a \heart\ that /aches/ (Aya)

Made by the wonderful and amazing Shrimp<3

Blackness. A command. Movement, slow and mechanical. Another command. Another movement, similar to the one before it. Reaching out. Pulling in. Bending fingers. Clawing nothing. Leaning forward. Leaning back.

Something wet. Choked out words. Another command. Mechanical movement, somewhat distracted. Sobs getting louder. Another command. A forced movement, as if there are strings, strings, strings... A steady, hollow voice. More sobs. Another command. Mechanical movement that does not wish to happen. Strings, strings, strings... A sound that is cold and hard. Shouts. Wails. Blackness. Command. No. Strings. Voices, no. Empty. Cold. Loud. Wailing, no. Command. Strings, no. Screaming, no. Cold, no. No, no, no, no...

“No!” My eyes open fast, and my scream echos throughout a room that is far too large and empty. As if I have flipped a switch on, people are rushing into my room. They call out to me, asking questions that don't matter and saying words of comfort that mean nothing. I remain laying in my bed, a ripple of snow white sheets cocooning my legs as my chest rises and falls rapidly, wide turquoise eyes staring upward. With every word spoken by the four or five people that have entered, my fingers close tighter and tighter on the thin sheet beneath me, folds webbing outward like cracks in glass.

Strings, strings, strings...

Finally, I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block them all out. But their high pitched voices penetrate through my determined silence, talking about how “all tributes have trouble” and that “this isn't normal, either way.” My lips part in a single command. “Out.” They remain slightly open after the hollow voice leaves them, breathing in the disgustingly clean air as I listen to hurrying high heeled footsteps click click click and then the sound of silence.

I'm not supposed to be here, in a bed that is too white and a room that is too bright with these people that don't even care. No, I'm supposed to be at home, putting on my worn brown boots and fall coat, getting ready to walk through the cold morning mist that haunts the trees and is disturbed only by the chilly breeze that blows tiny droplets of rain onto my face. Or laying in bed that is scratchy and uncomfortable instead of soft and silky, like this one. Or eating something flavorless and cold instead of the warm, sweet things they no doubt have set out for my breakfast. Slowly, I open my eyes, sitting up and staring out the window by my bed. My room is up high, and there is a pull in my stomach as I look down at the far drop. But no, as much as I want to, I cannot jump from here. I have no rope, and besides, there is probably some sort of invisible wall or electric field that would prevent tributes from doing such a thing.

I arrive at breakfast just as the sun is rising, as I would any day, yet I still find myself unable to avoid my escort's scolding on how “such behavior is inappropriate and only shows my weaknesses”. All at once, sleep's dull annoyance and the mechanical dream glide away from me, and I am left the same little girl who lived back in District Seven, who acts too young for her age and listens to adult words as if they are the Capitol's own laws. Every verbal blow is taken with a flinch as a lump rises in my throat, making it hard to swallow the bland oatmeal I have chosen for myself. When at last she has finished, glaring at me coldly, I push out my chair and whisper an apology that is made sincere by the tears in my eyes as I wander back to my room, not even bothering to wait for my district partner to show up in our dining area. An hour is spent exploring the many dials of the shower, and another digging through the clothes to find something that suits me, when I hear a light tap on the door. I open the door immediately to find my escort, trying to hold onto several large files and a suitcase, with two mismatched watches on her wrist. Still, her clothing lacks a single wrinkle, and her hair has been neatly combed and pulled back so tight that it stretches her face slightly. One word is mumbled through the mess of papers. “Training.”

I follow her without a word of complaint.

I try so hard not to look over at my district partner as we are both herded into the elevator, but I find myself staring at him before our escort has even pressed the button. A heart that aches is a heart that breaks, but I find I cannot rebuild the stone walls that magically appeared this morning as I lay on a bed that felt more like a cloud. He just seems so very interesting, and my eyebrows draw together and I tilt my head to the side ever so slightly, trying to remember a name. Alan? No... Alexander. That was it. I press my lips together in satisfaction as we step off the elevator and toward the doors that lead to our destination.

Feeling that I have dealt with the silence long enough, I finally find something to say as my hand reaches out to grasp the cold silver handle. “It's so different from home here. I miss the trees.”

And the fresh air. And the falling. And the people. And the beautiful night sky. And the grass. And my friends. And my family. All torn away from me by a single Capitol command.

Strings, strings, strings...