Liam Hailsham // d4 // fin

I've drafted hundreds of escape plans in the glow of candles I've stolen from the dining room over the last couple of years. It's always after hours, way past when Cole settles down for the night, and I wait until ten minutes after Mother has finished up her rounds to pull out the paper and pencil from under my bed. The drawings are never quite perfect and the explanations are never quite coherent, but they're the best I can do with the time I'm given. I've considered everything from tunneling out, to jumping the wall and swimming, to running away before the games. I'm my biggest critic, though, and to-date, I haven't deemed any of my ideas as worthy enough to look into. 

Except for one. 

It's a long-shot, but every year, when we're marched to the district 4 square for the reaping, I dream of volunteering. I've trained my entire life with the intensity of a career, sacrificed my sanity for a bulk I'll never get to use. Sure, the games ends in one of two ways- death when you're dead or death when you're living- but just the 1 in 24 chance that I'd be the one to make it out... it's enough to keep me dreaming. My will to survive doesn't manifest in the same way that the others' does, anyways; being in the games wouldn't strip me of my "chance at life" like it would a normal kid. No- I'm going to die whether it's here or if it's there. So why not? If I win, I get a get out of jail free card. If I lose, I die a couple of years early. 

I've never told anyone about it; it's too risky to involve others, even if it's only as an outlet. So I keep a stack of papers tucked away in the back corner under my bed, the floor board pried up just enough to slip the folded pieces in, but not enough to pull them back out. When I first started, I figured that one day I'd clean it all up and that maybe I'd share the secret of my vice then, when there wasn't any evidence to prove me of my atrocities. But I've moved onto the next floor board. Then the next. And the next. I've accrued almost an entire tree's worth of paper, all tucked out of sight, and yet... no matter the insignificance of ideas that I could never get to work, I can't bring myself to throw any of them away. 

Instead, I offer assistance to my friends in other ways. I might not be able to bust them out of Hailsham- even if I could, I'm not sure how many would want me to, with stories like Deb and Dan striking fear into the hearts of childish rebellion- but I always make sure to lend my ear and shoulder to anyone who needs it. I have to admit, not many seem to bite. Though we all deal with a certain slough of problems, we're resigned to our fates enough that the only things we find to be worth it are whatever can make the time pass faster than that measly tick-tick-tock of the standard-issue clocks dotting the walls. 

As bleak and gray scale as life may seem at times, my brother, Cole, is like an umbrella in the midst of a downpour. He contrasts myself in ways that would be otherwise odd- his introversion versus my extroversion, his fire versus my ice- but it works. Even if it didn't work, I care about him more than I can say- nothing could change that, and it's what keeps me going when I feel like I'm not getting as much back as I'm putting out. I'm a people's person, after all. My time goes towards lessening the pain for everybody else, even if means I have to grit my teeth and work through my own all the same. 

Since the day we found out about our mortality, we've known that if we played our cards right, we would have the opportunity to gain a few years by becoming a "carer. Carers act as aides to the doctors and nurses who are paid to scalp us, and as much as I'd like to think that I fit the bill for the "ideal" child, I could never betray what I've worked so hard to build like that. I'm a different kind of carer, I reckon. I'm a carer that has a heart. Someone who understands that we're not going to be here forever, but sees it as a missed opportunity for the world, not for themselves. 

If I had my choice, we'd be far away from here. In Panem, out of Panem- I don't care where, so long as the bricks of Hailsham can't confine us. We'd be happy- truly happy- and there'd be no fear, no worry that what I do isn't good enough for what I want to do. Eye-to-eye is how everyone would see me. I'd have no label; I'd be more than just a cow in a heard of cattle, more than just meat. But I don't have my choice. I've never had my choice. And more than likely, I'll never get it. 

I'm going to die one day. I'm going to be forgotten. Nobody is going to care.

Maybe that's what scares me the most.