+ No More Empty Promises + [letter from Simon]

Tiny flecks of rain hit my face as my boots squelch and slide in the mud. The horizon is bright, shades of orange and purple and red stain the sky, but when I look up, dark clouds still linger. When I look over my shoulder I can even see the flash of lightning heading towards me. This is an evening where one should stay inside, but I need to do this. I face forward again, watching where I out my feet, watching my boots sink into the mud and splash in small puddles. A cool breeze mixes with the drizzle and sends a shiver down my spine. My hair shifts in the wind, tickling my forehead (Haircut - next thing on my to do list) and I pull the hood of my jacket up and shove my hands into the pockets, trying hard to calm my nerves. And despite the chilly air that kisses my skin, I feel my palms begin to sweat and my heart beginning to pound hard against my ribcage. I swallow hard, a lump forming in my throat as I grow nearer and nearer to my destination. And it's not because I am frightened of graveyards and the supposed lost souls and ghouls that wander there, but I am nervous. I don't usually do this sort of thing - talking to dead people. In fact, I'm not even sure I believe in this sort of thing. The dead are dead and that is that. Why write them silly letters when they can't even read them? But still my hand clasped around the pencil and still the words flowed through the sharp tip as a whole rushing river of overflowing feelings attempted to drown me in their seemingly endless depths. I didn't think I would be able to take it, didn't think I could manage writing just one letter that would contain all of my feelings and contain everything I needed to say. But somehow I did it. Somehow I told them everything they needed to know. Or at least I think I did. I hope I did. (I didn't miss anything did I?)

My head buzzes with worried, anxious questions and as the first of the headstones begin to appear. I try not to read them, the names of the dead that are buried six feet beneath me. I don't need to know the names of even more dead people. For a moment, my memory flashes the image of the small garden where the headstones of my brother and sister sit outside the old farmhouse I used to call home. I know they sit there, side by side. Because that's as far as I could get to knocking on the door. I thought maybe I could make myself say sorry, I thought I could muster up enough courage to apologize. I thought that I could swallow my selfishness for just enough time to be able to walk up to the door, to knock, and to face the look of disappointment and shame and disgust in my parents' eyes. But I could only glimpse at the two headstones before I had to turn and run, just like the coward I always have been. i said I was done running, said I could stop, but I lied. I can't stop. But right now, this task, I am not running. I have to do this. I have to.

And that's when I reach the spot. I was here just days ago, rain drenching me, feet bleeding, everything in my body aching for a girl whose parents were gone, for the girl who was on her knees crying for something she lost years and years ago. And I could feel the pain radiating from her, igniting my own into a flame once more. Most days it's just an ember, burning slowly and steadily, on and on, burning me alive from the inside out. But on that night, watching Esmeralda cry on her knees at her parents' headstones, I felt the ember ignite into a flame, I felt the pain shoot through my body, and all I could do was watch her there in the mud and the cold and the rain. And I know she needs help - I realize it now, though I think she can help herself - but I'm just not sure if I can help her. So I guess that's why I am here, isn't it? Inspiration? Intuition? Something - anything - that could help me that's what I am looking for in this lot of dead people, right? That's why I wrote this letter, right? I stare at the headstones, looking at the names carved in stone. Aurora Ayres. Caleb Ayres. There should be something more there, something that shows how much their daughter cares. Something about love, something beautiful and poetic and permanent for everyone who happens to pass by to see. But instead there is nothing. I should've brought flowers or something. They don't want me to place some stupid letter by their graves - hell, they probably wouldn't want me here at all. I swallow hard and pull down my hood, reaching into my back pocket and pulling out the envelope. It crinkles in my hand and when I flip it over to read the front, I see my sloppy handwriting. 'To the parents of Esmeralda Ayres.' Then I glance back at the gravestones, brush the hair out of my eyes, stand up a little straighter, take a deep breath to expel the anxiety, and set the letter between their graves. It looks funny, sitting in the grass, flecks of rain hitting the paper, but I know that they can read it on their own no matter what condition it may be in. Or at least I can pretend they can read it for my own selfish sake. Then I nod, turn on my heels, and begin my journey back to the orphanage - but not before turning to look just one last time.

"I know this is stupid because you are dead and you can't hear me or read or anything," I say, rubbing the back of my neck and offering a bit of a smirk and a chuckle to make myself feel like less of an idiot. "But, uh," And the words catch in my throat. because it's true and I don't want it to be. Because her parents would disapprove of me if they were around to say so. Because they should hate me as much as my own parents do. "I think, um - I think that ..." Say it, say it, say it. They don't just deserve to read it on some piece of paper, they deserve to hear it come right out of my mouth. They at least deserve that. They need to know that I mean it and that I can say it aloud and that I mean it.

"I think I'm falling in love with your daughter." And then I turn away, my feet pushing me further and further from the letter on the ground, and closer and closer to a girl that ... I am utterly in love with.

---

Dear Mr. & Mrs. Ayres,

My name is Simon Karnes. You have never met me and to be completely honest that is probably a good thing. You probably wouldn't like me all that much if you did know me. I'm cruel and cold-hearted and a hopeless soul possessed by some demon who likes to kill anything and everything that happens to stumble into my path. I imagine I am like the monster who killed you. And I know I should probably dress this up and paint some pretty excuse to make it all sound a little less horrible, but I think I'm just going to get right down to it if you don't mind. But I will start from the beginning - that's where all stories should start.

I was born into a pretty big family. Lots of brothers, lots of sisters, and really the perfect parents. (I'm sure if you met them you would enjoy their company.) We lived on an apple orchard and most thought my parents were pretty insane to bring so many kids into such a horrible world, but I certainly thought think they are wonderful. So we were one big happy family. At least while us kids were all still little and didn't quite understand much of anything. We read stories around the fireplace, baked apple pies together, those sort of things. Esmeralda told me the other night that you liked to read stories to her too. I can tell that even with just one child your home had to have been so alive and wild. And perfect. I imagine your home - filled with your family - was perfect. And like I said, mine was for awhile too. But one day, my oldest sister just left. I loved her to bits and it was like she didn't even care about the family, like we were nothing to her. And then things only got worse when my brother drowned in a nearby river. A Peacekeeper just showed up at our door one day and that was it. He was just - gone. His name was Seymour. And maybe you are all in the same place right now. (Well, you are all buried in the earth I guess ...) Or maybe you aren't but, um, if he is, make sure he knows I love him and miss him? Please?

Okay well now that all that is taken care of, my big secret. It seems your daughter has some magical aura or something because I told her the first time I ever talked to her. My biggest, darkest secret that I hold so near and dear to me and I just told her. And here I am now, writing a letter to the two of you, telling you the same secret. (Apparently the Ayres' are my weak point?) But anyway, back to it. I have had this younger sister. Her name was Sapphire. She was the sweetest person probably in all of Panem. She liked to read, to write, and sometimes she would prance around the house singing. Of course as the older brother I hated it, but I had to tolerate that sort of thing, y'know? But you see, I have this ... thing inside of me. It likes to take control of me, likes to play with my body and do some really evil, horrible, terrible things when I'm too weak to push it away. It's a piece of me now, this demon. And so one day, when I couldn't tolerate it, the monster took over. I screamed, I dragged my little sister by the hair, grabbed a knife off of the kitchen counter, and I killed her. And it wasn't like in the stories where there is one clean slice of the throat or one calculated thrust through the heart. I stabbed her, over and over again, like a ravenous pack of wolves would destroy a helpless deer. And the worst part about all of it, I laughed over her body. There was so much blood and my other younger siblings, they had to watch and I laughed because it felt good. Killing my sister ... I liked it. It felt like a release, like the suffocating rage had been lifted after a long journey through a desert or something. And then there was the point when I fell from the high place in the clouds and I saw the blood and my sister laying beneath me in a lifeless heap and there was just so much blood and every time I think about it I relive a nightmare.

Your daughter has the same nightmares. She shouldn't. She really, really shouldn't feel so guilty about killing the man that killed you. He deserved it. He came into your house and he just took your lives for no good reason and she seems to think that she should feel some sort of guilt for killing him. Ridiculous, right? She thinks that she is at fault or something. But, I want you both to know, that I think your daughter is perfect. I'm not perfect - in fact, I am as far from perfect as a boy my age could possibly get. I don't deserve to have someone like Esmeralda in my life at all, let alone know anything about her. And yet even when I run, even when I run and run and run after I said I would stop, she is there to stop me. I keep running and she is still there to sit beside me when I cry or calm me down when I am throwing my fists at the wall or comfort me when I am tossing and thrashing during a nightmare or make me smile. She doesn't even have to do anything but be there and I can't help but smile. And when she is in pain, when she crying, I feel it too. And even being the monster I am, I want to help her. And I guess that's why I am writing to you now. I want you to let me try to help her. I want the both of you to accept the fact that I, the monstrous, horrible beast, want to be there for her. I don't think she needs help, I said that before, but I want to be there if she thinks she needs it. I can kiss away her tears, I can wrap her in my arms, I can read her stories, I can chase after her, I can make try to make her laugh, I can hold her hand, I can tell her she is beautiful, I can make her see. I will make her see. I promise you. And I'm not doing this because I am a freak who likes to kill people or because I think that by helping someone I can wash the blood off of my hands or because I am so selfish that I think this could help me in some sick way. This isn't about me. It's all about her.

I'm sorry and I regret to inform you that I think I am falling in love with your daughter. I hope you can forgive me. I didn't want it either. I tried and I'm still trying but it's the truth. I think I am falling in love with her. And I hope you can forgive me. And I swear, I swear to you, I swear on my all of my family, I swear on everything that has any value to me at all, that I will never hurt her. Never, ever, ever will I hurt her. (You can come back to life and eat my brain if I do, alright?) Never.

Sincerely and gratefully,
Simon

P.S. ~ I am totally in love with her. I don't think I am, I know I am.
P.P.S. ~ I love her. I love her, I love her, I love her!
P.P.P.S ~ Don't try to read the scratched out stuff. Crazy talk ...