Laughing in the Face of Death {Dars}

{ F A N T A C H I M E }

Luck was something Fanta didn't fully understand, yet it seemed as though her whole life was built on top of it. Bad luck: that's what she'd been given for the last seventeen years. In fact, it's what her mother had passed on to her the moment she was born. First, autism. Then the community home. Then a friend who left Fanta in the dust when she was finally old enough to get out of there. And now, this dark cellar, dead friend's sister, and a new fight that could leave Fanta dead herself. All of it--plain bad luck. The only light in Fanta's life had been Madelyn and music. Still, both of those things had been stripped from Fanta's possession, leaving her with absolutely nothing but her cluttered mind.

She could have been so much more, had she been given better luck. There was so much talent at the tips of her fingers, so many unsaid words locked in her soul, inaccessible. All Fanta wanted was to get out of here and find her piano again; and then go to all of the little shops and little sit-down restaurants, and play their pianos too. Then, Madelyn. Find Madelyn. Yet, what if Madelyn never wanted to see her again? She had good reason, at least. Fanta had killed the girl's sister.

Fanta pushed her hair behind her ear hesitantly. A long time ago, she had been pretty; but now, her lucious locks of gold were dirt-caked and uncared for. Her clothing was tattered, just like all of the others'. Most of all, because of her lack of proper nutrition, she was underdeveloped for a seventeen-year old girl. She looked so much younger than her age, yet so much older at the same time.

One thing you need to know about the dirt-caked blond-haired girl who was locked in the second cell to the end on the left side of the room: reading facial expressions was not, in any way, her forte. "Um, me?" The boy in the cell next to her asked, after she called him Daniel. Fanta quickly tuned back in to the situation. Yes, of course him. Was there another Daniel here? Fanta didn't think so; she'd been here for long enough to know. She didn't respond, realizing it would concern too much unneeded effort--words she had no time to process.

"Who?" the boy asked, after Fanta let the word, "Die," slip from her mouth, regrettably. She had to pause for a few moments, in order to process his question. "Me," she said, suddenly looking down at the floor where her feet were. "Fanta," she added, a bit too late. Then, shifting her gaze to the other side of the room, she took a single finger and hesitantly pointed it at the boy, the one with the sister. "Pepper," she said. Of course this new boy wouldn't know he was, or who Fanta was for that matter.

"It's Max," the boy said, and Fanta managed to shift her gaze to a spot on the wall as she listened. She didn't like making eye contact with people; or rather, she couldn't. She didn't like to look at people's eyes and see their pain, because others' pain just made her own pain more painful. In that instant, it seemed to click. Max, not Daniel. Hm. Her memory flickered back to the Daniel from the community home, the one who had stopped her from running away the first time. She hadn't liked him.

Shrugging off her mistake, she kept talking, hoping that by doing so, Fanta would pass the time and forget about her imminent death--even if that was the subject of their conversation. Fanta felt the need to laugh--too many tears sat at the edge of her eyes, but her throat hurt and her stomach hurt and although she had all of the reason, she had no energy.

When the man with the keys had called out the names, Fanta hadn't heard Max's, which meant he would be alright for now. "Max safe," she said, struggling to piece the words together. Still, even Fanta knew that no one in here was safe; it was all just one neverending game. Fanta had seen them take many kids out of here, two at a time, and only come back with one. There were too many empty cells in the room: cells which used to hold living souls. It was only a matter of time before Fanta's was empty, just like the rest...and Max's.

"But die soon too."

{ F A N T A C H I M E }

How fragile, little Fanta had killed Mona the month after she arrived, still posed a question to the public. It still posed a question to herself. Mona had been there for a long time, longer than Fanta could imagine, winning fight after fight, and yet Fanta, overcome with eternal guilt as she lashed out at her friend's sister, had come out on top. It was irrational in every way possible. The worst part was when Fanta thought about how little she had deserved to win that fight. Mona had been locked up long enough to deserve out. Yet, everything happened for a reason, right?

Yes, and there was a reason. Fanta was a fighter. Despite the many troubles that disguised that quality, she was born to stand, not fall. Still, she was constantly falling, pushed right back to the ground every time she tried to pick herself up. It wasn't fair that such drive and determination could be blinded by a developmental disorder.

And now, she continued to fight. She faught that blurriness that filled her mind, mixing her thoughts, her desires, and her fears into a mess of confusion. It wasn't easy. Calmly talking to the boy in the cell beside her, letting those few words slip from her lips in attempt to create a flowing sentence, and keeping her mind's confused mess inside her brain rather than outside--it was all a challenge, but Fanta kept fighting.

She fought to stay sane every day, even though she knew it was an inevitable reality.I have problems, she thought. And at this point they're not getting any better. Madelyn had started the job, pulling Fanta out of her autistic habits by introducting her to music. Yet, Fanta's life was on a downhill slope now. There was no music, there was no Madelyn, and therefore, there was so little sanity left.

Fanta gripped the wires between her cell and Max's, her knuckles turning white. She'd already been here for quite a while, and still, she couldn't get used to this feeling of being trapped. She tried to contain her restlessness, closing her eyes in attempt to ignore the feeling. Something internally told her to keep it together. Fanta wasn't usually one for trying to impress people, but she had at least enough sense--very small, yes--to know that losing it would lead her conversation with Max down the drain. She liked talking to him; he asked her questions that she could answer, and so far he'd only shot her a few odd glances, not that Fanta could notice that sort of thing all too well.

"Has anybody ever gotten out of here?" Max asked, and Fanta immediately opened her eyes. Out? Out of here? Fanta wanted out of here more than anything. Mona should have gotten out of here. But she hadn't. No one had. No one would. Still gripping the wires, Fanta used as much power and as much power as she could to pull them away. Of course, they didn't budge. Heated by a burning desire to find home, Fanta kicked at the door to her cell, losing her own fight again insanity. She kicked and she kicked until nothing else mattered anymore. Then, she screamed. Anger, mixed with confusion, fear, and a touch of insanity, reverberated from her voice. It was as though you could feel the anger and touch the fear as they floated through the atmosphere.

Sweat lining her forehead, even though the basement was only about as warm as the 59th Hunger Games arena, Fanta slammed her weight against the door, her screams everlasting. She couldn't stop; she wouldn't stop; no matter how many stares she got, she would never ever stop--not until the man with the keys unlocked the door, and not until a peacekeeper heard her cries and came down to bring her home, and not until her thoughts finally made sense and her brain wasn't blurry and she could talk without running...out of...breath.

Home. She wanted to go home. She didn't know where that was, but it seemed like a nice place, nicer than this at least. According to the torn pages of the picture books back at the community home--which did not count as a home in any such way--it was a place where the coffee grinder was your morning alarm clock, where people sat around a single table and ate together, and where you had your own room and your own bed and every night someone turned the light off for you so you didn’t have to stumble through the darkness. It was the childhood that Fanta had never received, where people listened to you even if you weren’t speaking.

Fanta stopped kicking and thrashing, her energy drained. However, sinking to the floor, she continued to scream, even louder this time. Someone would hear her eventually. They would come and rescue her and they'd take her home, a piano already set up against the wall.

”Things’ll get better, Fanta,” Madelyn said, her arm around the young girl. Lie.

”I’ll get you out of this community home soon enough. They’ll have to let me.” Lie.

”You’re a good kid.” Biggest lie of all.

Fanta brought her knees to her chest, drumming her fingers against her leg. Her screams died down as the music flooded her mind, releasing some of the tension but also reasserting her thoughts. A tear trickled down her cheek and she laughed quietly for a few moments. She wandered back to Max’s question, but her throat was dry and she had no breath left to answer it. Although, she was pretty sure he already knew the answer. Desperate screams made it pretty obvious.

Calmed by the sound of music as it filled her head, Fanta took a few deep breaths before paying any more attention to Max. Then, still sitting, curled up on the ground like a child, she spoke, her words barely escaping her lips. “Home…like…?”

What is home like? Her throat was too dry and her brain too distorted to say anything more. Continuing to drum her fingers against the floor, she reached for her sanity, vowing to never go down without a fight.