.:Thoughtless:. [Open]

Sampson Izar

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I spent the whole night tossing and turning, my body sticky with sweat and my stomach rumbling. There’s a space in our bed that even after a year I still haven’t grown accustomed to. On reaping eves, Benat used to curl up against me, and I would tuck my body against his. He’d lay his arm around me in a hug. The he would tell me a story in a low whisper, about good boys and girls and how they lived long, wonderful lives. My eyes would flutter and I would hold on until he started on about the endless fields full of fruit and bread, so much that you could never finish it all. I’d fall asleep before he got to the end. I wonder now if he ever used to tell Deval these stories, or if it was just that I used to shake in the bed so badly, our springs would scream that he had decided to do something about it. He was always awake before me, too, dressed in a fresh shirt, suspenders, and a pair of pressed khaki pants. He was handsome, a plain kind of handsome[/color], one that made you smile and proud all at once.

The seasons have come and gone almost as fast as lightning streaking across the sky. I half-imagine all the little things that have happened this year. Poppa got a new pair of boots and momma sewed us a new quilt for our bed. Jeb Sawlman broke his leg and Embrose Lee lost a tooth after biting into an apple. I’ve grown two-and-a-half inches, bringing me just over five feet. Momma put a little mark on the wall next to our doorway, with my name and the number 13 to show that I’ve stretched out toward another year. Benat’s last notch looms above me and by now Deval’s streaks up into the sky. I try hard not to get caught up comparing me with him, but when I see the little line with his name I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever be anything like him. The should-bes, could-bes, and would-bes float in and out of my thoughts. I have to bat them away like the pesky flies they are. I can’t let myself go getting all sad over everything over and over again.

I’ve woken up a few times lately, just so that I could stare at the picture of the three of us. I don’t cry anymore, at least, not the heaps of tears I had the first few weeks after his death. Now it’s more of a dull pain that makes me feel empty, like there’s a hole inside that needs filling up. I plug it with talking with Deval, or playing at the watering hole. But then something comes loose, and all of it spills out empty. I stare at his picture, my eyes still full of sleep. I’m so afraid that I’m going to forget what he looks like that sometimes I spend a good five minutes measuring every inch of his face. I know that he has four freckles and one mole, lines under his eyes and a curl of a hair that flops down just above his forehead. Part of me wonders what happens when I get to his age, or Poppa’s age, and all I have is this yellowed little picture of Benat? I’ll never know what he would’ve looked like with gray hair or a little beard (not that his baby face could have grown one, I don’t believe[/color]). It’s scary to think about me being older than him one day. I can’t put my finger on why. I just start to feel real small when I think about it, like my chest is getting the breath squeezed out of it. Like, it’s as if everything is going to end when I get to be his age, and everything he was will disappear forever. It’s so silly and so strange I ain’t ever told nobody, but it doesn’t make me stop thinking it’s true.

I started praying to the stars a few months ago. Used to just be conversations with them, with Benat. Sometimes I’d talk to grandpa too, asking him to help Benat understand wherever he is. It sounds crazy, talking to a bunch of stars that don’t talk back. But it did help. People say things like, no reason to believe in an ever after when we have to get on living here on earth[/color]. But I ain’t going to lie about how good it feels to talk and think that someone you love is always listening, always watching. I take comfort in it, and I ain’t hurtin’ nobody. Makes me shake a little less when I wake in the middle of the night, and he’s not there. Because he is, he’s still there[/color], just not next to me. I don’t have nothing to prove it, but I can feel it. And that’s good enough for me. That’s good enough to live on, when the going gets rough and I need a little extra not to cry. I think everybody should pray to the stars, so they could feel better. Maybe then we wouldn’t fight each other all the time. I don’t know.

I want to tell Deval the same, that we should pray to the stars about the reaping. I think Benat would hear us better if we could do it together. Is it dumb to think that he could hear us across the emptiness of the sky and beyond? When people sing together, their voices get louder and they sound better. Amplified.[/color] I think that’s the word. So if we pray to the stars, then it should be amplified, too. It may not mean much, one voice mixed with another, but if it stretches that much more across the universe, I’d beg Deval to do it. I don’t since I don’t want nobody to call me crazy. There’s only one place we’re supposed to pledge our allegiance too, and it ain’t the stars. The capitol gives us enough food to eat, and jobs to do. Makes us safe from outside our borders, and from the rebels that wanted to destroy everything a long time ago. Lately I’ve wondered what we need protecting from, since it’s been so long. Seems like everyone from that long ago might be almost dead or buried. Then again, I know how stubborn my grandfather was before he died, and how much he taught us. The apple don’t fall far from the tree, and maybe there’s more rebel spirits floating around the district than I can see.

“Let Momma and Poppa be happy,” It’s how I usually begin. I figure the least I can do is thank the people that have got me this far. A lot of folk come into this world, and don’t get much of a chance to have both. There are some kids that live in a community home that never met neither and others that lost their mothers or fathers young. I have both and that makes me lucky, and I thank every day that I have them watching over me. My daddy never raised a fist to me, and my momma never told me she wished she never had me. Naw, they plum the best that I could have. I do wish I could know poppa better, he’s always been quiet and tired ever since I knowed him. He used to yell a lot at Benat when I was younger, but I think it was his way of flexing his wings and showing all of us what for. “Let them grow old, let them be safe, and healthy, and happy, please? Watch over them.”

I kiss my palm. He used to do that, when I was a real little kid. It was more than just for scratches or cuts. When I was scared and the whole world seemed bigger than it needed to be, he’d hug me close and take my hand. With a kiss he’d tell me that it was gonna be all right[/color]. I’d close my eyes to feel the warmth pass through it. Now I kiss it to mark my wish. I like to think that I’m following in his footsteps. The Izars always been superstitious folk, so it ain’t too out of the ordinary. We throw spilled salt over our shoulders, and never walk under ladders or break mirrors. Sometimes I wonder if I should hate superstition, since Benat’s lucky rabbit charm didn’t work for him. And none of this is proven; I think the whole world relies too much on being able to see and prove.

My stomach turns. I turn to look at the bed and wonder whether or not Deval is sound enough asleep that he can’t hear me. I shouldn’t be nervous, ain’t like he got a right to judge me. My skin prickles. Lately I’ve come to think that he’s on my side no matter what. I don’t know why I don’t tell him about my prayers. Part of me thinks he has to know by now, with all the nights I spend curled up on my side, staring up at the window and muttering. But then I wonder about doing more than just talking to Benat and all the ones that must be up there with him. It’s one thing to want to talk to him; it’s another to ask for what you want. If the universe is random and nothing is in our control, then we got no reason to ask the stars to change nothing. But if it ain’t, then there must be a cost for all these prayers, something that I reckon I haven’t counted on. It strikes me in the gut when I think about what I have to ask tonight, and makes me sweat through the sheets with a heat I can’t abide. I slide out of bed and onto the wooden floor, causing a long creak. I don’t look back to see if I’ve woken him, instead I amble out through the door and onto the porch.

The earth feels cool against my feet. I pat along the grass and through the corn field, out toward the creek. I plant my butt down alongside the brook just a few feet away from the water. The stars light up the sky above. I watch them dance back and forth, and wonder if my brother is the one keeping time. He was good with a fiddle. It’s too bad he hadn’t gotten a chance to show anyone. I let out a sigh and push my hands back into the dirt. It’s easier to ask them for good things—health, happiness, food. These things could happen without any intervention, we’re supposed to be able to make them ourselves if we try hard enough. It’s why my chest isn’t so heavy when things come to pass. Maybe they—maybe Benat did help me find a patch of blackberries growing and hidden away, or maybe it was just a happenstance. I was accustomed to fluking.

“Please…” I cross my arms across my chest. My voice cracks and I clear my throat. “Please…” If it don’t feel right, then I ain’t supposed to be doing it. That’s what I’ve always been taught. But I think of Benat. I think of him holding my hand and walking to the reaping. I think of all the thousand, million minutes that I could be spending with my brother, and how they’ve been taken away from me. It makes me so angry that I want to scream, I want to hit someone so hard that they break into pieces. I grind my teeth and shake my head. “Please don’t let it be Deval. Please don’t let it be me. Please don’t take nobody else. Please, please, please. You could have any of the Holbrooks, or take Asha, just don’t take nobody else from me.” The words come out easier than they should. I name names and I am not proud, but I am not sorry, neither. My family has already given the universe one boy, giving another would be greedy.
I close my eyes and dip my toes into the water.

“Please just let it be anybody but Deval,” I whisper out. I kiss my hand, ending the wish. I feel queasy just thinking about what I’ve asked. Anyone but us. What right did I have to ask for another to be sent to their death? I search down, down, down into myself. I open my eyes and hunch over my knees. I’m scared. Not of whether or not one of us will win up on the stage. It’s just that I don’t feel a damned thing about sending someone else in our places. I should feel bad for even wishing that it would happen to anybody else, but I don’t give one flying fuck whether or not our tributes die in the bloodbath this year.

A frog croaks in the water, and I snap to attention. The clouds are turning from purple to orange, and I know the morning will come soon. The stars have already begun to fade, giving way to patches of clouds and blue. I dust off my pants and give one last wave to the stars, and to my brother. I kiss my palm and bow my head. I know, I just do[/color], if I believe hard enough then it has to come true. Everyone else will say that it’s just luck. But I know that there ain’t no such thing as luck, not in this world. You got to have faith, and you got to believe[/color].

Morning comes with familiar hum from the kitchen. Mother has gone to pretending that everything is all right; father has gone to adding whiskey to his coffee in the mornings. She darts about the kitchen like a bird, pecking at the oatmeal and sniffing the eggs. She yells at me to get my bath before the water gets cold, and I drag my feet along the hardwood floor until I reach the toilet. Steam still rises from the bottom like a ghost rising up out of the ashes. I set about scrubbing myself down, and slowly but surely get each and every crumb of dirt off of me. I like being squeaky clean. Life feels a whole lot better when you’re not covered in sweat and grime, and for a second I feel like the luckiest boy in the whole district. I splash more of the water onto my face and glance down at my reflection. I hold my arm above my head, and stare at my armpit. Unlike the twins down the road, or Emery, or Deval—any of the older boys I know, I haven’t got no hair yet. I let out a sigh and deflate.

If I had to remember what breakfast consisted of, I would have failed that test easily. I like to think that when your world might end, you’d pay more attention to the details. I should be taking stock of every line on my father’s face, or the way my brother’s hair falls onto his forehead. But all I can think about is how the pit of my stomach keeps rumbling, and that it’s too hot. We walk along the gravel path in front of our house like lead weights line our pockets. Slow and miserable.[/color] Is this when I’m supposed to tell my brother how much I love him, and that I’ll do anything to see us live forever? If I were braver. I could have said something to Deval to show that I did care, but my stomach still hurt too much. Instead I keep a good ten feet in front of him and hold my hand out to catch the fence alongside the edge of the road. We are the broken wood fence: it rots in patches and comes apart at the seams. By grace of the stars or through sheer willpower it has not yet toppled over, still serving its purpose.

Why do we have to line up in rows? I get my name scratched in the book, and pulled apart from Deval. The last thing that I could ever see of him is the back of his head, mixed in the with the rest of the sixteen year old boys awaiting their fate. Last year Benat had kissed me on the cheek and told me to be good, since it was my first reaping. I remember holding my hand over my cheek and feeling how warm it was. It seemed to stay forever, distracting me until the moment the capitolites took to the stage and the whole world went crazy. This year I have nothing to stop me from staring around and fidgeting in my spot. Is anyone watching me? Us? The reaping is magic; so many brothers and sisters have gone in it’s as though the bowl seeks out families to destroy. I close my eyes and pray again, please, please please. Anyone else.[/color]

Who can say whether it’s right or wrong? I don’t know a lot about anything—I’m smart enough to admit that. The summer has brought new life to all of us, even after all the despairing. Ain’t seem right that it’d be cut so short. And I can feel my body too, that things is different. I’m a flower just burst out of the ground; to pluck me now would be to see something ugly shrivel. I wonder how long it will be until I bloom. Will I bloom?[/color] Some of the boys around me already got hair and low voices. They chitter on about the girls across the way, about who’s growing. Flowers in bloom. How many of them will marry the girls across the way, only to have babies that grow up to stand in this very same spot? If they’re lucky.[/color] I have to remind myself that it’s lucky we exist at all, with the reaping and the lack of food, and the sickness. We’re the lucky ones.[/color] I cross my arms across my chest. I can feel my rib bones, covered up now with the white of my pressed shirt. The lucky ones.[/color]

The crackle of the microphone sends a shiver down my spine. “Nightshade Bluesea!” I look to see the frightened girl that’s been chosen but I already know she’s no one I know. Dead.[/color] I think without thinking; I should be kinder but the resentment fills my throat like bile. One day, two days, maybe. I remember how people thought Belle would last a few days, and how wrong they were. They’d not given Benat much of a chance, and he’d gone five whole days. I shiver again. The microphone squeaks and I close my eyes.

All of this is for nothing. It could as well be me or Deval, but there are so many other kids it seems silly to even worry. I can count on my fingers the number of times I’ve taken out tesserae. Deval is smart, he ain’t ever put himself in a position to do it neither. But the universe conspires, it’s a strange and silly thing. I’m all of thirteen and I know as much, you can’t expect the unexpected. That silly glass bowl could wipe out our whole family if it wanted to. We’re a thin thread on a long track. We got to be able to bend unless we want to break into pieces. I open my eyes again. I got to be braver. My heart thumps in my ears. I got to believe, I got to accept whatever may come. I feel a lump in the back of my throat and want to hit myself for it.

What had Benat felt now? He must’ve been afraid. He must’ve known about all the tesserae he’d taken out and what it meant. But he was eighteen. If he’d gotten through the reaping the world wouldn’t have mattered, and all of it would’ve been different. There wouldn’t be a star hanging above us, but endless sky. He would have grown old with us, he would have gotten married and made more Izars and by the stars he’d have been amazing. He’d always be amazing.[/color] I open and close my fists as I hear her speak. My muscles tense and I’m almost ready to burst. Anyone but us. Anyone but us. Anyone but us.[/color] Do I pray to the sun, the single, solitary star that hangs above our heads? Is there enough power in that to save us?

“Xavier Gregory.”

The name means nothing. Death[/color]. I think it again. I should root for the both of them, I should hope for a victor from eleven but I know the disappointment that lines our hearts. We are no heroes, we have no heroes now. We are farmers and we are simple, we ain’t got the heart to kill and win. Long before there’d been a girl that had gotten close to it, but not since. Benat had gotten the farthest in four whole years of games for boys. I wonder if they’re just names that are destined to be forgotten. I think of the twelve families that in my lifetime have lost boys and girls. Twenty-four boys and girls, enough for a game’s worth, have come and gone. A whole patch of sky must be made up of them. I kick my foot into the dirt and turn away from the stage. My stomach turns again, and my hands shake. I’m sick of the crowd, I’m sick of everyone. And in that moment, I want nothing to do with the spectacle. I want my brother and I don’t, I want my momma and I can’t, I want my father but I walk. I walk away as the crowd disperses, but up the field and roundabout to where names have come and gone.

It’s the one place that I expect to be empty on reaping day. Simple stones line the path, enclosed by a rusting iron fence. A number of them have cracks and ivy overtakes others. My chest hurts when I walk along the cool, thick grass. I was here once before, when Benat was laid to rest. I trail along the names slowly, watching for Guy, Kiera, Belle—boys and girls plucked out of the world like weeds unfit for our garden. His is a little gray block, with his name, Benat Izar in big block letters, and the words, Be good to each other[/color] cut underneath. My face scrunches as I see a single yellow rose laid over his plot. It’s a secret to be sure, I don’t know nobody that would have loved Benat enough to bring him flowers. Or if Deval would have kept this from me this whole time. A part of my blood boils, as though the flower defaces my brother’s grave in its beauty. Ain’t nobody got know right to put it here—but then, it will be some time until I know just who has done it (and ashamed when I find out the truth[/color]).

I kneel and put a hand on his stone. I had expected to be broken up. I’m supposed to be weeping and wailing, ain’t i? But the familiar burn in my eyes never comes. An emptiness sits and opens in my chest. I got what I wanted, didn’t I? It’s exactly what I asked for, that nobody else gets taken from me. Deval is safe for now, and another year closer to never having to fight at all. But it’s dirty, the whole enterprise. That I wished death on anyone is terrible, it ain’t me. I brush the dirt off of his stone. But ain’t I allowed, after giving up my brother, to not have to suffer no more? What do I got to be noble for? I’m thirteen and I ain’t ever even held nobody’s hand—I don’t govern or lead or nothing. I should be allowed this, I should have a right to be as selfish as I want to be! I sit back on my butt and let out a sigh.

For all the talk that people have of me being so grown up, all I want is a chance not to be.

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[Word Count: 4058 (without lyrics/name)]
[ooc: by no means do you have to follow with an equally long post, in fact, I don’t intend to respond with anything nearly as long as this. ^^]
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