{Change} isn't Changing // Kire

{ E m e r y . A l l a d e - M o r e n o }

Things have changed for me, and that's okay
I feel the same, I'm on my way, and I say
Things have changed for me, and that's okay

What I've ultimately come to realize throughout the last few weeks, or even the last few years, is that coping with loneliness has only makes me more lonely. They all say that change is a growth of some sort, a realization. But I disagree. Change is still the same thing it's always been: a new home, new parents, a new life. Change isn't supposed to lead to a new Emery; no, it's supposed to be an alteration in the natural order of events. I suppose when your whole life is just turning and changing and twisting itself into this deformed mess of memories, hopes, and dreams, it's hard to be the same person.

I've always been a stubborn person, since the first day I can remember. Ask anyone; they'll tell you I never left an argument without getting the last word in, I never let go of a grudge without receiving my revenge, and I never, absolutely never, gave in to the temptations of change. If you look at it from one perspective, you could say I am afraid of what change will do to me, and that wouldn't be entirely wrong. On the other hand, I like to consider myself stronger than change. It must be some sort of pride thing, rising above everything that's happening around me and staying true to myself. Yet, whether it's a fear or a strength still remains a question to the public. Because I like to keep things simple, I consider it a strength. You don't always have to be strong to feel strong. Rather, those who feel strong are the ones who truly triumph.

Still sitting on the ground in the middle of the rain, I look back up at the boy in front of me and think of how nice it would be to just lie down here and let the rain falling on my face become my reality. How would it feel to just be one of those people who can let loose and do whatever they want? It would. But that's not me. The only time I let loose is when I'm in a fight, when I'm angry. Suppressing the frown upon my face, I suddenly regret my giggling behavior. That's not Emery Allade-Moreno. Emery Allade-Moreno isn't supposed to be sitting on the ground, waiting for this boy to help her up.

Quickly, I snatch the book from his hands, I take a glance back through the bookshop window, hoping the shopkeeper hadn't seen what just happened. I look at the boy's other hand, held out for my assistance. Wanting to maintain my strength and independence, I stand up on my own, tightening my grip on my book. I don't need help, nor do I want it. I'm not supposed to be some frail little girl, flirting with every older guy she meets on the streets. I'm supposed to be a Career. The name sounds so honorable in my head. Satisfying. That's what I am now.

My realist views, my indifferent behavior, and my cries for consistency in character often keep me from understand happiness in times like these. While I'm often rash when it comes to my anger, my rash behavior only extends so far. Having stood up, I flip open the book in my hands. The pages are soaked, melting away. Even some of the ink has been smeared.

Everybody has their ridiculous connections, ridiculous feelings of attachment, and right now, this history book is mine. History and I have too much in common. Always changing but never really changing at all, put on such a high pedestal yet always ignored; yet now, the book was pretty much ruined. Of course, history was still the same, but one little piece of it has just been miscommunicated, ignored, with the results of these ruined words. One less person out there understood the texts in this book, and right now, that person is me. Is this my fate? To fade away, to watch as the world around me, all the people who think they know who I am, fail to understand the human under my dead brown eyes?

Realizing I've taken my sentimental energy a bit too far, I bite my lip and slip the book back into my bag, repositioning it on my right shoulder. "Sorry about that, I wasn't looking where I was going," the boy says. "You alright?" I try to keep my gaze off of his face, attempting to stop the thoughts that have made me so susceptible. It's okay to be polite, but it's not okay to be open. Being open leads to manipulation which leads to pain which leads to anger which leads to change which leads to everything all over again. It's not that I'm afraid of trust; I never trusted my brother and he still hurt me. Rather, I'm afraid of weakness. It was my own weakness, my own ignorance, that allowed my brother to turn me into the monster I am today. And yet, I'm too afraid that if I prove myself to be anyone but that monster, I'll be weak again.

Sometimes, I remember the whispers, the beliefs, and the suspicions that I was a mentally disturbed child. Even more often, I start to wonder if the suspicions were true. So much confusion fills my head--thoughts I can't sort out. It always seems easier to forget about it and just be the monster that my brother made everyone think I was. Even though he's gone now.

But easy isn't always right.

Remaining subtly polite but not precisely open, I respond to the boy's lopsided smile with one of my own. His smile seems friendly but almost clueless or even awkward; in a nice way, I suppose."Yeah I'm alright," I say, looking down at my soaked clothing. "I would've gotten just as wet anyways." I look up at the rain, still pouring. I let my smile grow a few centimeters larger as I look back at the boy. Time to go now, I think. Time to stop letting your hopes get the best of you.

I know it would be best to walk away now. When life changes on you so often, there's not much you can do but remain true to yourself and keep your trust arms length away. I want to talk to this boy, but there's still that hopelessness that nags at me and pulls me apart from the things that I want.

My smile fades a bit and I look down at the ground shyly, letting my soaking hair weigh me down. It always strikes me at how reserved I can be in the ordinary public, whereas so confident in a fight. I let my eyes wander a bit, searching for a place to stop and dry off. The bookstore is right next to us, but I don't want to reenter that place for obvious reasons. When I look to the other side of the street, I see the training gym, situated as always. Every time I see the training gym, I get curious. Because of my past families' financial positions, I never had weapons or a private trainer that I could call my own. Not like the people who went all out with it. I look back up at the boy, caught by his eyes, suddenly wondering whether he is a Career. He looks like one: definitely seems to have the build.

"We should probably get out of this rain," I say loudly and finally, trying so hard to speak over the drumming sound of despair falling from the sky.

ooc--sorry, so much ramblerambleramble! D:

{ E m e r y . A l l a d e - M o r e n o }

Things have changed for me, and that's okay
I feel the same, I'm on my way, and I say
Things have changed for me, and that's okay

The rain that had felt almost comforting a few minutes ago now feels like it's sinking into my skin. Even on a hot summer's day, I'm shivering from the cold. Wrapping my arms around my soaked body, I wait for the boy's response. I watch as a thin beam of lightning brightens the sky, followed by a crash of thunder. "I know a place, follow me," he says. I hesitate a few moments before following him, for reasons I don't really know why, and watch as he makes his way towards the training gym. Arms still folded in front of my chest, I run after him, trying to get out of the rain as soon as possible.

"We can dry off in here," he says, nearing the door. I nod, shivering too much to think about words. Trying to suppress the goosebumps that line my arms, I hold myself tighter, keeping my head down to shield my body from the rain as the boy opens the door.

"After you, your wetness." His words are joking as he gestures chivalrously for me to enter. When I look up at his face, he's smiling in a way that you'd have to be the most heartless unemotional alien not to smile back. Caught in his glowing green eyes, I almost forget to step out of the rain and into the gym. Blushing quietly, I walk through the door. I don't say anything; I don't want to. I guess that's what you get for being an introvert.

I like how this boy has this beautifully simple sense of humor, yet doesn't need to flaunt it all over the place. Even more so, I like how he doesn't try to put miles and miles of effort into the words that come from his mouth, but they still make me smile.

However, I immediately feel ridiculous. I don't want to be one of those weak little girls who always need a guy to lean on. The giggles and the smiles and all those cute little things--I don't need them. Being treated like a girl only makes me further question my independence.

As we enter the gym, I keep my arms folded, trying to stop the shivers that run along my spine. Heck, I feel like I just came out of a swimming pool. When I'm finally comfortable enough to drop my arms, and when the shivering is finally minimized, I take a few more steps into the gym, looking around. I'd been in here a few times, but never had I actually picked up a weapon and trained. The people who ran this gym obviously had a membership fee that covered the cost of using the weapons and the targets and all that. Even though it wasn't too expensive, both my birth mother and my foster mother had obviously not been in the position to pay for that kind of thing. The Morenos...now, that's a different story.

I suddenly start to wonder about this boy's parents. I've already come to the conclusion that he's a Career, but are his parents as psycho as my own adoptive parents? Questions fill my head: how long has he been training? Is he any good? Does he want to be in the games or do his parents want him to be in the games?

Taking a few more steps, I walk along the side of the gym, looking at the various combinations of weapons. Many of them I'd never seen before in my life. In fact, the only place I'd actually picked up a weapon was at home, where we were personally supplied with them. My mind wanders to the knife underneath my mattress. It seems that most others in my household knows how to use such weapons, whereas I've never been fortunate enough to learn. I've always relied on pure strength to get me through fights, but when you're up against a sword, a fist really isn't going to get you anywhere.

I let my hand glide along a metallic sword, its surface shining against the lights from the ceiling. The weapons amaze me, yet scare me at the same time, for reasons I cannot truly put my finger on. Fighting doesn't scare me; in fact, it's an outlet for my anger. However, the effects of fighting scare me sometimes. More than sometimes. I fear that one day I'll totally lose it, let it all out, and end up hurting someone I'd never meant to lay a finger on. That's usually how it goes.

When I think back, I can remember various occurences where I did that exact thing. Sitting on my bed in my foster home, some foster kid teases me about how they heard I got a week's work of detentions for stealing, and suddenly he's crying on the ground with a huge bruise on the side of his head. Reading on the bench next to the playground during recess, some kid starts bullying the boy who gave me directions to my first class, and suddenly the bully's got a broken nose.

I'm not proud of the damage I've done; in fact, I regret taking it so far. At the same time, though, I don't regret trying to even things out. When things are unfair, I don't even hesitate before trying to fix them. Maybe I shouldn't regret the things I've done; I mean, the pain I've inflicted and the damage I've caused are the reasons I'm now living in the Moreno home, one of the richest in the district. Should I be proud?

I take my hand off the sword, feeling unworthy of even touching it. I'm not a true Career; I can't shoot arrows and throw spears. Sure, I'm pretty good at hand-to-hand combat, but normally, that's just not good enough. My brother taught me how to fight and I can at least give him that. His threats to go beat this person up or go beat that person up or rob this store or that store only further built up my strength; but because I'm a girl, I obviously have a physical disadvantage.

I turn around, watching the others that crowd the gym as they picks, wielding their weapons so comfortably. I watch one young man sever a dummy's head and my eyes go wide. What chance would I ever have against all of these kids who have been training for the games since the day they were born? None.

My gaze wanders as I search for the one boy I know, and I spot him close by. Comforted by his familiar prescence, I walk the few steps over to where he's standing, realizing just how depedent I'm being now. What can I say? This is a pretty new world to me.

"Do you like it?" I say to the boy as I stare at the open target practice before us. I don't really know what my words mean, and I'm not sure he will either. Bows and arrows and spears and shiny knives and dummies and targets--gosh, I'm getting sidetracked. "I mean, the training and the games and, you know...everything." I still don't know whether I'm intrigued or disturbed by this mastery of weapons. Is this the reality I want? Or is this the reality I'm accepting?

One thing I do know, is that for a moment, I feel happy. With the huge criminal record I used to have at school and at home, I didn't usually get on people's good sides in the past. Maybe a few here and there--the ones I "helped" when someone stole their lunch money or bullied them on the playground; but it feels good to know that this boy is seeing me without bias. The curiosity I feel towards getting to know this boy, even just his name even, is something special in itself. It's been a long time since I've actually cared about understanding others. Of course, however, I'm still careful. I'm always careful. Curiosity and caution can still be friends.

"Show me something," I say, motioning towards the weapons. Again, curiosity. I want to see just how good he is. My words come out bluntly and a lot sharper than I expect, almost like I'm proposing a challenge, although if I were, that would be a purely ridiculous move on my part. I'm just here to watch.

{ E m e r y . A l l a d e - M o r e n o }

Things have changed for me, and that's okay
I feel the same, I'm on my way, and I say
Things have changed for me, and that's okay

"Yes, I like training. It takes my mind off of things, gives me a form of escape. I hate the Games though." I can understand that. My fighting is always an outlet for my anger, never really an "escape," but the two ideas are pretty similar. When the boy says he hates the games, I have to give it to him. Most people who do like the games are the arrogant ones who think they can win. Those are the people that I usually despise--the ones who think they're so much better than everyone else, who go out and do stupid things just because they have the money to fix their mistakes. I'm happy to know that this boy isn't one of them. He seems humble but probably ferocious at the same time, and my mind still stuck on the games, I think about how difficult it would be for anyone to kill such a person.

He paused, letting his voice drop in volume. "I've hated them ever since they took my brother from me." His response leaves me silent. I know this is probably the worst place to talk about the games, especially if you take into account the many security cameras, so I leave the subject alone. I shouldn't have even asked the questions. I look down, not in shame, but more in respect. I've never really had someone I'd cared for any even half as much as I care for myself and my own beliefs; as ignorant as that idea seems, it's true. When I try to understand deaths of loved ones, the world suddenly seems surreal. I don't love anyone, which only makes it more difficult to empathize.

In fact, I probably would have been a lot happier had my brother died. Had he somehow been reaped for the games. Had I killed him--although killing him would've gotten me locked up longer than I could handle, which is the only reason I held myself back from that sick monster.

"I'm sorry," I say softly, realizing that's usually how people respond when someone tells them about how their dad died or how they're super depressed or how they didn't get reaped in the games. Yet, I don't think he hears it. Because of the security cameras, my lacking ability to empathize, and my own reserved nature, I don't say it again. I let my mind digest the thought of a brothers' death, a brother that isn't mine, a brother that probably loves you and cares about you and doesn't torture you with threats every time he finds a chance.

When I finally visualize such a brother, I'm met with this boy's face. He seems like the kind of person you'd want for a brother, and suddenly the thought of him being killed off in the games sickens me. And it's then that I wished I'd said more on the subject.

"Perhaps we should dry off first, and change," the boy says, after I ask him to show me something. I can see him smiling, and I roll my eyes jokingly. I could live in wet clothes and feel fine, but the boy seems to be acting polite, and I don't want to reject it. He starts walking across the gym until we reach a short hall that leads to the locker rooms. It is amazing how huge this place is; amazing that I've never actually experienced this kind of a life before; amazing how some people live in foster care or with a single mother who has to resort to daily crime just to make sure there's food on the dinner table.

"Wait here," the boy says as he enters the mens' changing room. The moment he's gone, I lean against the wall, using the support to keep me on my feet. If this is what all of those weak little girls who always talk about their unending love life had felt, I suddenly regret rolling my eyes at them when they weren't looking or scowling at their shallow behavior. It feels good to talk to someone after years of keeping to myself, even if it is just a boy who knocked me over in the street.

His bright eyes, his dark hair, and the words that flow so surely from his lips have caught me in this web I don't want to get myself stuck in. I don't want friends: especially not older, stronger ones. I don't want to have to be careful of where I step, like those girls who get their hearts broken and cry for two weeks before they're back to normal again.

I bite my lip, trying to suppress not only the smile that's crossed my face, but also the butterflies in my stomach. I'm supposed to be strong enough to wipe these feelings of happiness away, but somehow, I can't.

Being happy feels good.

The moment the boy comes out of the locker room, I quickly release myself from the wall, trying to erase the expression from my face. He holds the clothes out to me. "They'll be a bit big, but at least they'll be dry."

I look up at his face as I take the clothes from his hands. His lopsided smile is contagious, for I immediately bite my lip, trying to stop the millions of smiles that suddenly want to be released. "A belt might help, though you might just be able to wear the shirt as a dress," he says with humor.

I roll my eyes jokingly. "You're still shorter than most guys.

I enter the girls' locker room a bit hesitantly. I hear the voices of a few other Career girls, and quickly find an aisle which is not being used. I've always been a modest person when it comes to changing in public spaces. Pulling off my wet shirt, I put the towel to my hair, letting it soak up the wetness. Then, I take the shirt that the boy had given me, and slip it over my torso. He's right; it is pretty big on me, but still not big enough, reaching nearly mid-thigh. Some girls probably could wear that as a dress, but no, definitely not me. Too modest. Besides, it looks ridiculous.

I slip my sopping shorts off and after drying my legs with the towel, I put on the boy's shorts. They're one of those athletic shorts with a stretchy waistband that you obviously wouldn't use for anything other than training and running. Even then, the shorts are huge on me. I fold the waistband over a few times in order to make it tighter. When it finally fits, the waistband is folded over so many times that the shirt is miles longer than the shorts.

Taking my wet clothes over to the sink on the other side of the locker room, I wring them out before throwing them into the closest open locker. Honestly, I don't really care much about them. Because I'm now part of the Moreno family, I have so many more clothes than I even need. It's an odd reality, actually. I wring my hair out once more with the towel before disposing it in the bin of towels. When I step outside the girls' locker room, I see the boy standing there.

"You were right," I say. "I probably could've worn this as--what's that?" My eyes catch sight of the boy's arm, and I take a few quick steps towards him before pulling up his shirt sleeve to examine it. It isn't that big, probably not much longer than an couple of inches, but it seems deep. The wound is already dried up and probably old news, but still, I'm curious. "Fighting?" I guess, as I take my hand off of his arm, feeling like I'd just intruded on something.

That's the one thing I don't understand about Careers. You go through all of this training, which includes fighting others and nearly getting yourself killed. What's the point of it? Getting yourself killed before you even get reaped for the games? I mean, I'm sure that's happened before.

When I fight, it's usually because I'm angry and I have a justified reason. And then I let it all loose. These Careers who just train all of the time inflict pain on each other for no reason. What's the point, really? I know I'm supposed to be a Career myself, but I still don't understand. Why do things when they have no purpose?

Maybe I'm mistaken. Maybe this boy got into a fight with someone because he got angry. That, I would understand. I think of the Moreno home, where you have to leave your door locked at night just to make sure one of your siblings you in your sleep. I'm still getting used to it, for it's difficult for me to take the offensive position unless I have a good enough reason.

However, I decide to leave the subject of Careers wasting their fights alone. I'm still not sure where the boy got his wound, so it would be useless arguing something that I've only assumed.

"You should show me something now," I say, nodding back towards the gym with curiosity. "And also, I never caught your name. I'm Emery. Emery Moreno." I leave the "Allade" out, considering I'm not particularly proud of my past. I still haven't decided whether I'm proud of the present or not because my confusion when it comes to Career life. So I just leave my adoptive last name in there anyways.

Weirdly enough, I find this boy intruiging and the last thing I want to do is say goodbye to him at the end of the day and never see his face again. I want to know his name. In fact, I like his presence; it makes me feel like I have a friend. I wish I could be half as interesting as this boy. Everything he does just makes me feel more boring: his light sense of humor, his polite yet mysterious air, just everything.

It makes me seem about as interesting as a rock.

{ E m e r y . A l l a d e - M o r e n o }

Stop there and let me correct it
I wanna live a life from a new perspective
You come along because I love your face
And I'll admire your expensive taste

"Life isn't fair." Whoever came up with that statement was the most annoying pessimist that could have ever ruined my life. Why hadn't he said, "Life should be fair," or "Life is going to be fair," or "We're the only ones who don't make life fair." If I could, I would track down that beast and rip him to pieces. Harsh, but true. Though, he's long dead, anyways.

I know it's ridiculous and probably a bit obsessive, but that statement has nagged at my insides for years. Fairness fills me, inside and out, and I'll use every ounce of my effort to make that known. My brother thought he could use the world to his own advantage, like he had the upper hand. He thought that he could lighten his burden by piling it on my shoulders; and now, the only thing I can think of is how unjustified he was, how much I want to get back at him for what he did, and how different my life could have been without him.

I've been told I'd make a good peacekeeper, working with the law. Actually, no. No one ever told me that; but sometimes it seems comforting to pretend like I have supporters out there, pretend like someone actually thinks I could be good at something. Being peacekeeper, I could keep playing the monster and no one would ever lock me up for it. I could make things fair and keep the consequences at an extreme. Yet, what scares me is the idea that I'd take it too far, like the boy I nearly killed. I try to convince myself that he deserved it. Actually, I try to convince myself of a lot of things.

But nothing in my head is very convincing.

So I usually leave my mind off of that subject.

"Yeah, I had a sword fight against a Career girl. Normally I don't get as bad of an injury as this, but I was having a bit of a tough time," the boy says.

Still, it seems unjustified to stage constant fights just to train for the games. Pointless, really. There's such a small chance that you'll actually be reaped. Plus, the only prizes you get from the games are money, fame, and bad memories. I get the fame part, but don't all those rich parents who sign their kids up for training have all the money they need?

I shrug the idea off. I'm supposed to be a Career now, so it would be best to start acting like one. Maybe it's my fate--my adoptive parents had to have seen something in me that screamed, "Career," "victor," "strong," "major potential," or something of the sort. Yeah; I know what they saw. They saw me beating up some older kid, breaking his nose, appearing to be some relentless monster.

That's who my adoptive parents want me to be, so maybe that's who I should be more often. I know I should. It's about time to stop pretending like there's anything normal about me--even my mother deemed me odd when she decided to give me such a ridiculous name.

When I tell the boy my name, his eyes light up in question. "Moreno? As in the Career family?" Family? We're about as much of a family as the Hunger Games tributes are. I want to say it, but I don't, realizing the last thing I need to do is downgrade our reputation and ruin my position in the household.

But of course. Who doesn't know about my "family?" I can tell he's surprised: probably didn't expect a Career out of the girl who didn't even know her way around this building. Obviously.

"Yeah," I say, shrugging slightly to myself. I don't want to say anything personal, so I remain vague with my words. "I'm actually really new to it all, still learning." It's true, at least. Honestly, I don't really know much about the rest of my "siblings." I leave out the part about the community home and the foster parents and my messed-up mother and my monstrous, life-scarring, still haunting brother. I don't really want this boy to know me as anything more than Emery Allade-Moreno--I mean, Emery Moreno. Keep the Allade life out.

Yet, I still don't really feel like I fit in with the rest of the Morenos. My reasoning behind my violence and cold-blooded harmful behavior doesn't stem from fame and attention. It stems from justice.

"I'm Rolex, Rolex Ghram." I'm so caught in my thoughts that I almost don't catch his name. Almost.

Rolex. It's nice. Nice enough; not that I think much about names. They're pointless, really: just a label.

"C'mon, I'll show you some sword fighting," Rolex says. I smile, ready to see what he can do. Rushing after him, I wait as he pulls out his sword, holding it up proudly. "This is my sword." I look at it; it isn't as new or as shiny as the sword that I had been looking at before, but it is still a sight in itself.

I'm suddenly eager to understand this life, to be able to pick up a sword and use it. When I think back to my past and all the damage I've done, what would have happened if I'd had a sword? The results would have been worse: much worse. Although the idea seems daunting, somehow, the idea of having a weapon by my side seems comforting.

"I got it as a gift from my trainer, apparently I was good enough to deserve it. I can show you a couple moves if you'd like." I like his confidence; while he isn't flaunting his abilities and there's nothing obnoxious about his tone, he isn't backing away from my offer either. So, I nod, excited to watch.

I look at the dummy several meters behind him, wondering if he's going to use it. Again, my eyes wander and catch sight of the others in the gym, wielding swords with such ease. I wonder if he's as good as them; I wonder if he's better than them.

Eagerness and curiosity fill my insides and my mind immediately jumps forward. I want to be better than all of them. I want to be able to hold a sword out in front of me with confidence, and tell someone, "Yes, I am a Career." Just because I'm a Career doesn't mean I'm changing. I'm still the same person, with the same views and the same heart. But that doesn't mean I can't be eager to learn new skills, right?

What I realize is that my redundant pleas to see some of Rolex's skills are a result of my own eagerness to learn and fit in with my new life. I want to know everything about Rolex. Every last piece of his life seems to take part in my curiosity, yet I don't want him to know anything. I want to take the ashes of my past and scatter them across the ground, until they're gone and erased. I was a stupid girl back then.

"Where's the dancing?" I joke, wishing I could have Rolex's easy humor, as I wait to see what he's got to show me.

Folding my arms in front of me, I flash a half-smile at Rolex, as though challenging him to show me his best. Not that I could do any better.

{ E m e r y . A l l a d e - M o r e n o }

Stop there and let me correct it
I wanna live a life from a new perspective
You come along because I love your face
And I'll admire your expensive taste

For a moment, Rolex seems to be analyzing my behavior. I can see the wheels turning in his head, and suddenly hope that he can't see mine. I immediately have the urge to shut him out, to grab all of my feelings and my vulnerability and lock them somewhere where no one will be able to reach them.

He flashes a devious smile in my direction. "This must be a record, thirty minutes since I met you and you're already wearing my shirt," and then he winks. What is that wink supposed to mean? For a few seconds, my mind is flickering over the possibilities of what it could signify. "You can keep it, if you want, it'll be more comfortable than putting your wet clothes back on."

I think about that. Keeping his shirt? For a moment, I feel bad; Rolex is giving me so much of him and yet, I've given him nothing more than my last name. If I keep the shirt, I have to see him again. I can't take a piece of him and then disappear.

The shirt has its own scent, and unless I bury it at the very bottom of my closet, I'm not sure I will ever be able to escape it. It smells like him, a lingering reminder of today's events. Yet, I'm still unsure about whether I want to talk to this boy after today. It would be a betrayal to my own character; I'm not supposed to be one of those girls who fall for everything and everyone.

Something inside me tells me I want to normal; I want to be able to have friends and comfortably talk to them without being the weird girl who's always angry at something. People often have the misconception that because I'm introverted, I'm always reserved, always selfish, always kept to myself. That's not true. Often, I just need to be alone. At the same time, I don't want anyone to know anything about me; I want to be able to curl up in my little shell when I want to, without anyone there to irritate me.

Before I can think another thought, Rolex takes a swing with his sword and the dummy's arm is on the ground. A few more slashes and swings and the dummy is an absolute wreck. I watch as he severs the head, eyebrows raised. The others in the gym suddenly seem like complete amateurs in comparison to what Emery just saw from Rolex. Finally, he turns to me, signaling that he's finished.

"Not very dance-like, but what do you think?" He asks, his eyes exploding with curiosity.

"Impressive," I answer, nodding my head, my arms still folded. "Sure wouldn't want you as a District partner," I say, a joking smile upon my face. At the same time, he's not the kind of Career you'd see winning the games. He's too humble, polite, and chivalrous. The Careers you see winning the games: they have no limits. Still, I have absolutely no room to be critical of Rolex or anything that he just did. He's obviously been training for years; but if he doesn't even want to be in the games, what's the point? All that training eventually for nothing?

Most likely he's only got another one or two years left. He can't be anything younger than seventeen. The fact that a seventeen-year old Career is actually having conversation with me, actually giving his shirt to me, and actually showing me who he is and what he can do, suddenly strikes me as absurd. Does he think I'm any older than fourteen? Is he just trying to be polite, even though he truly wishes I would just leave?

I can see how he'd think I'm older; I'm taller than most fourteen-year old girls and my facial expression doesn't show much youth. I also understand the idea of wanting me to leave. I've met a lot of people in the past who, having heard about my "psychological issues" and my unending criminal activity, thought that if they were polite, they might not be a target of my anger. Their ignorance really got irritating.

Of course, that isn't as much of an issue now. My brother's gone, and therefore my criminal activity has lessened. Many people have, luckily, forgotten about some of the things I've done throughout my past. Still, maybe Rolex is only being nice to me because I'm a Moreno. A lot of people are scared of the Moreno family, which would probably explain why.

I feel Rolex's eyes on me and I stare back at him, before letting my gaze wander. I don't want him to look into me. I don't want him to know me. Yet, it's unfair to say that I want to know everything about him. Still, I can tell he cares. He probably wants to get to know me just as much as I want to get to know him, which is the scariest thing of all. Why does he care? I want him to stop caring...but at the same time, I don't. He's the only person in a long while that actually has.

I look back up into his eyes, taking the slightest step back. "Why did you give your shirt to me?" I ask, and the whole atmospheric mood seems to change in that instant. "Why did you help me off the sidewalk? Why did you bring me and here and show me some of your moves and still tell me about how you lost your brother?" I pause, to look straight at him. "And why are you looking at me now like you care, like you actually want to see me again?" I'm out of breath by now, but I know that even me, quiet but passionate little Emery, could go on for hours, asking him questions about why he did this or that. He's already done so much for me; and yet, I've done nothing.

"You don't even know me," I whisper as I stare at the floor, as though warning him. He hasn't seen what I've done. He hasn't figured out my thoughts or my past or anything else. I haven't said a thing of substance about me or my life and yet he's given me more than I can ever give to anyone.

The distance between us suddenly seems like miles, and my slight movement backwards doesn't do much help to lessen that feeling.

{ E m e r y . A l l a d e - M o r e n o }

Turn me back into the pet that I was when we met.
I was happier then with no mind-set.

“Awe, c’mon, I wouldn’t attack you. Unless we got to the finale. Then, you’d have to die,” he says, so elegantly joking. I suddenly regret bringing it up in the first place. The Hunger Games doesn’t always seem like the right thing to joke about—right now, the idea of death is just a bit too overwhelming for my mind to comprehend.

The room feels colder as I shift my gaze to the side. I can feel Rolex’s eyes on me and I immediately feel self-conscious. It doesn’t make sense; I’ve gone so long wishing someone would finally notice me, finally set their eyes upon me and see something more than just some ruthless little monster of a girl, and he is. Even without seeing his eyes, I know that he is looking upon me with pure interest.

Yet, I don’t want him to be interested. I never thought that having someone stare right me, not out of anger, but out of curiosity, could be so daunting. After the questions flow from my mouth, he answers. Rolex answers every one of them.

He takes a step forwards and my eyes shift to his feet, as though daring him to do it again. “Emery, look at me,” he says calmly, “I gave you my shirt because I didn’t want you to get sick. It’s cold in here, especially with wet clothing. I helped you off the sidewalk because I had knocked you down, and it was only right to help you up.”

His words become an analytical puzzle that I’m trying to sort out in my head. Does he care or does he not? Do I want him to or do I not want him to? “I brought you here because we had to get out of the rain, and I was on my way here in the first place. You had asked me to show you something, and I did.” He pauses and I suddenly feel stupid for asking all of these questions in the first place. They are stupid and pointless, really. I already know the answers. At this point, they’re getting redundant.

“I don’t know why I told you about my brother, I just kinda ended up saying it.” Now this surprises me. He’s that comfortable with talking about it? Is that why he jokes about the games and trains day and night? His brother means nothing to him? I don’t necessarily blame him; my brother means less than nothing to me.

Yet, it makes me uncomfortable to think about the fact that his brother’s death just...slipped out. Does he tell every girl about it? Does he pick them all up off the street, let them wander into the training center with him and borrow his clothing, just so he can show off his skills, ultimately pulling them into his radiant eyes and his joking smile? And then what? What does he do next? Goes and finds some other girl and lets it start all over again?

“I guess it’s because I do care.” At this point, I’ve developed so many wild and crazy ideas inside my head that it’s difficult to think that anything else could be anywhere near realistic. Honestly, I want to think that what he’s saying is truth. I want to look in his eyes and feel butterflies in my stomach in response to someone who cares.

Should I be more afraid of him caring or more afraid of him not?

“And you’re wrong, I do know you.” His words create the spark. He doesn’t know me and I don’t want him to. I like him so much that I want to believe he cares, and that I’m not just the next girl on the street. I like him so much that I don’t want him to know anything about me, whether it be past or future. “I know you stole that book, but that it wasn’t just for the sake of stealing.” It was, though. It was instinctive. I’d have had more than enough money to purchase it, yet I chose to commit a crime instead. This time, Rolex is the wrong one. “I know that you are a deep thinker, even if I don’t know what you think about.” I can sure tell he’s trying to guess.

“I know you’d much rather take care of yourself than have someone do it for you. I know that you are stubborn when you want to be.” He’s right; very right. “I know that you have a sense of humor, but you like to keep it hidden.” Humor? I fold my arms across my chest again. I’ve always been the serious girl, never humorous. Does Rolex really see something else? “I know that you are quiet, but speak up when you want to be heard.”

He is reading me. In fact, the accuracy of some of his points is creating a nervous tension inside of me that I don’t think I will ever be able to explain, not that I want to do so. Still, he doesn’t know everything. But when will he? When will he figure out I’m a criminal—a psychologically ill young female who can’t seem to give a damn about anything anymore, who just lets her instinctive anger get the best of her when she gets stressed?

He’ll figure it out soon, and then he’ll find a better girl: one who actually knows who she is and where she’s going, one who can be one person and not another without pretending to be someone else.

I feel as though my life has been twisted, like reality and theatre mixed into a single combination, where it’s difficult to distinguish whether the words that slip from your lips are your own, a figment of your imagination, a character’s, or words of someone you’re not supposed to be.

I like Rolex and I want to like him more; but he’s too good for me, too nice, and too caring. Merely thinking about the fact that someone just might care for me is a scary reality, because at some point, they all stop, the same way that you stop caring for Barbies and Legos. But for what seems like forever, I’ve been one of those people who can’t stop caring, whether it is out of anger or nostalgia. I can’t let go.

“And I know that I want to know more.” He is too close to me with only about a foot or two of space between us. There’s no angry fire eating me away, but there’s anger all the same. I’m angry because people won’t leave me alone; they have to dig into my past and try to figure me out. Rolex won’t just let me be.

Anger gets the best of me; he just doesn’t understand. I click the “off” switch in my brain, and for a moment, I turn back to instinct, letting the confusing thoughts wash away. I’m angry.

Before I can even think about the slight blush that’s crossed Rolex’s face, my hands are on his chest and I’ve pushed him back. My own restraints stop me from doing any more damage. The push itself has more of a warning touch rather than a hurtful touch and I immediately take a step back.

“You can’t,” I say, my eyes steady and hard, a mixed glare of anger and fear. “Stop analyzing me. Stop trying to understand me.” You’ll just upset yourself.

My gaze falls back to the ground and a feeling of shame washes over me. I just showed him more about me than words ever could. Violent over the slightest of things. I flick the switch back on my brain: the one that supposedly focuses back on my thoughts, rather than instinct. Why? Why am I doing this?

Aaron. My brother. He knew everything about me, from my early past to my favorite free time activities. That’s how he got inside my head and screwed up the wiring. He manipulated me so easily; and with just a few directions, he managed to create a robot, and even a monster, from a once innocent human-being.

I don’t want Rolex to do that.

I don’t want him to rewire my brain.

Because I don’t want to change anymore.