Boats and Birds}* [Welodie]

I'm laughing. I'm poisoned, probably going to die within the next day, and I am laughing. I'm not sure if it's the stuff pumping through my veins and clouding my mind or if it is actual joy that I am feeling. Maybe it was just force - a sound I expelled from my lungs in the hopes that it would make me feel better about dying. Or not being able to paint. Funny how dying and not painting are equivalent in my mind. I suppose it's okay if I die then, right? I wish night would come, I wish the day would end, wish that I would disintegrate into nothing more than stardust and float away on the breeze, up into the sky where I would shine and paint pictures for all eternity. But I have this feeling that if I died now, that if I just gave up now without even putting up a fight, that the universe wouldn't let me turn into stardust. It would keep me grounded to this Earth - this place where hopes die and dreams never come true - and I would turn to dirt instead and forever be tethered to the ground. Forever be stepped on. (Is it possible that I am already dirt?) The ground beneath my feet is mud, still a bit damp and mushy from yesterday's rains. The tall grass surrounding the stone tomb swallows me whole, like the ocean swallows sailboats. I float on the surface like the boat floats on water, my hair waves in the breeze like a sail, my feet act as a helm, the blood spattered across my shirt like the name of the boat etched on the side. I guess I'm not a bird anymore but a boat. I don't soar, I drift. I don't flap my wings, I sway in the wind. I don't decide where to fly, I let the ocean carry me as it wishes. I drop my spear in the grass - the sea - hoping (again with the stupid hope) that I won't be able to find it later. But I will. Because life is never the way I want it to be.

My feet keep pushing, forward the breeze pushing me along, farther and farther from shore. I remember the nights I used to dream of disappearing. Not from existence or from anyone's mind, but just from view for a little while. Become invisible to those that look at me like a fish out of water or a flightless bird. And then shine as bright as a star for those who looked at me with indifference - like I was just some girl from some family from some house with some name in District 5. That's why I snuck out every night. To disappear for a while. And now I'm on television, my every move being watched and monitored, in a place where 14 other people live and die with me, where eyes are on me at every point in time, and I feel more alone than ever. More invisible than ever before. And I hate it. It's all I have ever wanted since I was adopted and now that I finally have it, I regret ever asking for it in the first place. And then I am running, my heart pounding, my shoulder burning, my veins threatening to burst, my head throbbing, my lungs and legs and feet screaming at me, as I try to catch up with the people I have tried to run away from for so long. Where are they now? Sitting in their rooms? Walking in the streets? Sitting in front of the TV? Do they see me now? Do they?! Are they watching me run, fly, sail, trying to catch up with them? Can they hear my thoughts screaming, "I'm sorry!!" at them? Can they feel this little boats outer core cracking, see the water seeping in through the cracks? It's slow at first, a sort of dripping, a crack that almost no one can see. I try to stop the leak, try to cover it again as I have for so long, but then my knees are buckling beneath me as I stumble and fall to a stop. It hurts as the emotions rush to me, as every memory floods my brain and every one I've pushed away runs through my mind. And I sink as every sturdy board that kept me afloat for so long creaks and bends and bows as the pressure of the emotions and memories and people continues to fill me up.

And then I'm drowning as I sink into the grass and tears fall from my eyes.

I gaze up at the darkening sky, letting silent sobs rack my body uncontrollably. The grass makes a rustling noise as the breeze flows over it and I can hear the hum of insects as night begins to fall. I wonder if there will be any fireflies. I can remember trying to trap them in jars and use them as lanterns when I was younger. But I always forgot to poke holes in the jar for air and the little bugs would all be dead by morning. And I would bury them back behind the orphanage. And cry. Because they didn't deserve to die. And because I believed that they were the stars babies and that I had murdered them. I thought that I had killed the light. All I ask is for one now. To hold as I die, right here in this endless field of grass. (Hard to believe that I'm actually in a hell right now.) I just want one tiny spec of light to cradle in my hands and shine in my eyes as darkness takes over my body and I drift into an endless sleep. That isn't too much to ask is it? Just one little firefly? I wipe my eyes with my wrist in a useless attempt to wipe the fear and pain and tears from my eyes and reach for my paintbrush where it still remains tucked away in my bright blue sling. I run my thumb across the bristles of the brush, sighing as the action makes me feel at home again. And then I swallow, trying to get get my heart out of my throat and back into my chest as I force the words out through a shudder. "Lethe, if you can hear me ... Or, maybe, if you somehow you can find in your heart to care about a stupid, worthless girl like me ... Just send me some paint instead of that anitvenom, okay? ... Please?" I had meant for the words to be loud, yelling, but instead they are no more than whispers. But I know she heard them. She must have. Unless she isn't watching anymore ...

The idea of not feeling paint crusting on my hands and face and arms before I die distresses me again, and fresh tears fill my eyes. And then I'm calling for him. I don't know why. Because dying alone sounds horrible. Because the smell of just his shirt is comforting. Because the idea of his hand in my hair or on my hip or intertwined with my hand or wrapped around my body sounds so nice. Because listening to his heartbeat and his breathing makes me feel alive. Because sex with him is so much better than the usual? Because for the first time in my life I'm not wearing a mask or armor. Because for the first time ever I feel like I can say anything and no one will judge me. For the first time since I was three I can be me. And even though it hurts to pull in the air to yell I do it anyway. Because the idea of being alone right now - without him - is much more painful than the burn in my shoulder.

"Will! Oh, boy wonder, William Woodham! I ne-" I swallow again, the words feeling odd on my tongue. "I need you! I promise I won't throw any nail polish at you ..." And I manage to laugh through the tears, even though it's more painful than yelling. Because I think this moment deserves some laughter. Why can't dying be filled with a little bit of life?