No Relief In Waking {mutt}

It was a vicious cycle. One in which the only victorious party just so happened to be the Capitol. It is another dreary day in the gray schoolhouse. Well of course it is gray. Everything in my district is gray. The sky, the buildings, the hue of her eyes. Currently, we are studying history. Rather than expose the wrongdoings of the Capitol, in this class, we praise the people who take the lives of twenty-four children annually. People claim that no, they only take twenty-three lives. At the very least, they spare one. They spare one. They do not spare one. The victor does not come out unscathed. Each year, the victor is a destroyed being, the bloodshed forever stained on his or her fingertips. On the victory tour, I can see so clearly through their facade. Oh, how they pretty up the broken shell of a person, how they drape them with the finest of clothing, how they wipe away every trace of despair. No matter what the Capitol does, they will never be able to erase the look of death in that person's eyes.

There is no place to escape it. Not the reapings, not the Games themselves, and certainly not the Capitol. We are the last trace of humanity on this land. Or so they say. People speak of District Thirteen, very rarely, very quietly. They murmur it in the Hob, by the fence, in passing. Within the ruins of that shattered district is a thriving place, alive with people and free of the worry of The Hunger Games. It is too good to be true, an empty hope originating from the lips of people desperate for a way out. Desperate people say crazy things. The possibility that District Thirteen survived is a crazy one, utter insanity. And yet I cannot help but cling to the hope. Talk of the district had died down quite a while ago, when a Peacekeeper had overheard the people discussing it and reported it to the Capitol, saying that we were a breeding ground for rebellion. All talk of the district was prohibited. I will still continue to hope.

"Ms. Moore, care to join us?" A deep rumble from the front of the classroom jolts me to my senses. I raise my head ever so slightly, hearing her full name. Evera Kaelyn Moore. I do not know what has brought on my affection for the female, much less when it began. Did it begin when I spotted her in The District Square, the year that her sister was killed? Or when her and I first spoke in passing, no deep meaning behind it? It was casual talk we had, nothing of importance, but just hearing the sound of her voice made me want more. Our greetings in the morning eventually halted as we grew older, as I accelerated into the soft lifestyle I now held and she remained a Seam girl. My mother forbid me from speaking to the Seam children too frequently, and they didn't want to speak to me, either. And so ended our conversing. I hear her now and crave her touch, her presence beside me rather than on the other end of the room. "Sorry, Mr. Palimony..." Her apology seems sincere, for whatever reason. I can't imagine that she actually enjoys school. School is a bore and unnecessary. What do the teach us that will be of importance? School is just another way to glorify the Capitol. We will never need this information. Half of us will die regardless. Yes, half of us won't live long enough to absorb it all clearly. Of what use is the year that we rebelled in the arena?

Just thinking of the arena is frightening. Surely, if reaped, I would die, though in what context? There is physical, logical death, the death that my mother would find much easier to cope with, much more final than its' alternative. That is the kind that steals a loved one, just as it stole my father. It is a tear in the heart, the sound of a stilled breath, the glassy eyes rolled backwards, and nothing more. And then, there is a more complex version; emotional death. This is what the victors suffer. They are living, but not truly. Here, in District 12, it is not uncommon to find a victim of this death. For so long, I was buried in this type of death, after my father left us. Even now, recalling him brings pain to my chest. I exhale and try to focus on the words in my textbook, but they're floating across the page. I can't read, can't see. A memory paralyzes me; the sound of his laugh. I am holding still, barely able to blink, faking as though I am reading attentively. The bell rings soon after and I rush from the classroom, toward my locker. If I am fast enough, I can escape without anyone talking to me. The last thing I want right now is conversation. Slick with sweat, my fingers fumble on my locker, twirling the familiar combination with difficulty. 22-0-9. I shove the textbook inside the space, cram it all in there beside the binder that I will leave inside the building. I grab my jacket, a jean material that could pay for somebody's daily meals. Before I leave, I glance around for Evera. This is routine, for as usual, I don't see her. She must have left the building ahead of me. How typical. I make the split second decision to roam the outdoors for a while, afraid of what may be waiting for me if I dare to venture home.

TIME LASPE : 30 MINS APPROX.

This was anticipated behavior of my mother. It didn't hurt any more than all the other times she'd locked me out of the house, but it had preyed on my insecurities previously. Just as it is doing now, is it not? In frustration, I slam my hand against the white exterior of my home. She has locked me out, my own mother. She has left me in the streets for the night, or to go to a friends house, or something. Occasionally, Spade becomes sick of me and demand that I leave. This time, there is a note pinned to the door, warning me not to dare step inside to even contemplate collecting my things this time. I am not wanted, not desired, not loved in the family. What I am is a burden and an embarrassment. That is all that I'll ever be.

Spade has a fetish for drama and violence. It is either my mother locks me out per his instruction, or he hits us. Or both, I remind myself silently. I ought to go, ought to leave this instant. Perhaps I'll find somewhere to stay tonight if I hurry. But I have lingered too long, and it is too late. Our wooden door slams opened and Spade steps outside barefoot, his nightclothes already on. It is almost time for him to head to sleep, I suppose. Unfortunately, I will provide his nightly entertainment. It is non negotiable at this point.

"What are you doing here?" Spade takes a step toward me, threatening. He smells of blood. I wonder, momentarily, if he has cut my mother, and then dismiss the thought. More than likely, she would be able to defend herself against him. I think. Just to make sure, I put on a face of bravado. "Where is mother?" Compared to his, my voice is high-pitched. Spade laughs loudly, his fat belly bulging. Disgusted at the sight, I turn my head away. "Oh, she's fine, Chet. But you won't be." Wham! I cannot deflect the hit, for it has already been delivered. The punch he has just given to my jaw aches. Automatically, I reach my hands up to touch it, wincing. I try to glare at him through my pain. I know that he could do much worse if he wanted to. Undoubtedly, I will have a bruise. His eyes taunt me, daring me to strike back. This is exactly what Spade so craves; confrontation. I will not add fuel to the fire as I sometimes do, with my mood swings and bouts of anger. No, not this time. I step backward, away from him and his unpredictability.

"I'm leaving now, Spade. Give mother my best." I manage to choke out the words and then stumble away. I know that the bakery will allow me to sleep in the back of their store, as I help out with the duties there so frequently. But this has hurt my pride, and I take it upon myself to wander the district. The stars are only just emerging, the night darkening with each step of my feet. The springtime air hits my face like a fist. And not just any fist; like his fist. I shiver and head toward the district square. In the distance, I can see a female. I dare to hope that it is her, Evera, and then shake my head. No, this shouldn't be her. Evera should not see me in such a state. Involuntarily, my feet shuffle toward a bench streaked with dirt. I see the girl spread out all across it as I approach, and I know as soon as I am just a few feet away, that it is indeed Evera. My heart does a dance in my chest.

I cannot bring myself to gaze directly at her, for fear of making a fool out of myself. I inhale, and then exhale, scared of what may happen next. A cluster of stars winks at me from a distance. It gives me courage, it dares me to hope. Maybe, just maybe, she will want to talk to me. I smile at the thought and part my jaws to talk to her, before all of my nerve is lost. "What brings you out here, at this time of night? I finally aim my honey colored eyes at her face. Oh, her face. I am startled by her beauty and instantly divert my eyes downward. I will myself inwardly to relax before I do something stupid and ruin this opportunity for myself. Finally, I speak again, my tone purposely soft and soothing this time. "Um, are you alright, Evera?"

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I cannot bear myself to even glance at her. Perhaps it is because of the flush beginning to tint my cheeks a light shade of pink. To refocus my thoughts and vanish my nerves, I bite the inside of my cheek. Blood slaps my tongue, emerging from the tiny wound as I wet my chapped lips ever so slightly. I cannot help but wonder whatever is running through her mind. I follow Evera's gaze upward, and see her eyes tracing the stars. I want to know what she is thinking about, and then match my thoughts to fit her personal musings. Briefly, I wonder if I had done the right thing, approaching her and speaking to her so directly. Even now, I am afraid that someone will overhear us. Even in the nighttime, deep in the Square of our District. Any other day, and I wouldn't have had the nerve. Yet I have grown tired of waiting, admiring Evera from afar. It isn't worth it; all those years that's precisely what I have been doing and she scarcely knows my name. I settle on the bench beside her rather than crouch in front of her as I had been doing before; Evera's position has shifted and allowed me to sit. I remind myself to breathe. A memory resurfaces; it is one of her, as anticipated. Finally, I recall when it is that I first fell in love with Evera. Though I have fallen for her one thousand times after the first time. One thousand or more.

FLASHBACK:

I cannot recall what I had been doing. Perhaps running an errand for my mother, before our merchant days. Undoubtedly before she had ever encountered Spade. I had been walking on an empty stomach, cradling whatever faint hope still lived on inside of me. If only, if only. I kept fabricating happy endings to tack onto the end of my miserable life. I was so absorbed in my own thoughts that I nearly passed a crowd in the Square. Almost, not quite. I turned my head slightly, examined the group. I heard the steady sound of a guitar, one rare item in our District. In admiration, I approached the crowd, and the two voices blended as one, nearly identical. The harmony, the tune; it was a beautiful song. I had not yet known that it would make me fall in love with one of the girls singing.

"There was a terrible still on the earth that day.
Another good man passed away.
And we just turned and carried on.
And felt the hole from where he'd gone.

And if I ever stopped and cried,
About that man,
The man that died.
I really can't remember when,
Or where I was,
But it never ends.

Lying on the blood stained ground.
All was quiet, not a sound.
People just watched, and the cannon blew quick.
That's what happen's in this District.

And then they took his soul away.
Buried the body, took him away.
And we have memories that live on,
Stronger now, now that he's gone."

I had pushed through, heart numb from pounding overtime. I knew, before I looked at her, that I was gone. The song repeated, melancholy and slow. I watched them; I watched Evelyn play and Evera's lips move against the rhythm set by the music. And her eyes, those light gray blue eyes. She melted my heart with her song. I could barely make sense of up from down, left from right. I forgot my name for a moment, swimming in her gaze. And then I saw her tear streaked face, felt the Peacekeepers shoving against my back, forcing all to abandon the sight and get back to work. In those days, they were remarkably more strict than today. Without hesitation, I dug my fist into my pockets. One came out empty, but the other clutched almost an entire handful of coins, enough to pay for a loaf of hearty bread, enough for dinner. Again, my stomach growled, a cruel reminder of my slow starvation. I gave all my pocket money to those girls, brushing my hand against Evera's as I handed her the money. We locked eyes, one pair the color of the sky and the other a soft honey tone. I looked away quickly and began to retreat home, but not before watching the two hug. I felt a pang of jealousy, but not for their love. I wanted to be in that hug, wanted to hold Evera against myself in a comforting place. Although she was in my class twice after that, needless to say, I moved into the merchant lifestyle as my mother courted Spade and never had my opportunity. Every following year, on the eve of The Hunger Games, I would sing her song.

END FLASHBACK.

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I have been lost in my own thought, but something sends me heading back to reality. The trance is broken. I wish that I could, if only for a minute, travel back in time. I would speak to her, rather than succumb to the orders of the Peacekeepers and leave the Square. We would bond. I would love her, and she would return the feeling. Perhaps something more would have become of us, if only I had spoken to her when I had heard her sing. Cutting across the air, I hear her voice. Obviously, she has shaken off her own state of memories faster than I have. I am still trying to live in the moments of my youth. She is, I believe, replying to my earlier question. "Uh, yeah. What are you doing here Chet?" I smile faintly. How can I even begin to tell her of what I am doing here. In fact, what am I doing here? Have I come looking for her? Did I just want to come outside? With her eyes locked on my face, I cannot indeed remember why I am even here. But hurt pride does not vanish so quickly, and I soon recall my business out and about the town. "I'm looking for a place to crash until my parents allow me back inside the house." I try and sound nonchalant, but my voice catches at the end, much to my displeasure. Fortunately, either she is ignoring it or she has not noticed. Already, Evera is asking another question, her eyes flitting to the wound on my chin.

"What happened to you? Are you okay?" I look down at my hands, clasped in one, and then fleetingly back up at Evera. I can't bring myself to reveal everything that has just happened to her. I don't know why she asked, but I'm hoping out of concern. That, at the very least, would show that she had some feeling for me, even if only as a polite acquaintance. "Yes. I'm fine." It is a lie, poorly concealed, although I know that she too was not telling the entire truth when she told me that she was alright. My eyes graze her silhouette. I want to know what she is thinking of, I want to go searching through her every little wonder until I know her inside and out. If I asked what was on her mind, would she tell me? I will; I do. "Evera?" I lean in toward just a bit, not yet close enough to feel her gentle breath on my skin. "What are you thinking about?" I blurt out the words, but in a whisper, hoping that I will not regret them.

I know all about regret. The sensation burns in my belly every time I glance in Evera's direction. All the regret I have could fuel a fire. It is about last moments with my father, about not before getting closer to her. I could paint a path filled with my regrets. Every time I return to my somewhat emotionally abusive household and face Spade or my mother, I regret it, and deeply. If only I could begin to explain it. I focus on what I can explain, which is very little at the moment. I am in the midst of working on a plausible lie to tell about how I got the bruise on my chin. I hit it against something, I can't even remember how that got there, I fell while watching at your movements from a distance? I discard everything that I have just thought of and make the decision to tell Evera the truth. There could be no harm in being honest with the one I love, so I decide to begin the practice when she next inquires about anything, anything at all. Indeed, no harm in honesty.




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They say that there is a pattern to the stars. Rumor has it that there is certain imagery to it. There is a picture awaiting a guide, someone to set the scene. Someone to create the story, though the stars have an untold story of their own. People know of the places where the lines connect and how the stars are intended to appear to us, but the few who do rarely speak of it. There is little time to stop and appreciate beauty, in my district. Factually, there is little beauty in general. Perhaps this is why I am so lovestruck by Evera. She is the equivalent of a supernova to a star fanatic; entirely gorgeous, certainly special, undoubtedly a symbol of love or something quite like it. Evera is the first beauty to be seen by myself where I reside. The first and the only. Or at the very least, one of the few.

It has never quite occurred to me that this would be awkward for Evera, yet now it does. We don't speak. Come to think of it, even in the past, when I resided in the Seam, we so rarely communicated that it was shocking. I have always been in her class, and she has always been in mine. It was not unusual for the one year age difference; in our class, half of the children were sixteen, the other half fifteen. It was as simple as that. Of all our years of education, we had only ever been in the same class twice. It was enough time to form a friendship. I guess I missed my chance. Wistfully, I think that it is too late. But then I scold myself and intone; it is never too late.

I am suddenly aware of my proximity to Evera. I recline slightly; I may come off as too forward if I even dare to remain so close. Inwardly, I gave myself a kick. It was a stupid thing to do, approaching her and anticipating to chat as if we were friends. My question was of an even higher level of stupidity, perchance a new level altogether. What was she thinking of me when I asked it, when I first spoke? At this point, the only thing she is thinking is probably about what a freak I am. No, but then, she talks to me. Good. "Oh, you know. The usual 'Why me' sorta thing." And then, she smirks at me. I laugh softly, pleased that she replied. Knowing her, she may have remained silent, while I sat and felt idiotic. At least that hadn't happened. "Well, I can empathize," I admit to Evera. I find my eyes wandering toward her arm, for some unknown reason and out of their own free will. She is holding it at an awkward angle, one I could easily recognize. Flame, my father, once came home with an arm like that. He had to retire from work in the mines; it never healed. The wound had hurt like hell. I would say that Evera's did too, if I had to bet. I part my lips slightly and wet them with my tongue before speaking. I want to ask her what has happened, if she's hurt, if she needs help. But she speaks first and I shut my mouth at once.

"You know, Evelyn talked about you all the time..." I hear her voice trail off. Pity strikes my heart, and I side-glance at her warily. Evera's sister, Evelyn, died in The Hunger Games. I found myself singing her song as I watched her death on television, even shedding a few tears, caught up in the moment. To hear that Evelyn talked about me brings a sense of grief, but also surprise. She talked about me? Did you talk about me too, Evera? Needless to say, I have discussed them both, too. Occasionally to my family, more frequently to my friends. In the moment, I forget about Evera's arm and allow the uneasy silence to hang between us. I can see the depression in her eyes; less passionately, it echoes in my own. I can't pretend I didn't know Evelyn. I knew them both. Of course, that was back when I lived in the Seam.

One of the few good things about not having a sibling is that you never have to worry about them. If they're hungry, or if they're lonely. Or if they are dead. "I..I'm sorry, Chet. I shouldn't have brung her up..." I shake my head in disagreement. It isn't as if I am glad that she was brought up, but I am not angered or particularly devastated. "It's fine, Evera. It's much better to get whatever you have to say off of your chest than just hold it all inside, you know?" Now, if only I were the type of person to follow my own advice. Unfortunately, I am not. If I was, maybe I could open up to Evera, and really talk to her. Who knows? We may have something in common. I glance at her arm again, momentarily losing my train of thought with the distraction. I can see that it is hurt and gasp softly, under my breath. "Evera..." Concern, unmistakable, cries out in my voice, is present in my tone. I don't say anything else, but by then I believe that she has caught my drift. Soon, after she finishes talking, I will ask about her arm. At this point, it's looking so severe that I could not possibly forget, not even if I tried.

I resist the urge to playback our conversation and analyze it. Have I said anything wrong? Have I acted inappropriately? Does she secretly wish that I would leave. I rather hope not. "What about you? What are you thinking about?" I flush slightly at the fact that she has asked me. Truthfully? You. Yet there is no way that I would never say that, not this early in our conversation. Possibly not ever, at our rate of progress. I echo her question before pondering my answer. "What am I thinking about? It's insignificant, really. You wouldn't want to know." I flash her a quick smile and drop the subject, my eyes once again drawn to her arm. I cannot ignore it any longer. "Are you hurt, Evera? What happened to your arm?" The thought of her being injured is too much to bear. I can feel my heart beginning to quicken in pace, my anxiety rising. If Evera is seriously hurt... I cannot even complete the thought. I cannot even grasp it.

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Other: Your post is far from horrible! I quite enjoyed reading it; your writing is stupendous.

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