tell me what you know about dying (sera/junie)

It’s kinda funny to sit and watch the other tributes running around the Training Centre like any of it matters. World’s worst mentor Flynn Garner would probably cringe knowing how I’m wasting my precious time like this, but I’m sure I could argue my way out of his disapproval. Put it all down to gathering data, sizing up the enemy, some bullshit like that.

For instance, you’ve got your typical Career show-offs prancing around like they run the whole joint. It’d be infuriating if I could even bother to care – or if they didn’t look so damn impressive in everything they did.

The way Ruby Wolfe swings a knife? Hot.

Then there’s the average Joes – usually from the middle districts. Alternate universe Seras who aren’t completely jaded and think they might actually stand a chance of survival. They flit from station to station, starting off with the more familiar – knot tying, shelter making – before bravely working their way up to the weapons table. It’s only a matter of time before someone loses a finger. I’ve heard stories, you know.

And finally... well. There’s winners and losers in every game, I suppose.

The sad story of Junie St. James rests more heavily on my heart than I’m completely comfortable with. As far as the Reapings had gone, hers was by far the most brutal in my humble, unimportant opinion. If I close my eyes, I can all too clearly see the tear-stained cheeks and the gaping mouth stretched into a silent, sickening scream. Twelve years old. Forever twelve years old.

I watch her float into the room now, her blank deer-in-the-headlights eyes dashing around wildly like she senses the danger she’s walked herself straight into. Her hair falls dejectedly into her face as she makes for the weapons table, picking up the scariest, ugliest sword from the bunch.

Forget what I said about the finger. She’s about to lose a whole damn limb.

Luckily for everyone present, she’s smart enough to realise the mistake of her choice and drops the evil looking thing to the ground with a useless thud.

The light flips on; someone brings a mirror to a gun fight. It’s her and it’s me, we’re both twelve years old without a clue. Sinking under the weight of things bigger than us, learning what it takes to survive in this world. Callouses and dirt-caked fingernails and skeletons in the closet that take the form of rusty shovels as new beginnings. Feeling strangely protective all of a sudden, I’m halfway to her side to teach her what I know – to show her that she’s not a lost cause, that all it takes is one well-placed hit with a stick to get back home – but she’s onto the next bench before I have the chance to show my humanity.

Maybe I didn’t give her enough credit. Maybe she’ll be a fighter, a survivor. Maybe she’s not as meek and miserable as –

Oh.

Oh, oh dear, she’s crying. Again.

My heart aches, sure, but I’m the last person a crying kid wants to be trapped in a room with. It’s better for the both of us if I just leave the consoling to someone else.

Only there’s nobody else within a five foot radius of us. Which means I’m the scapegoat.

And sure, I could leave, let it be water off my back – and I might have done just that if it wasn’t for the aggressively loud sniffle that racks her impossibly small body at that very moment, and fuck me, maybe I do still have half a heart left.

I suck in a deep breath, exaggerated and dramatic. Karma better find me for this.

“What you doin’ there?” I offer, not expecting a reply at all as I tuck myself into a ball, shrinking myself down to her size. “Feeling overwhelmed by all the tables? Me too, dude.”

Silence. Go figure. I fight against all of my impulsive urges - to roll my eyes; to clear my throat; to jump back to my feet and put as much distance between myself and the odd little girl as possible.

“Well, surely there’s something you’re good at?” Is this as embarrassing for her as it is for me? “Do you like painting? There’s a whole camouflage station in the back corner. Or... maybe gardening? There’s always a plants station. I’m pretty sure I saw a skipping rope somewhere around here too...” I cycle through the hobbies like the days of the week, watching Junie’s face closely for any sign of interest.

Nothing.

God, why do I even bother.

“Maybe we should just go dig our own graves and get it over with,” I mumble under my breath. “At least then one of us will know what they’re doing.” I slide to the ground beside her, resigned to writing the rest of the day off and marking myself as an outcast in the process. Flynn would be so proud of me.

It was a bad idea. That’s the only useful thought bobbing around in my head when my rambling comes to a gentle intermission. Of course I can’t relate to this wonder of a girl. There’s a reason the younger orphans used to steer clear of me in the hallways. I thought it was just the stink of death that kept them at arms’ length, but now I’m starting to think it’s always been something more.

She shrinks away from my voice; I see the silvery wings protruding from her spine, curling protectively around her frame, rendered otherwise useless in this wingless place. Even so, I don’t think of her as strange. Fearful, sure, but maybe that’s only because she doesn’t belong to this world. Ethereal being, maybe she just needs someone to help her navigate the darkness.

But I don’t think it can be me.

So I go to take my leave, perfectly fine with never speaking to the strange girl again because hey, at least I tried. That’s more than can be said about the rest of the tributes. Not that it’s a competition or anything. Obviously.

“What do you mean?”

The voice is so tiny, so shaky, that at first I’m sure I must have imagined it. Surely no person alive could truly have a voice that close to disintegrating completely.

I manage only a single step more before I realise the caged bird in front of me is more human than I thought.

“What are you talking about?”

I blink slowly, head cocking stupidly to the side like something you’d see in a cartoon. Really, I’m just trying to get a new perspective to help me figure out what she’s talking about, and what I was talking about, and it’s all just a very confused jumble of backtracked words and –

Oh.

“Oh.”

The death thing? Damn. I guess it checks out that the poor thing would latch onto something so morbid. But I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t feel a tiny sense of relief at finding the common thread in our rapidly intertwining worlds.

But how long is a piece of string? How much of myself can I give to someone before they run away from the ugliest truths? Am I brave enough to risk that type of vulnerability ever again?

...

Ugh. Fuck it. I’m as good as dead anyway.

“Well, back home, in Six...” I keep my voice hushed here, not really believing the two of us are interesting enough to rouse the attention of anyone important, but I guess paranoia has always run deep in my veins. “I spent a lot of time in the cemetery.” I shudder, at all the memories that come rushing back of a life I’ll never see again. Of all the bodies, piled higher and higher with every passing year. Of the sound of the cold squish of skin in the aftermath of rigor mortis. Of the never-ending promenade of funerals and all of the discarded lilies left on strangers’ graves.

And when I look at Junie, expecting to see horror and disgust in her eyes that mimics my own, she looks absolutely enthralled by me.

“Okay, don’t get too excited. It’s not as cool as you think it is.” I rush to pacify her expectations, wondering what I’m supposed to say to her now that I’ve opened this massive can of worms. Probably best to keep things simple. “My friend and I–” and at this, I furiously blink away any evidence of tears threatening to surface, “–used to dig up bodies and sell them to the Hospital. For science, I guess.” That’s what I tell myself to keep my conscience clean. I’m still waiting for the day I finally believe my lies.

“It’s kinda awful, actually. Dead people are gross.”

I did a lot of bad things to survive. I wonder how many more I’ll have to do before I die.