welcome { h o m e } // luci

All my life, I’ve longed to be something I’m not.

(I want to be a bird. I want to be the sun, the moon, the stars. I want to be immortal, I want to be powerful, I want to be brave. Sometimes, with the birds, I was all of these things in more. Most of the time I was just me, though.) They say that it’s human nature to want what we can’t have. It’s torturous but true - I’ll die cold, tired, and alone, because all I ever wanted was to fly, and so I lived my life anchored to a harsh reality. I wanted one thing and I wanted everything - I wanted the earth, the sun, the skies. I wanted friends. I wanted family. (I wanted, but I never had, and maybe a part of me accepted that. That didn’t mean I couldn’t still feel the absence of all the things I couldn’t have, though.)

I was born in a run-down house atop a scraggly hill. I had baby hands. My mama told me so - she said they were the most delicate little things she’d ever seen, but when my palms wrapped around her finger I held on strong as if my life depended on it, eyes still closed and blind to the new world that would come to treat me so harshly. They also say that all things happen for a reason, but I’m still searching for the justification of that day. It’s not very fair, is it? The Capitol picks us from a crowd and sends us to die before we even know why we live. In my case, I never really wanted to know. Perhaps fate was trying to build me into something strong, but I only came out broken. A miscalculation, a mistake. I was a failure. I am a failure.

But with my baby hands, I’m still hanging on.

Sheets are swaying from an old clothesline
Like a row of captured ghosts over old dead grass
Was never much, but we've made the most
Welcome home

Death is supposed to put life into perspective. It’s supposed to give you reasons. I’ve been dying for a long time now, and I still don’t have mine. Life was breathed into me - I was born and made real. But why? There has to be some method to that madness, some bigger purpose hiding behind the tragedy traced out in my destiny. I’m bleeding out, I’m fading, I’m dying, and it is now that I start asking questions that should have come up a long time ago. I have lived my life wanting. Why?

Although I suppose that’s all moot point now.

When kids are young, they like to play on the playground. Me? I waited. My mama said that if I waited long enough, I’d find a friend. I sat on that cold bench by the old metal slide for hours at a time, baby hands folded neatly in my lap and backpack by my side, wide eyes watching all the children who laughed and chased each other around as a shy smile lit up my face. I begged in my mind for one of them to come over, to ask me to join them, but they never did. I went to that playground every day and I waited just like my mama told me to, but no one ever came. I guess that was when I first started to realize that I was different. (Autumn came. The leaves fell. Then winter, and the snow. No one goes to that playground anymore - like me, it’s far too broken - but sometimes I still go sit on my bench and wait in the frigid cold. I'm not quite sure why, but I do.)

Ships are launching from my chest
Some have names but most do not
If you find one, please
let me know what piece I've lost

Lying on the ground, I watch the blood spill silently, eyes flickering from one violent form to the next. They’re so angry. So horribly, terribly angry, and desperate, too. (Humans. Vile, disgusting creatures. But I’m not one of them. I never was. Right?) Carefully, unconsciously, I pull my star cloak closer to my form so that it cocoons around me, keeping me safe. My security blanket. It protected me from the birds, from my mother’s corpse, from all the people and things so determined to kill me. It couldn’t protect me from the Feast, though, and I smile at that. Darkness floats at the edge of my vision and it should scare me but it doesn’t because finally, finally, I’m going home.

My lips begin moving, silently at first, and then with purpose, a hoarse whisper escaping them. Blood soaks the ground around me and my eyes are glazing over but I still have my voice, so I whisper. No one’s listening, though. No one ever does. “It’s a sad thing to die here. Very sad. But I think it’s even more sad to live. A life is a heavy burden, and whoever wins this will be carrying twenty three of them on his back.” A half smile. “My mama used to say that - “ My sentence ends in an abrupt gasp, eyes opening wide as one of them notices I’m not quite dead yet and drives her weapon deep into my arm. A scream is caught in my vocals, lodged in my throat, but I swallow it down along with the tears and suck in a few deep breaths, trying to keep my tight hold on whatever life I have left as something very, very strange happens.

And I don't know if I can
Here, beneath my lungs
I feel your thumbs
Press into my skin again

I’ve heard people say that when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. They’re liars. That’s not what happens at all - or at least, not to me. Instead I see a bright white light. I squint against the glare of it and two silhouettes begin to come into focus. One of them is my mama, only she’s not sick or weak or a corpse this time. She’s my mama, bright and bubbling and beautiful like I never was, with a mane of wavy brown curls and eyes like the open sky. The other is still impossible to make out. “Mama!” I croak, but not loud enough. They don’t hear me. “Mama!” She’s nodding at the stranger, and I can’t help but notice how sad her smile is. Somewhere behind me, a man shouts and a little girl begins to cry. My mama looks up, past me, before nodding at the second silhouette and turning in the opposite direction, walking toward the light. “Mama!” I scream, and it is only then that I realize that my voice is that of a twelve year old girl, crying, shrieking, losing the only thing that kept her safe and warm. I begin to cry, reaching out as far as I can without hurting myself. “Mama, wait for me! W-wait!” But she doesn’t wait. She continues walking, silhouette shrinking as the light swallows her. “Wait! Mama, I’m coming too, j-just don’t - “ My words are broken by sobs, shoulders shaking. “Don’t g-go, I’m coming, p-please wait for me.” But it’s too late. She’s gone.

Reality comes back in an instant, and I find that I haven’t truly moved at all, still lying with my back arched against the pain, teeth gritted tight. Death is such an agonizing thing, such a high price to pay for the eternity beyond. The sounds of the fight are becoming distant, and it’s getting hard for me to focus on the figures darting back and forth before me. Where is Sierra? And Florence? And Andal? Ironic, that the girl who has been afraid of people for her entire life found friends in a place where children kill each other. I’m not even sure I can blame the pretty pink pills anymore. It was something deeper. A need to find people who would care about me before I ran out of time. Did it really matter in the end, though? We may have lived through the last few days together, but we’re all going to end up dying alone. Except, unlike the others, I’m not afraid of that. I’m embracing it.

All my nightmares escape my head
Bar the door, please don't let them in
You were never supposed to leave
Now my head's splitting at the seams

You’re almost there. I can feel it, warmth and forgiveness just a breath away, but I remain bound to this world for a few more agonizing seconds. I cling to my cloak, hugging it close, and once again use what is left of my voice, saying anything that comes into my mind until the words form a pattern and then a whispered story, heard by no one and everyone all at once. “My name is Luciana Trevers. I was [color=E8E8E8