Burning Slowly [open]

•TRIUMPH O'BRIAN•

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I don’t take my time—there’s never been any need for it. You’ve got… fifty, sixty years at best here. That’s if they don’t pick you for the games. You spend the first eighteen years of your life waiting, and then you have the next forty or so to do whatever—which really means just working you until you keel over and have nothing left. You stitch things together, or you run a factory, or the world does to you whatever it’s going to. And then you’re left with a few picture frames and a story or two before they pull up the earth and pack you away like last week’s garbage. If I believed in any sort of God I would want to know why we spend most of our lives trying to get by and be someone rather than doing anything—guess half of that is because of the capitol but fuck—ain’t it just depressing the way people will go on and on about how things are supposed to be?

Today’s a Monday night and a cold one two. Shivering in February, there isn’t any reason to keep up with what’s going on in the games. Both of our tributes died yesterday—not like they had any chance—and I didn’t know either one of them, anyway. I would feel something for someone—well, that’s a damn lie, actually—but I’d at least have stopped to sniff my nose and say the same words that everyone else says, it’s a shame[/color] in that kind of way you know they’re just glad it wasn’t anyone that they knew real well. Damn[/color] . What are their parents going through right now? They probably have to spend the whole time mourning in secret so the capitol doesn’t know how upset they are to have lost their kids. I guess that’s if they care about their kids. I always just assume that everyone is going to care about the fact that they lost their children but maybe some people don’t give two shits about what happens to their kids.

I’ve just gotten out of my shift at the factory. I work at one of the millers, weaving fabric and sewing. It’s long, hot hours with big machines where you can get your hands mangled if you’re not careful. One time, a few years ago—a saw a guy get his fingers stuck in the machine. It was one of those moments where you hear someone start screaming and your whole body tightens up—because there’s nothing that you can do, but you know exactly what’s happening—and the whole place kind of gets quiet because they shut off the machines. And you just sort of are looking while they get real frantic—the overseers, the ones in charge—trying to save whatever they can of the guy’s hands and arms. It’s not like they can do much after all of that—his hands were crushed and mangled worse than anything. The blood that dripped down and onto the cloth… I don’t even know what I could say to that. Other than it was a fucking mess.

He had to stop working, you know? You can’t work in this trade without good hands. Got to have good eyes, too. I see him down Bowery street sometimes. He asks people for change or alms… anything that will help him make it through the night. I don’t think he has much of a family. Wife probably left him and his kids wouldn’t want anything to do with him if they did. Just how life goes around here—everything is about yourself, not about anyone else. Look at the games. Only one winner, twenty-three losings. Fucking shame, because that’s twenty-three stories that get cut short—and one that might not even be worth telling that gets to go free. But what do I know, I’m still here—and he’s not got a home. Just a bottle and some dirty old rags he shuffles around in, even in the winter. Not that I care much about what’s wrong with him.

I’ve got my overcoat tucked tight against me and my hands in my pockets. I’ve got two fuzzy gloves—the kind that little kids wear—and a hunting hat snugged up tight against my head. A bit of hair spills out over and onto my eyes, but I don’t mind. I’m walking along the dirt road back toward the tall tenements—the ones that have cracks in the plaster and one too many people inside of them—just so that I can curl up in my tiny bed and sleep for the six hours I have before getting up and having to do it all over again. It’s a living, right? That’s the phrase that they use to explain what it is we’re doing, I think. Not that it ever really matters much to anyone—we don’t really listen to one another until it’s too late.[/color] I guess sometimes we find people to make life suck a little less, but I’m skeptical about all of that.[/color]

I shuffle in my pocket a moment, still a few blocks from home and underneath one of the grocer’s awnings. The lamplights are dim tonight, and in the cold of February I can see my own breath. I find the box of cigarettes I’ve stashed away, and finally pull out what I’ve been looking for—only to realize that I’ve not got a match to light it with. Shit[/color]. But it’s not all doom and gloom—nah, it can be a little better than that. The shadows nearby convalesce and I can see someone coming. With a grin and a cough, I hold out my hand, cigarette outward, and offer a request. “Got a light there, stranger?”[/blockquote][/size][/justify][/font]