Unexpected Reunion {mutt}

Doing. Thinking. Speaking. Hearing. Misc.

I never grow tired of working in the fields. The rhythm of my fingers striking the brown soil repeatedly is soothing, a silent comfort to me. I know that some scorn the hours under the sun and grow disgusted with their fingertips shaded a permanent black from hands buried deep in Mother Nature. As for myself? I love everything about working outside. It cleanses me, gives me time to think about everything and anything that there may be to think about. It is my quiet time, a period where, unlike school, friends and clothing and intelligence are all irrelevant. No one pays attention to who you are, just how productive you are, and how well you work. I’m a hard worker, and thus, I do quite enjoy the fields. I always have. Some of my classmates can beg to differ, as can Leilani, but I’m rather unique on the subject of hard work. It has always been something I like to do, working hard. I hear from my aunt (or replacement mother, if you will) that it runs in the family, but on my father’s side. Whenever she tells me this, I just purse my lips and nod.
And then there are the times where I cannot take one step into the fields, where my legs tremble with the thought of even venturing into the place where I must work. Occasionally, I am sent whirling back into a time where her body is tossed over the fence into a field identical to the ones in my district. I can see my dead sister’s corpse in the fields when I work, can feel her desperate cries, sense her agitated facial expression, know that what used to be a face alive with beauty is now charred red, shapeless and misshapen, covered with maggots. Being in the fields, sometimes, is much too real for me, so I retreat to a state of mindlessness, where my thoughts are in an alternate world and I am motionless all but for my hands, working rapidly beneath me. Or, when it gets really bad, I fake as if I am sick, or take one of my sacred days off. Better that than break down in front of the entire District.

I fear that one day, someone will see my despair and call over a Peacekeeper, who will whip me for not paying nearly enough attention to the crops at my feet. They may as well do that now; I’m barely even listening to the instructions that our group leader is giving, that’s how absent minded I’m feeling. Luckily, the whistle that signals the end of our working day blows at that precise moment, loud and prompt, not even a second too soon. Thank goodness. I couldn’t have stood one more moment. Peacekeepers, clad in their all-white outfits, shuffle around us all, demanding that we stand and leave the fields before they yank us up and beat us down again, senselessly abusing their power. All of us obey, exiting in a single-file line. Before we exit, we are all given a pat down with gloved hands to ensure we have not stolen any farming tools, not that any one of us would commit such a crime. We are all much too cowardly.

Doing. Thinking. Speaking. Hearing. Misc.

In a desperate, last-minute attempt to conceal her wounds, Khiyyi draws her arms close to her body and folds them neatly. Too late. After I inquire about her state of health not so subtly, I see a flash of annoyance flicker across her face before her expression returns to its previous state of friendliness. I, too, feel a flicker of annoyance, but obviously in her direction. Is it so bad that I’m concerned about her? I probably shouldn’t have even asked, I reflect with disgust, but am bombarded with guilt. Likely, Khiyyi has heard this question more than once and is bored with answering it. It’s not her fault if she feels annoyed.

“Oh, yeah, I’m perfectly fine,” Is her immediate reply. I am not convinced for an instant; I’m no fool. I allow her to continue rambling, in no mood to interrupt or argue. “I just…probably should have gotten a little more sleep last night. And the cuts…oh, those are from field work.” I notice how rehearsed she sounds and am further annoyed. Her knees shake under the pressure of her weight and I am enveloped in pity for this trembling, defiant girl in front of me. My heart goes out to her and I adjust my tone, softening it before I speak. “I’m not ignorant. I can see you’re hurt. Listen, you may think I’m being too persistent or nosy, but I can’t just leave you here like this.” I spread my arms, indicating her state. The last time we met, she wasn’t nearly as sickly. I worry that she is killing herself. If I let her go, I will never be able to stand it.

Self-inflicted harm and anorexia are a dangerous combination. Under no circumstances would I fall prey to either one, not even in my darkest hour. Not even when I saw my mother killed right before my eyes, not even when I saw my dead little sister’s mutilated body tossed over the fence like trash, not even when I felt the knife beneath my breaking the skin of his neck…I am at once enveloped in memories, all of them piercing my heart like daggers. I am transported back to Root’s wet heartbeat, thick with pulsing blood, his life at my fingertips. If the devastation of seeing my house reduced to a pile of charred rubble was not enough, the loss of my mother and sister pushed me entirely over the edge. If only I had been at home whilst he set the fire, I reflect shamefully, I could have led my mother and sister out the door and to safety. I recall the pain of falling, searing my face permanently with a tattoo of scars, making patterns across my cheeks and deep indents on my upper arm…I touch them now, now lost in my sea of memories. I, at the very least, can wear my sins. I feel no need to hurt myself to express my pain. I never have had an urge to slit my wrists to help myself get through the tough times. Not once; probably because I have a generally low threshold for pain and would cry out before the knife even made a mark.

My mother’s glassy eyes, once so beautiful, and her cold body, once so full of life, had all stilled beneath me. So badly I longed for her to snap open her eyes, untie us, and stand up. I wanted it all to be a nightmare. Every day I try to wake up, but so far, there has been no success. I give Khiyyi a quick glance just once more, trying to further assess her physical state. Now, the mental part…that, I believe, is entirely different, yet I vow to approach that later. I shudder at the thought of self-inflicted harm as I see her thin body standing before me, looking so close to its breaking point. Clearly, Khiyyi and I are different. A hidden maternal instinct kicks into high gear. I want to help this girl. I want her to stop the damage before it’s too late. That is, if it isn’t too late already.

I keep my eyes trained intently on her face. I wouldn’t look away for a second, fearing that she would manage to conceal another wound. Hopefully, she will break down and ask me for food, at which point I would lead her back home and make her a proper meal, standing over her whilst she eats. Even if I give her food and turn her loose, I can’t be assured that she won’t just dump it in the fields or leave it untouched. No, what I have to do is get her away from here. People are passing us on either sides, the crowds becoming less and less heavy. All of them are oblivious, and I wonder immediately how they could not see the broken girl in front of me. And then I remember what the people of my District do best; obey orders and keep to themselves. They are not nosy, they do not ask questions. They do not pry, they are not curious. I, however, defy all of the above. I can’t ignore this pain and deteriorating shell of a person before me. It is impossible. A smile snakes across her facial expression. This girl, I think disgustedly, is a sadist. The only problem is, the only person that is getting hurt is herself.

Hopefully, I can get home in time to help with dinner preparation, tend to the house, and complete my homework. Yet all thoughts of returning home vanish as I hear Khiyyi speak more false truths. “I’m fine. I’m fine,” I hear her say, and the words go right through me. Who does she think she is fooling? Or are these empty words directed at herself? Is she trying to convince herself that she is not in a dire state? How could she do such a thing? Questions keep arising, but I force them down with a hard swallow. “I’m perfectly fine.” No, she is not fine. This is the farthest from fine that I have seen in a long while. I want to lash out and catch her; she is falling, breaking…

“I’m fine,” Khiyyi repeats, just as the people begin to swarm again. Like flies, they move around us. I am indifferent. I look at Khiyyi and deem her utterly past a functioning point. I will her not to call her state ‘fine’ again, for fear that if this broken record plays her lying song too much, she will finally shatter. I come to a silent conclusion in my mind. It is inevitable; she will shatter regardless.