locking it away.— [prop/vasco]

v a s c o

I’d spent the morning on the porch watching the sunrise. There’d been a hum of the world coming to life, of wrens and jays leading a call and response while I leaned back against the wicker of the swing. I sipped at the last dregs of coffee in my glass trying not to think of how I’d be facing another crowd today, one gathered to watch our children put to death. And I’d thought that with all the years drawing out beyond us I’d have become numb.

Except it’s a scar that keeps opening, again and again. Not hard when half the kids shared my family’s name, their stories tangled with my own and all those that’d come before. My heart would always ache for the stories that sat disappearing, robbed by how unfaithful my memory became. But even more for those that I hadn’t known, who’s children would wind up with their bodies tacked up in pine boxes, or ashes scattered along the fields.

Seemed people were more concerned with telling their stories than celebrating the moments that’d never come to define them. Would people know how Benat had played the fiddle so sweet, he’d made his own father misty eyed? Or that Salome knew enough jokes that she’d keep us all in stitches? We sent them off to die alone, to be remembered for the one thing they’d never asked to share with anyone. I stared out at the sunrise and watched the orange and yellow reflect across the river. I spilled out the last of my coffee over the railing and onto the grass in the front lawn.

I used to think about all the ways the house needed fixing when I watched the bloodbath. I’d think of all the cracks in our walls that needed smoothing, or that the tiles on the roof could use replaced. How I’d have to get out the spackle and make sure things got touched up, all so that I didn’t have to watch the kids bash in one another’s skull. Or – that I didn’t have the feel the terror all along edge of my spine making the hair on my neck stand on end. That the fear would turn over to anger, hot coals pressed together to smoke and choke out all the hatred until it’d grip the back of my throat and I’d want to scream.

I’d cried before, and I’m sure I would again. Hell, I’m sure some people thought it weakness the way I’d shed so many tears. And I let go of my pride that if it was in my heart, I’d let them fall.

Except watching them that morning, of Estelle and the way she moved about the bloodbath or Six and how he didn’t run, I could feel the anger rise.

It was exciting.

Not because I dared to give in to the rage or even wade into whatever grief had taken hold. But that for once in a good long time, I could feel the way that surely so many others must’ve felt, that a piece of us was being stripped away forever and no one was doing a damn thing about it. We were meant to watch the horrific abuse as some age-old retribution that none of us had been alive to see.

I’d have lived in that rage a bit longer, as I’m sure so many men do, had I not seen the face of one of the O’Malley’s just as soon as Six had taken a bash across his leg.

No matter what I could feel, or even believed the capitol deserved, they were more important than any of this. They deserved nothing but the world we’d failed to give them. And I wasn’t going to let this anger distract me from what needed doing, whatever little of that I could.

I pushed back through the crowd, con permiso, smiling as I nodded along the lines of mourners. I’d tucked my hands into my sweatshirt and weaved until I was behind him, the red hair hard to miss.

“Excuse me,” I started, walking close to his bench, “Do you mind if I sit down here for a minute?” I gave my best grin, hands still tucked into the pockets of my hoodie. “I thought you might want some company. And I didn’t want to watch any more of that.”

v a s c o

I don’t know what I was expecting, whether it was he’d listen to me and I’d be able to offer him some comfort, or if it’d been that I’d wanted to make both of us feel better. I couldn’t claim part of it wasn’t from the remnants of my own grief. I hadn’t talked to Elias yet. I should’ve at least tried to find him, sent some sort of note to have him over to the house. And looking at Prop, I could see all the same hurt that’d run through the Izars if Estelle died in the arena. I didn’t want any of that for him, or his family.

I hung my head forward as he started to tear into me. I imagined the words cutting across my body as though he were trying to rip me to shreds. He’d bloody me as much as he could with all the pain that spilled out his lips. And I’d take all of it, eyes closed, until my veins ran dry. That’s the way of it, when someone else felt grief take up so much space he was fitting to burst. I didn’t take it personally, not even when he suggested I’d be using his family’s story for some sort of political gain.

He stood from his spot on the bench and I shifted my glance from his face to his hands, then balled together in fists. My son Emmanuel had been begging for a fight after Raquel had died. He hid that sadness by taking a swing at anything he could, flesh or shadows, so that he could catch something. I’d been to blame there, too. A young boy shouldn’t have had to bury his sister, much less work through the pain of it on his own. And not that I’d been absent, just – depression’s undertow had me then. Where I should’ve sat at the edge of his bed and wished away all that sadness, I’d carried let every bit of her memory collect like bricks on my back to carry.

“Joder,” I snapped back against the bench when he’d spat across my face. I let out a cough as I wiped away the dribble dripping down my temple with my sleeve.

“You think that’s a way to settle things, spitting in someone’s face?” I stood, slowly rising with creek from the bench, my right knee stiff and achy. I was getting too old for this. I could’ve walked away, and maybe it was foolish not to. “I would’ve respected you more if you’d actually taken a swing at me.”

Though truth be told, I was thankful he’d resorted to disrespect instead.

“I get it. It’s hard to trust anyone in this world. Especially when the most important thing in your life has been taken from you. How are you ever going to trust anyone again? How are you going to trust anyone who says they’re doing their best when bad things happen all the time?” I still held onto the anger but turned it in against itself. Because fire could only destroy what it touched, I’d smother it instead. “If I had it my way, it would have all ended long ago. And my spirit willing, it’ll end before someone puts me the ground.”

But this wasn’t about me, or what I wanted, was it?

“I care about you and Six and every eleven not because I’m mayor. I care because it’s the right thing to do. Because I know it’s too lonely a world for us not to care about one another. That’s how we turn into them and lose what makes us ourselves.” I brought my hands to my sides and shrugged. It’s not too far removed for me to remember what it was like to be a boy, where nothing was visible no matter how in front of my nose it might’ve been. “You don’t have to believe it if you don’t want. But Six asked me to look after you all, and I intend to make good on that promise.”

v a s c o

How old was he? Seventeen? He must be too young to remember. Of course, it’s hard to believe that it’s been six years since everything got turned inside out. Or that what still felt like a fresh scar across my temple had faded across time to nothing.

“I’m sorry if anyone here did that to you.” I say and wonder who could’ve done such a thing. But then I’m not sure if I want to know. Not because I wouldn’t do anything about it, but that I’d find whoever was responsible and make them own up to hurting a child. It’s weakness that lets another strike a child, and weaker still if they’ve never seen justice. Though I’m not sure what justice means anymore. It’s certainly not under the boots of peacekeepers that line the dusty roads of the district.

“I’ll admit it’s hard to trust anyone when there’s a lot of bad in the world. But I’ve tried to live with charitable assumptions about most. I found that  people want to be heard just as well as anyone else. And to know that whatever they might be going through, they don’t have to be afraid. Or ashamed. Because there’s someone else that might be trying to understand.” I wipe a hand across my face again, this time pushing away the summer’s heat. I get another glance at him and wonder if he’s ever known the sort of love I have.

“To answer your question, I’ve stared down death a few times. A few years back, my nephew tried to get his point across by blowing up the stage I was standing on,” I let the words out slow. I wonder where Sampson must be now. If he’s happier out in the wild. If his choice is better than any of the one’s he’d been able to make between the confines of these walls.

If I ever saw him again, I’d tell him how sorry I was we hadn’t done something sooner. That all the pain and anger he’d ever had we’d have sorted through. And that what he’d said about the capitol wasn’t wrong. Just that no one else deserved to die for the sins of the people who’d oppressed us. We were stronger fighting together than tearing one another apart.

“Back during the eighty-second. They told me if I’d been standing a few feet closer it would’ve been the shortest mayoral tenure eleven would’ve had since the forties.” I manage to crack a smile. “But it takes a bit more than that to keep me down.”