/ending/ [one minute at a time]// open
May 31, 2013 20:18:34 GMT -5
Post by Rosetta on May 31, 2013 20:18:34 GMT -5
Ophelia Rose Stromstatt
[/color][/font][/center]I shouldn’t have let him provoke me.[/i]It’s so easy, really. So simple. Like a little ripple in the never-ending sea. A little ripple that grows and shudders and rolls and grows into a tsunami. That is me. Prod a finger in me and I begin to ripple.
They say I have to go to school. So, I do. Mace used to gather up my school books, shove them into my unresisting arms, and say to me, “You’re good at school. You need to go. And stay out of trouble.” But, now Mace is gone, whoring all over the Panem, from the Capitol to District Twelve, District Two and back and doing whatever else survivors do meaning that he’s no longer around to boss the rest of us around. Yet I still go. I speak no words and barely lift my head. My hand shuffles along the page, zombie-like, writing equations and sentences that register so easily in my mind it’s hard to see why I dislike school so much.
Sitting in the emergency room, I hold the wash cloth to my nose and tilt my head back until the nurse at the desk chastises me and says that if I do that the freely flowing blood in my nose will go down my throat and choke me and I should put my head forehead. I nod and oblige and she asks me if I’d like more painkillers. I shake my head for I don’t feel a thing. It’s the numbness after the fight. My toes are ice-cold, my face is still, barely throbbing as it should be, and my eyes stare at the white tile, counting the boxes under my feet. The only part of me that’s moving is my heart. It’s beating slowly as if trying to let me down slowly, halt the pump of blood through my body, fill and evaporate and die. I’m slowing down, the boiling acids in my stomach cooling into ice. My knuckles are bruised and bleeding and three finger is bandaged, broken. They don’t even tremble. I am still. I am the sea, the silence after the storm. For I am never silent just before.
He was new. Or rather, for now, he is. I haven’t heard the verdict on his head yet and dread is right in the middle of that block of ice, just waiting for the melt so it can stab me with razors. He usually sits behind me in history class and he’s the sort of kid who makes sarcastic comments every five minutes from those huge, wormy lips of his that release a wave of decaying tuna fish into my air every time he speaks, betraying the wealth of his family, with enough money to buy expensive imports of fish from District Four. Teacher stands before the class, teaching us all about 61st Games and the death of Haff Ferde. Tuna Breath behind me makes a comment about “retarded” tributes and my hands tighten around the edge of my desk and I lower my head to doodle onto my page, hoping that the gentle rise and fall of lines will calm me.
Personally, I feel no connection to the Games. I don’t carry an umbilical cord to them like others do. Never for victory purposes do they hang on so tightly, but rather for survival. Families of lost ones cling to the television, as if waiting for their dead sons, daughters, brothers and sisters will rise out of the Cornucopia and claim their rightful victory. Siblings of twelve to eighteens, especially the weaklings, take notes, hoping that one day if misfortune befalls their family, they’ll have some idea of what to do. The only time I ever actually cared was when Mace was sent and the entire Home sat glued to the television for days and people in town pressed food in our hands before ushering us in their homes or stores to watch television. Otherwise, I hid up in my room for the Games because they make my fingers itch, just like they itched as I sat at my desk and Tuna Breath’s words prodded and tugged at my ears.
“Ms. Stromstatt?” I glance up as a stately woman comes towards me. She’s the doctor treating Tuna Breath whose real name is Jackson Macguire. I rise and watch as she pulls off her blood-stained gloves with two slaps that send jolts up my spine. “You’ve been treated?” Her pale eyes scrutinize me, neither forgiving nor apprehensive. I nod. Her lips tighten and she motions for me to sit. “Fine, fine. Jackson will be fine, but you got him good. Would you like to know how many stitches?”
The word “stitches” bites at me like a needle, sticking into every inch of body, and I cringe from the word because it’s the result of my fists that had to stitch sanity back in place. The ice is melting, flooding my body with cold, piercing dread, well aware that each stitch will be a tally on my back.
“Retarded.” That’s what he said. He said the word loud and clear. “Retarded.” His friends sitting around him chortle and Teacher pauses, purses her lips, but instead of doing something, urges us to open up our textbooks and read. And so, Tuna Breath goes on. “Retarded” is the only word of his I hear and it smolders within me.
The doctor before me leans back in the seat she’s just taken beside me and she gazes upward at the white ceiling, forming an O with her lips as if she’s just taken a drag and is blowing smoke into the heavens. But, instead she blows scars. “One hundred. It’s lucky he doesn’t have permanent
-brain damage?” Ma frowns. “No, no, Ophelia is just fine. Look at her grades!”
“She is unruly, sullen and often engages in fights with the other students,” Headmaster says impatiently, ignoring the A+ report card before her. “You’re absolutely sure of no brain damage? No psychological issues? No…” she lowers her voice and glances furtively around and I pull my head around the door just in time, my heart racing, ears perked up…listening. “No, mental retardation?”
“Mental disorders?” Ma says firmly and I know she’s fixing Headmaster with one of her famous death stares, but I can’t smile. That word. The R-word. “No, no,” Ma goes on, “Ophelia is just fine. Fiery spirit, but just fine.”
Except for that word. That horrible word that Tuna Breath breathes into my air now. I can smell it.
”Retarded.”
“Can you not use that word?” The words escape from my mouth before I can stop them, growled out from between clenched teeth to dark, harsh lines in my notebook. Instantly, the laughing behind me stops and I feel accusatory eyes on my back. I turn and face them head on, my fingers twitching around the sides of my desk.
“Excuse me?” The smell of tuna hits me squarely in the face and I grimace.
“Don’t use that word.”
Tuna Breath really didn’t know who he was up against when he laughed, pointed at my mole, and said, “Says the girl with the second head on her face.” I am set ablaze.
After the fight, I find I cannot remember much of the details from it. All I know is the aftermath with my knuckles bruised and blooding and my nose dripping as my classmates scream around me. None of it is compared to Tuna Breath, slumping over his desk, skull cracked open from hitting it so hard. Blood dribbles onto the floor.
Later, my classmates will whisper to one another that I was a feral animal, barely giving Tuna Breath a chance to defend himself before I smashed his head into his desk. It took all of his friends and a smack to the nose to calm me.
Now, I stare at the doctor and the ocean within me quivers, draining, churning, running dry until I find myself trembling entirely. I cannot breathe without water. I must go. I must run. One hundred stitches. One hundred tally marks on my back and gasping for breath, I stand to run.
But, I find I cannot bring my feet to take me anywhere. [/color][/size][/blockquote][/blockquote]