out your eyes for sport? Most importantly, would he play dominos with you, or euchre? Here you discovered a secret, that as long as you asked questions, your stomach couldn’t twist itself into knots. Rather, it grumbled and rumbled, and made you realize that the smell of sweet cakes at the end of the hall were lovely after all.
“Hello,” You said, cracking open the door so that you could squeeze your head through the frame. You stared over at a table stacked high with all sorts of foods you’d never seen (but are willing to try—for the sake of learning). “Can I come in? Please?” Even in the face of unrelenting terror, you, Gilly Imberline, would not forget your manners.
⚜
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