Sliver of Hope* [Kire, Ele]

Four walls. I'm confined to staring blankly at four walls, the violin I had held so near to me torn away from my hand when they took me. Yet another piece of me has been ripped away by these horrible people. It started long ago with my parents. I didn't see them, I was off crying and pouting and moping about how much my life sucked when they came for them. It was the silence that rang through the woods like a siren that told me something was wrong. It was the way my shadow glided across the ground in the noon sunlight. It was the way I felt cold even with the warm air and the warm sun beating down on my back. I knew. I knew they were gone when they weren't calling my name in worried tones, looking for me. But a piece of my soul had wanted to believe - and so I did. I thought that perhaps it was only a coincidence. I thought to myself, "Nothing is wrong. Everything is alright." even as I sprinted through the woods, my heart racing, my feet bloody from the thorns and sharp branches I had stepped on. A piece of me believed that the world could never be so cruel to leave me alone in the woods with no one. No one. How could anyone be so heartless? How could someone take my parents from me? I was just a stumbling little girl, a girl who ran through the woods, crying because she wanted to go home, crying because her parents told her the woods - these big, empty, scary woods - were her new home.

I ran, a stumbling mess, my knees cut up, my hair knotted and tousled every which way, little thorn and rocks embedded in the palms of my hands. I held only a violin and a sliver of hope. But then the pools of red appeared, two crimson red pools that showed me a reflection of a terrified and shocked little girl. No bodies, no signs of struggle, just the giant puddles of blood. They shimmered in the sunlight, looking almost black, like oil that had risen from the earth. But this wasn't the result of age old bones and organs being grinded by layer after layer of earth risen to the surface once more. No. This was the spot where my parents bled out and their bodies were carried away. This was not oil but blood. This was not the warm blood that pumped through everyone's veins and gave life, this was cold, dead blood that told the world that someone died here. They had just been sleeping there - right there in the shade of a tree - and now they were gone, their souls floating aimlessly through the woods in search of a better place. Would they find one? Could they take me with them? But I knew the answer. (No.) But my fractured soul believed in something else. (Yes.)

I was just a child then, small and helpless and completely unprepared to face the world alone. And with my heart fractured, tears slipped down my face, sobs making my body shake. And I let my soul wander, let it search for them. I remember walking through the puddles, leaving a trail of bloody footprints in my wake as I walked through the woods. And for the first time in my entire life, I was completely alone. It was just me and my violin and my bloody footprint trail and tears. Nothing more. I let my feet dangle in a nearby river as I played and played and played my violin. I cried. For days on end I cried and did nothing else. I was hungry, thirsty, cold, but I couldn't care less. I was letting myself die, slowly, not caring anymore. When I could find no energy to move the bow across the strings I put down the violin and lay across the muddy ground. I stared blankly into the flowing river, watching the way it shimmered and rippled, so full of life. I dipped my finger in, watched the way it moved around my finger in an attempt to make me a part of it. And when it rained I wished I would be washed away. I wished that the river would make me a boat so that I could sail far, far away from this place that had broken my heart. But instead I was saved by a man, injected with life once more so that in my dreams I could be haunted. So that the darkness would frighten me. So that the thought of Peacekeepers made me scream.

And I thought I would be safe in that mansion, locked up tight, but it turns out that fire is stronger than money. It also turns out that the quiet giant that was once so daunting is gentle and kind and oh, so sweet. And that's why I have to get out of here. He's waiting out there for me. He's waiting in the woods somewhere for me, hiding from the bad men that brought me here. I have to get out, I have to go, I have to find Cristobal. But instead I am trapped in here, trapped by four walls, one wall, one ceiling. A box. A cold, hard, metal box. Trapped for the wrongs that I have done. (Tell me, tell me, tell me - what is my crime? Have I loved too hard? Too long? Too much? Too often? Must I tear my heart from my body for loving too much? Tell me my crimes ... ) Let me go.

But I am too scared to scream. They hit me over the head once, I'm sure they would gladly do it again. I raise my hand to my head, the lump that was left behind by the butt of a pistol still tender and aching. My hands are shaking, my heart racing, my head throbbing - I am nearly paralyzed with fear. Every once in awhile you will hear someone screaming, hear the crack of a whip maybe, hear banging on the walls or doors from the boxes nearby, and I am horrified. Not only is this place meant to break the people they capture, not only are there multiple carbon copies of my biggest nightmare roaming the hallways just outside, but I am trapped with complete strangers. If my throat didn't feel like something was lodged in it I might say something, might tell them my name or ask them for their own. But I can only manage to focus on the ground in front of me and nothing more. I need out of here. I need his arms wrapped around me, my head on his chest, my fingers coiled with his, his lips pressed to mine, his voice, his smell, his everything. He is the only human being I have met or seen in two whole years and I love him. And I need to get back to him before he does something crazy, something that he can't take back or something that I can't help fix. (Do I know he is okay? Or do I believe?)

And that's when I realize that I am playing a piano. Not a real one, but one that feels real. My fingers move across the floor, pressing and flitting across the invisible keys there. I can hear the music, a dainty ting, ting-a-ling spreading across the box. But I am the only one who can hear it. I close my eyes and let the music swallow me and hold me in its arms. And despite the strangers and the pounding head and the Peacekeepers and this metal cage, I feel safe. I play the set of music notes that is etched into my skin with black ink. I play the notes that twist up my spine and onto my neck and reach across to my ear. I play those notes, returning to the Capitol, returning as a little girl, returning to a place where my mom and dad are alive to hold me again.

(Take me home. Take me home.)