little talks. cass. blitz

Esmeralda Ayres --

Your fingers play with the ring around your neck, a habit that had seeped into your actions from the moment it had arrived on your doorstep. Simon’s body already buried, the only thing that had remained was the ring he had intended to give you following the reaping. All these years later and you still wish you could have held his face in your hands one last time and told him yes.

The knock on your day disturbs your thoughts and you stand from the kitchen chair, glancing wearily at through the front window. You didn’t get visitors, too few friends and no family left in this world. The orphanage you and Simon had grown up in together was all that was left, but you had been close to none of them. There had only been Simon.

Opening the door, you’re faced with an older gentleman, an aged smile on lips as he speaks. He seems sweet, a gentle warmth rising from the way that he speaks and you find yourself welcoming him with a small smile. You move outside, pulling the door shut behind you and beckon him over to the bench that sits on your porch.

“Of course you can, Mr. McFadden,” you take a seat, scooting over to give him plenty of space. “How can I help you?”

Esmeralda Ayres --

You watch as he places the clipboard down, attention switching to you entirely. You hadn’t had anyone speak to you so directly in a long time that you’re almost taken aback. But you remain seated, one hand on the edge of the bench as you try and keep your focus on Mr. McFadden.

You’ve never really thought about how the district could improve, the mayor elections just a passing event. Voting wasn’t mandatory so the time spent waiting in lines and the anxiety it would bring wasn’t worth the trouble. Perhaps this year would be different.

“I think we need more help for people with mental illness,” you say, it’s the first thing to come to your mind and you feel embarrassed after saying it. “The orphanages in this district need more support as well,” you add quickly, hoping it shifts the conversation.

Esmeralda Ayres --

You’re used to watching as people you cared about fall behind until one day they just disappeared. You remember the carers at the orphanage telling you all during morning tea that Rebecca was gone.

At first, you’d assumed it meant that she’d finally found a family, she had really deserved one, but soon you learned that it meant she was dead. It was because she had killed herself, the depression from losing her family in the farm fire had swallowed her and no one had tried to save her.

You’d always thought she had a nice smile. Simon had saved you, and you know that without his bright laughter and hand pulling, dragging you away from the edge of a cliff, you wouldn’t be here today. You miss him, your heartaches terribly every time you think about him.

“If you get elected, please do, there are so many people who need help and access to being able to seek help without fear of retaliation.” You look at the flowers in your garden, the gentle afternoon breeze pushing them as the sun flickered through clouds.

Farming wasn’t really your thing, you made money by picking fruits in the orchard of the orphanage down the road. You’re stuck there, unable to free yourself from its tether.

“Education would be good, perhaps something on par with the careers? Use a skill that we have to stand tall. Like survival skills? Something to do with food or maybe edible and medicinal plants?”

Esmeralda Ayres --

He grabs his clipboard jotting down notes in regard to some of the suggestions you’ve given. It makes you feel nice, and you find yourself smiling as your hand loosens its grip on the edge of the bench.

He seems like a nice man, careful and political in his speech, but a level a kindness that cannot be missed. You don’t know much about the other candidates, but you think he might do a good job.

You’ll have to see, maybe you’ll end up going to vote this year. It seems that it could be possible that change could be in the air, and you think maybe being a part of that could be nice. A way to move away from the pain you keep letting yourself suffer every day.

“No, I think that was everything, Mr. McFadden,” you say, standing up and dusting off your bottom.

You move back to the door, giving him a quick nod. Your house is pretty far out from the town and so you hope he hasn’t got many more left to visit. Quickly ducking inside you move to the fruit ball that sits in the entrance hallway, grabbing an apple before returning back to your guest.

You reach forward, handing him the apple, “take this, they’re wonderful.” You move back to the doorway. “Thank you so much for stopping by and good luck with the elections.”