with a ( w h i m p e r ) // eira oneshot

eira . illiana . feyy

If I die young, bury me in satin
Lay me down on a, bed of roses
Sink me in the river, at dawn
Send me away with the words of a love song

It has been said that the world will end not with a bang, but with a whimper.

It seems wrong somehow. There will be no fire raining from the skies, no final shrieks of agony, no rain of bullets breaking through precious silence. The end will approach silently and the universe will witness the world's final breath without a hint of remorse, drinking in the darkness. Perhaps there will be tears, soft and quiet. Perhaps there will be a whisper - a final testament to the rise of the race which would lead to the eventual downfall of the very Earth we tried to make great. But there will be no more, for while most of us came into the world screaming, very few will leave that way.

My world did not end with a whimper. It ended with a cough.

It wasn't anything monumental. The cough was small, far from the harsh hacking that can occasionally be heard on the streets during a particularly disease-ridden winter. It was so seemingly unimportant that I forgot about it the very moment after, returning my focus to the thread slipping through the pads of my fingers, willing it to remain smooth. Mother would never forgive me if I was distracted by something as insignificant as another springtime cold. At that time, it had seemed like an ordinary day. The only unique aspect was the rain, crystal showers that whispered over the house. They would be the first of many, introducing the textile district to the benefits of the spring after being buried in winter frost and snow for months. I had never liked rain - it made the hours spent in front of the spinning wheel or weaving board unbearably dull - but I understood and accepted its purpose in our world. Besides that, though, nothing seemed especially out of the ordinary. But I make no mistake now - that was the moment everything changed.

Days passed and the coughing grew worse. It got to the point where I would double over, my body shaking and shuddering as this horrible tearing sound burst from my lungs. After a week my parents reluctantly ordered me to be - I was of no use if I could barely hold the weaving board. They called the healer in when I did not improve, and she gave me some herbs that brought my fever down slightly. After two weeks the hallucinations started, my world splitting apart, twisting, fragmenting into nonsensical pieces. People were not who they seemed to be and I was so scared because everything had shifted out of focus and I couldn't tell the difference between reality and fantasy anymore. The healer gave me something for that, too, saying they were most likely induced by the high fever. The medicine she gave me could not stop the nightmares, though. Beneath my threadbare quilts I tossed and turned for hours, screaming at the darkness that clawed forth from the corners of my mind to come and steal me away into eternal oblivion.

There was something strange about the healer. She was a tall, thin wisp of a woman with scarce blonde hair and pale skin. She had thin, arching eyebrows that always had a tiny wrinkle between them. Her visits became more and more frequent as my strength continued to leave me, and every time she left I noticed that wrinkle had deepened slightly. The coughing seemed to worry her, especially when I started noticing faint speckles of blood along the forearm I used to cover my mouth. She didn't like how cold I said I was, either. Despite the fact that I was burning up I was constantly begging for more blankets.

That's how I lay now, bundled in a cocoon of quilts and comforters woven by my family since the beginning of Panem. The glass of water on my bedside table is full. I can hear the faint sound of Tyler's breathing on the other side of the room. Despite my parents attempts to persuade him into moving in with Abby, my brother has remained stubbornly by my side. Dark crescents hang under his eyes, for my coughing only gets worse at night. Tonight, however, it seems to have temporarily subsided, though I still feel the constant pressure in my chest. Burying my face in my pillow, I try to ignore the sharp stabs of pain between my ribs whenever I breathe in.

I think I'm dying.

Lord make me a rainbow, I'll shine down on my mother
She'll know I'm safe with you when she stands under my colors, oh,
And life ain't always what you think it ought to be, no
Ain't even grey, but she buries her baby

At the end of the second week I find myself unable to play the guitar. I sit against the twisted iron bars of the head of my bed, the instrument settled in my lap, but no matter how hard I try my scarred hands can no longer do what I will them to and the notes come out all wrong, broken harmonies and stilted tunes spilling forth instead of the music I take such pride in. I try for what feels like hours, which is nothing new to me - Abby is the one who is naturally gifted in our family, not me - but I only grow weaker, finally caving in to defeat and simple tracing my fingers over the guitar strings. After a few minutes of this I shift it off of me and back into its proper resting position on the wall near my bed, slipping back under the covers and pulling the covers over my head to drown myself in blackness.

I'm dying, but I don't even care anymore because a life without music is not worth living.

A few minutes later I hear Tyler slip in through the door and feel his weight settle on the stiff mattress. He just sits there for a moment, and I can feel her eyes burning into me through the many layers of blankets. I'm not sure whether I'm pretending to be asleep or not. Finally, he says, "Are you going to hide under there forever?"

I open my mouth to respond but instead of words another round of coughing comes out, and this time I can taste the blood on my tongue. I throw the blankets off my face so I can gasp in a fresh breath of air and catch a fleeting glimpse of the concern etched into my brother's face before averting my eyes. "You heard me, Ty," I murmur. "I can't play anymore. I'm no good."

Tyler frowns. "Self-pity'll kill you, Eira. You of all people should know that." He rises abruptly, crossing over to my bedside table and lifting up the worn notebook resting on top. He flips through the pages for a minute, pausing to read a few, before closing it and pressing it into my trembling hands. "You think you're no good? It was never the music that made you so special, Eira. It was what you were trying to say with it."

I turn the notebook over in my hands a few times. It's the expensive kind, bound like a book. I remember saving up for it for months before I finally had enough to buy it, shyly sliding over the money I had earned bit by bit. A week later, our parents bought Abby one just like it, only with a bright pink cover that had butterflies on it. Mine is simpler, with a brown leather cover that has my initial sewed into the top right corner and then delicately printed in swooping lines at the top of each page. There aren't just songs written in it - there are pictures drawn, and occasionally just a single set of lyrics written out in my best cursive writing. "I wasn't trying to say anything, Ty," I murmur, opening it and running my hand over one of the first pages. "I just wanted to sing. To be like Abby."

"So all those lyrics about earning your life and living in the shadows... those meant nothing?" Tyler raises an eyebrow and I avoid his gaze, not willing to admit that he's right. That every word was something right from my heart. It was my way of being heard, even though my younger brother was the only one who ever listened.

"Absolutely nothing," I conclude.

The sharp knife of a short life, well,
I've had just enough time
So put on your best, boys, and I'll wear my pearls
What I never did is done

My coughing fits become less frequent but stronger in their intensity. I have a lot of time to myself - my parents only come in so often, and every time their smiles are so plastic it’s almost painful. They know, too. I wonder if they feel guilty at all, or if they’ll miss me. I’ve spent so much of my life outshone by my sister that I often wondered if they ever saw me at all. They took me for granted, and that hurt far more than any of the harsh words Abby would occasionally throw my way. Parents shouldn’t ignore their children. They should cherish them, make them feel loved.

I never felt loved. Not until now.

A sudden tightness in my lungs seizes me and I double over, barely able to breathe as my throat contracts. A thin spray of blood falls onto the snowy covers and I quickly fold it over, not wanting anyone to see. When I finally regain control of myself and straighten back up, I see I’m no longer alone.

Abby looks more lost than I’ve ever seen her before. She stands uncertainly in my doorway, shuffling her feet and glancing back over her shoulder. My sister has spent her entire life laughing, keeping the best of company, singing to cheering crowds. She’s never been anything less than perfect, more beautiful than one would think possible and simply gushing confidence. It seems she’s changed, though. She’s become thinner, cheeks hollowing out. She no longer glows like she used to, and she’s lost her self-assurance, shifting uncomfortably. Finally she approaches me, sitting stiffly in the chair that has taken up a permanent residence at my bedside.

“The healer says you’ve got something really bad,” she says after a moment. “She says...”

She pauses, swallowing hard, and I finish for her. “She says that I'm probably not going to make it. I know, Abby.”

Abby stares at me for a long time, and I'm shocked to see tears in her eyes. Abby has never cried for me - not when I came home with a black eye because a kid at school bullied me, or when my pet fish died, or when I lost my lucky guitar pick. Never. She ducks her head for a moment, composing herself, before meeting my steady gaze. "Do you want to talk about it?"

I turn my head away, looking at Tyler's empty bed, before shrugging. None of it feels real - I know I'm fading away, and that I'll be gone soon, but I don't have enough energy left to be afraid. "Sure," I say after a beat of silence. It takes me a moment more to gather my thoughts and put them into words. Everything has felt so spread out and distant lately that it's hard for me to grasp on to actual descriptions of how I'm feeling. "I just... I hate how all of the sudden people are acting like I'm special or important. It shouldn't matter that I'm sick - people should care about me because I'm me, you know? Not because I'm dying."

Abby nods, and when I don't continue she glances at the door before speaking. "I miss being your friend."

I hesitate, remembering warm summer days spent in the backyard playing pretend together. She called me beautiful. She was the only one who ever did so - to everyone else I was a shy little girl, a shadow who was too plain and quiet to even be considered pretty. "Me too."

A penny for my thoughts, oh, no, I'll sell 'em for a dollar
They're worth so much more after I'm a goner
And maybe then you'll hear the words I been singin'
Funny when you're dead how people start listenin'

Abby comes later that night, long after all the others have gone off to bed. I finally convinced Tyler to move, worried he'd catch whatever he had, so he sleeps in the living room now. I've almost fallen asleep, too, when I hear her quiet footsteps. I struggle to push myself up onto my elbows, squinting through the dark. She's holding something, and when my unsteady fingers finally manage to turn on the lamp on my bedside table I see that it's a tray with our old plastic tea set. I blink in confusion as she carefully carries it toward me, settling it down onto the space beside me on the bed and then pulling the old chair closer. The little cracked cups are filled with apple juice.

"I thought we could have a little tea party," she says quietly, offering me a slightly broken smile. "Just like we used to."

It throws me so completely that I can only manage a small nod. "Okay." I reach for one of the cups but she stops me, gently guiding my hand back into my lap.

"I have something for you first," she says. "Tyler showed me your notebook."

It seems my sister is full of surprises tonight. The last time she saw my notebook, she threw it at me so hard it broke my nose. Since then I have kept it away from her at all costs, terrified that she'll do something absolutely horrible to it and ruin it. I don't know what about it makes her so angry, but I'd be devastated if anything ever happened to it. Tonight, though, she doesn't seem angry at all. She continues as if it's all very normal, though. "I saw a melody in there that didn't have lyrics yet, so I wrote some myself. I... I want you to hear it."

I know the song she's talking about. The notes are quiet and soft, like a lullaby. I wrote it a year ago to play for Tyler when he had nightmares, but I could never get the words quite right, so I gave up. Now, however, my sister seems completely confident in her own lyrics as she pulls my guitar from my bedside table, testing out the strings a few times before beginning.

Little child, be not afraid
The rain pounds harsh against the glass
Like an unwanted stranger
There is no danger
I am here tonight

And someday you'll know
That nature is so
This same rain that draws you near me
Falls on rivers and land
And forests and sand
Makes the beautiful world that you see
In the morning

She has every right to be self assured of her lyrics - they're perfect. And her beautiful voice carries them lightly and carefully, as if she could break them if she dared hold them harshly. I cling to every word, closing my eyes and imagining myself outside, standing under the showers and breathing in the life they bring to our world. And suddenly, inexplicably, I'm terrified. I don't want to die - I want to live to feel the rain again, to taste candy and fall in love and grow old. I don't want to be stolen from this world early, even though I know it is now inevitable.

It will happen, though, whether I want it to or not. So I close my eyes tightly and will the feeling away.

Little child
Be not afraid
The wind makes creatures of our trees
And the branches to hands
They're not real, understand
And I am here tonight

And someday you'll know
That nature is so
This same rain that draws you near me
Falls on rivers and land
And forest and sand
Makes the beautiful world that you see
In the morning

She's watching me carefully, silently asking for my approval, and I smile, weakly humming along to the tune. It's coming to a close, fingers strumming out the final few notes even though I don't want it to end. I want our song to carry on and on, for I haven't felt this close to Abby in years. I've missed her.

Everything's fine in the morning
The rain will be gone in the morning
But I'll still be here in the morning

I sing that last line with her. After she's finished we have our tea party, clinking our glasses together and laughing as if no time has passed between those days all those years ago and now. We talk about silly things, like cute boys from our school and funny things Tyler has done and good books we've read lately. Pointless things. We don't mention the fight between us that's been raging on for years, or the way she abandoned me when we were little. Confessions like that only happen in sappy books - this is the real world, and in the real world people ignore their problems. Still, it's one of the best nights I've had in a long time. Eventually we both talk ourselves out, and she takes my hand gently in hers before leaning back in the chair and closing her eyes. I do the same, burrowing under the covers and slowly drifting off into the world of dreams.

Dying put things into an odd perspective for you. Suddenly your purpose in the world becomes very clear. Mine was never to shine like I wanted to - people don't always get the things they want. No, I was put here just to quietly be there for everyone who knew me. I was a shadow, and shadows don't leave, no matter what. It wasn't an easy job, of course, but I succeeded. I only spoke when spoken to and never tried to outshine anyone. I wasn't always announcing my presence, but I was there when I needed to be, and that was what counted. And in the end I discovered that purpose, and made up with my sister in the process. The only thing left for me to do is die. And so tonight, holding onto my sister's hand and feeling at home for the first time in years, I do just that.

I die.

The ballad of a dove
Go with peace and love
Gather up your tears, keep 'em in your pocket
Save 'em for a time when you're really gonna need 'em

((OOC: Abby's song was a shortened version of Lullaby for a Stormy Night, by Vienna Teng<3))