Never gonna + l e a v e + your soul alone // Stare

Doing everything that I believe in
Going by the rules that I've been taught
More understanding of what's around me
And protected from the walls of love

The town square is alive and busy, as it always is at this time of day. People talk amongst themselves and starved peasants desperately bargain for food while the rich admire heavily frosted cakes and treats in windows. Some vendors on the street sell fabric dye, cotton, thread, and anything else a weaver could need - the very reason I so often visit this place. The smell of freshly baked bread drifts through the air, taunting as usual, but today I manage to ignore it, instead tightening my grip on the scarce amount of coins in my palm and hoping I brought enough for a new weaving board and maybe a small treat afterwards. The lights prance all over me, swirling around my arms and legs and bursting in beautiful displays of color before my eyes. I laugh and chase after one of them, a pale baby blue, as it darts away toward the thicker part of the crowd. The warm breeze whips at my long locks, and my bare toes sink into the dirt road.

Summer is by far my favorite time of the year. It is the one time that the Earth fully opens up and finally breathes, revealing a rainbow of bright colors and creatures. Sometimes, when I need inspiration for a weaving, I flee to the forest with the lights dancing in my wake and explore the natural world, laughing with the butterflies and climbing trees to new heights in vain attempts to feel the sensation of flight. It's during those moments that I actually feel beautiful, like I have nothing but bright hues running through my veins and into my heart. I know I'm a fairy princess all the time because my Mommy and Daddy told me so, but when I'm in those woods is when I feel the most like one.

I remember one time, when I thought no one was home, I pulled out one of my mother's old dresses. It was long and white with lace on the color and sleeves, and the skirt poofed outward elegantly. I had carefully slipped it on (it was slightly too big, but I was beyond caring) and pulled out one of my old plastic tiaras, and I put on make-up and brushed out my hair until it shone. When I went downstairs, I found Will waiting to take me into town. I had given him the key to the house ages ago, but I was still surprised to see him there. That was one of the few times that I had ever felt embarassment - my face heated up and I fled back up to my room and changed before he could say anything. When I came back down, though, he said that I had looked lovely.

And then we never spoke of it again.

I miss Will. It's an ache in my heart that is always there, through the glow of summer and the glee of life. The lights cannot soothe the loneliness I feel there - I send letters to him often, but they're always returned to me within a few days' time. Maybe, because he was a tribute and he's so famous now, I'm not allowed to talk to him. One time I asked the mailman why my letters never reached Will, and he responded that I was sending them to the wrong place. He said if I wanted to talk to Will, I should go to the graveyard. But that didn't make any sense - why on Earth would Will be at the graveyard? As far as I knew, he didn't have any dead relatives that he visited so often that I rarely saw him, and he certainly has never worked there. I dismissed the man's statement as a confused one and continued on my merry way, though sorrow at the thought of not being able to speak to my best friend still spread through me.

I am jerked out of my memories by a snicker, and suddenly there is a foot extended in front of my path. I give a little yelp of surprise as I fly forward, hands extended before me in an attempt to soften my fall. First my palms and then my elbows dig deep into the ground, and I feel the sharp pain of skin tearing before I hit the dirt path with a solid thud. There is fading laguhter and running footsteps, and when I turn around I cannot find the person who tripped me. No matter - it happens so often that I've gotten used to it, though I repeatedly tell people that I don't like to play rough like that. Smiling and brushing off some of the dust on my cuts, I look up to realize that I have fallen right in front of a very familiar face. My eyebrows draw together in confusion - I thought all tributes are kepts in the Capitol after their "deaths"? - before I remember hearing that Pandora Woodards had a twin.

I jump up quickly and grin up at him. "I'm am so sorry, Mr. Woodards. I keep trying to tell them that I don't like the tripping game, but for some reason they keep trying to play anyway!" I give a little laugh and then reach my elbow upward to assess the damage. Nothing too bad - a bleeding cut and I bruise, but I'll live. Looking back up at him, I shift onto my toes eagerly. The lights swoop around me and explore this new person before me, but he doesn't even seem to notice. That's alright - Will told me that only I can see the lights because I'm special. "How's your brother, by the way? You must be really proud of him - he made it so far! Have you sent him any letters at his new home yet?"

No point in talking 'bout what you should have been
And regretting the things that went on
Life's full of mistakes, destinies and fate
Remove the clouds, the sun was there all along

And I heard your voice, as clear as day
And you told me I should concentrate, it was all so strange
And so surreal that a ghost should be so practical
Only if for a night

I blink when he yells at me, watching the whicker basket fall to the ground. The fall strains parts of it and I hear them crackle and crunch in an attempt to keep it together, don't let yourself fall apart just yet. The food that had been kept safely inside now spills out over the ground, vegetable collecting dust on their smooth surfaces. I watch them tumble and jump before coming to a halt, and then look back up at Pandora's twin - Rubik, I believe it was - my eyes drawing together in slight confusion. The lights had flown away from him the instant he raised his voice, and they now tremble and swarn around me, keeping just beyond his reach. A few take their perch in my windswept locks while others hover over my shoulders. I watch as he stoops down rather abruptly and attempts to gather his things back up, color spreading across his face.

I float down gently to kneel across from him, my small hands reaching out to replace the food he has lost before my fingers brush the hair out of his eyes (people tell me of this concept called personal space, but I have never truly understood it), tilting my head to the side slightly when I see the intense look in his eyes. I glance to both sides but can see no brightly painted people with microphones and other assorted electronics, and I turn back to him, relieved. "Mr. Woodards, there are no cameras here. You don't have to pretend Pandora is dead anymore." Having finished cleaning up the mess he made, I rise back up again, brushing the dust off the ruffles of my off white skirt and smiling at him again. A few of the smaller lights tenatively float down to my fingers, clinging to them like diamond rings.

"You know, I had a friend who went into the Games," I say brightly, shifting my weight onto one foot and eagerly brushing my hair behind my ears. A few people shoot me odd looks before continuing on their way, but I hardly notice. Memories of Will watching me as I chased the lights around until I was so dizzy I could barely stand flood back, and I press my lips together fondly. "I write to him every day, but for some reason, the letters never seem to get to him. I guess his new life in the Capitol is busy, just like Pan's must be now." One light, sunflower yellow, buzzes annoyingly by my face, and I gently shoo it away. The lights loved Will - he was the only person besides myself who they would actually land on and touch, and I told him so often. It always saddened me to know that he, like the rest of the world, could not see them.

My thoughts slowly return to Rubik, and I can't help but think of how amazing the resemblence is between the twins. If I didn't know any better, I would think I was standing here by Pandora. I liked Pan - he was among my favorite tributes. I don't know what drew me to him. Perhaps it was the fact that he was from our district. Maybe it was because he kind of reminded me of Will, in a way. Either way, I cheered him on until the final moment, and when he "died" I almost cried, before remembering that none of it was real. His was by far the best, the way he jumped in front of that other girl in order to save her life, consequentially sacrificing himself. I still don't understand how they make it all look so real.

The lights still stay away from Rubik, ever cautious of him now. "You know, you really shouldn't yell like that," I say, brushing a scarlet one off my shoulder. "You scare them away, and they really did seem to like you before." Of course they did. The lights love everyone and anyone until they give them a reason not to. That's why I enoy they're company so much - they're always willing to be my friend, even when everyone else is far too busy. And of course, they stuck with me during the hard times after the Keepers refused to let me into an orphanage. It is they who deserve the credit for my incredible weavings, for they are the ones who keep a constant flow of joy running through me even when everyone else seems especially weary or sorrowful.

"My name's Senalia, by the way," I say, sticking out my hand and beaming. "Senalia Livery. I'm a weaver who lives down the dirt road on that hill over there."

In the grass was so green against my new clothes
And I did cartwheels in your honour, dancing on tiptoes
My own secret ceremonials before the service began
In the graveyard doing handstands

And every demon wants his pound of flesh
But I like to keep some things to myself
I like to keep my issues drawn
It's always darkest before the dawn

I frown at his retreating form, chewing anxiously at my bottom lip. While he didn't shout his last few words, the whispers were laced with an intensity and anger that made the lights draw away from him as if they had been struck. I murmur words of comfort to them, letting them balance on my fingertips and the backs of my hands delicately. Normally I would just let him leave - it's not the first time people who shouted at me and then left me watching in confusion as they stormed away, but there's something different about this one. He didn't seem to just be getting into the role of a boy with a deceased twin... he seemed to believe it. And so that is why, instead of turning around and going to buy that new weaving board, my feet scramble and then prance to catch up with him, the lights leaving a fairy trail of colors in my wake. "Rubik, wait!"

I catch his arm in both hands and jerk him around with surprising force. A few nearby Keepers become tense, eyes buring, and I press my lips together tightly. I've never cared for the officials - it was because of them that I didn't get into an orphanage when my parents died. They deemed me a "threat to the other children" and tossed me to the street where I could try my luck. Why they would believe me dangerous in any way, I have yet to discover. Still, at their suspicious glances, I release his arm but move myself so I stand directly in his path, my tiny frame preventing him from taking another step. A few others give us curious looks before moving on their way, but I hold my ground, never easily swayed once I have made up my mind about something.

"Will was my best friend," I say slowly, carefully. And he was. He didn't play the games that I don't like and he didn't trip me over and he almost always had time for me, except for when he was working in the factory. He didn't call me nicknames like freak or loser or crazy, either. Although I'm sure those other people have the best of intentions, the names are strange and confuse me. Will always got angry when people called me those, though I never understood why - they were just being friendly, after all. "He was nice and he told those funny boys not to trip me anymore. He was my friend because no one else seemed to have the time to be nice to me." My eyebrows draw together slightly. "If he was dead, Mr. Woodards, I assure you I would have known. But the Games are just that, Rubik - a game. People don't actually die in them."

I laugh at that, because I can't imagine a society that would actually kill children for pleasure. It makes an excellent drama to watch on the television, though, far better than those boring news programs talking about the uninhabited District 13 or the newest juicy Capitol story. I've always enjoyed the special effects - everything looks so incredibly real that I sometimes lose myself in the show and become a bit overemotional. The tributes always act so well. Will was incredible, for he had never seemed like the type to pretend well, in my opinion. But no government, not even the Capitol, would be so cruel as to send twenty four defenseless kids to fight to the death. That's just... just wrong, and it scares me to think that Rubik thinks that it's all real.

"Pandora isn't dead," I say brightly. "He's living in the Capitol with Will. I bet they live in the same place, because they're both from District Eight." I positively beam at this, for I can see the two of them becoming great friends. "You can try to write to him, but as I said, the letters don't tend to get to them." Still smiling, I look at the dust beneath my shoes, kicking up a small puff of a cloud. My eyes are sad, though, more distant. "I really miss Will, and I'm sure that you'll miss Rubik... but I'll be here for you, if you want me. I know what it's like to be alone - no one was there to comfort me when Will left, and that was rough."

And I am done with my graceless heart
So tonight I'm gonna cut it out and then restart
'Cause I like to keep my issues drawn
It's always darkest before the dawn

Growing in numbers
Growing in speed
Can't fight the future
Can't fight what I see

"Papa!" My breathless voice rings out through the darkness, echoing quietly. The ice laced wind snaps against my cheeks, raising a rosy color that spreads over my face. My boots are slightly too big, and so I struggle to move through the heavy blanket of snow the crunches beneath even my feather-light steps. Mama wrapped me up well tonight - I wear two layers of gloves beneath the mittens that Grandma knit for me (I still have those mittens. Bright pink and midnight blue, they are far too small for me now, but I still pull them out from the depths of my drawer for inspiration every now and then), a thick coat that's sleeves stretch out over my palms, and a snowy white hat that presses my hair tightly against my flattened ears. A few snowflakes, like delicate crystals, nestle themselves in the golden brown strands that are whipped around my head as I soldier on. I stumble forward a few more paces before finally giving up, leaning over my knees and panting. My hot breath whispers past my lips and into the air as tendrils of silver against the dark of night. "Papa, wait up!"

His strong form stops pauses to turn around, and the shining of his eyes is visible even through the haze of white being blown between us. His footprints leave a trail for me in the snow and I follow it to the best of my abilities, bowing into the wind and wrapping my arms around my sides. When I finally reach him, my chest is rising and falling rapidly, my bones sing a song of quiet exhaustion, and my feet absolutely ache. "I'm tired," I say pathetically, dropping my arms to my side and listening to the way the wind howls in my ears. He smiles down at me warmly and then kneels into the snow with his back turned toward me. My face lights up in delight and without hesitating I wrap my arms around his neck and my legs around my torso, burying my face in his shoulder in an effort to keep away the cold. We rise and continue onward, trudging through the cold for what feels like hours before he finally lets me back down. I blink in the darkness and see nothing but an expanse of white before me and then the black shapes of trees on the horizon.

"Where are we Papa?" I ask, slipping my arms out of my sleeves and into my jacket. He holds one finger to his lips in a sign that I should be quiet, and I press my lips together and look around expectantly. The snowfall has lightened considerably, though the sky is still a flawless sheet of onyx above our head, and I look back at my father in confusion. "Listen, Senalia," he says softly, closing his eyes and standing perfectly still. And so I do the same, stiff against the wind and as silent as death itself. Suddenly, next to me, I hear my father's voice transform from its normal warmth into the cold, animalistic sound of a hooting owl. He nudges me softly, and I do the same. We wait for only a few moments before our answer comes, a song consisting of only one note that cuts across the plain to reach us.

We talk with the owl for a long time before reluctantly returning home, half frozen on the outside but glowing with a secret warmth within.

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"So what if they are?" he demands, though his voice is far from harsh now. "Is that any better than them being dead?" I pause at this, shocked, the smile falling from my face as I stare at him for what feels like eternity and I remember my father's cold hand in my own, his face expressionless (lifeless) in a slumber from which he will never awaken. He was so full of warmth even in the darkest of times, but there, on that bed, he was cold. There was just nothing inside of him, not even a flicker of heat, and when I tried to look inside of him and find the hearth that had thawed me out so many times, I can only find a frosted over unbeating heart. "Yes," I say quietly, my voice as empty as he had been when I said goodbye for the last time. "It is always better than them being dead."

He's quiet for a moment before frowning at the way I brush aside a few of the lights. "Why do you keep doing that?" The smile returns to my face, slow and distant, and I gesture toward one of the glowing orbs that hands in the air between us. "The lights are afraid of you because you shout," I say simply, ["so they cling to me, and it can get annoying after a while." The light, a brilliant shade of emerald green, suddenly spirals upward and bursts like a firework above our head. My smile widens, and when I look back at him, my eyes are filled with laughter. "But they're quite beautiful. I hope that someday I'll be like them."

I remember the first day the lights appeared, cautious at first. I was leaning over my storybooks, reading aloud quietly, when I saw them hovering uncertainly a little ways away. It's the only time I have ever seen them be shy, and it was short lived. When I invited them into open arms they rushed toward me, a rainbow of colors that swirled around me and danced delicately over my skin. I tried to catch one, and it was then that I realized I could not touch them. The source of their light is nonexistant - they simply are radiance itself, as bright as the sun and as glittering as diamonds. I couldn't ask for better friends. They are there for me always, able to make me smile and laugh, for they are free spirits and love to prance and make mischief. I would feel so alone if I was without them.

Some people believe that you become a star after you die. I believe that you become a light, which is even better, for you are free to roam the world and yet still have the brilliance and pure beauty of the sky's natural gems. "I love them. They've been my best friends ever since Will left."

People they come together
People they fall apart
No one can stop us now
'Cause we are all made of stars