counting footsteps // open // nine

I wander the vacant halls of my house, quite large for those of Nine. My soft, slow paces echo across the white walls and wooded floors. I count each footstep as if it mattered. Loneliness used to get to me, it used to make me feel vulnerable. But I've gotten used to it. I've gotten used to loneliness and disappointment and crude laughter aimed at me. Mother says I'm too young to be. I would agree. But I can't gain back years I've lost. I can only move forward, even though I'll I've ever wanted to do is look back. My wiry frame wants to move, it wants to be free. I'm not much for dancing or singing around others, but I feel okay by myself. But I still don't. It seems to childish. And then again Mother says I grew up too fast.

I leap and I twirl and I laugh. It feels good, to dance. It isn't good, but we aren't necessarily concerned about dancing. I approach the door with no more of my usual spirit inside. I'm almost always happy, but today I just feel depressed for no particular. I slip on my brown sweater that dusts over my white tee shirt. I clasp my hands around the knob and twist, hearing a small click and it budges open. The cold hits me with a shock, sending chills to the bone. My sweater isn't doing much good, but I still wear it because it's better than nothing. My leather boots sound neater on the cement than on the hollow planks that lace my house. I turn around and walk backwards, staring at home. There's some much I have to lose, so much I take for granted. I've never noticed. But then again, I have nothing. I'm a prisoner to the Capitol, in the long run. And no matter how much I think I have, how lucky I am, I'm just a slave. A frown creeps my face. Shaking my head, I try to rid the thoughts.

I don't know anymore. I don't know what I don't know about and what I do. I don't know what manipulation and what's real. I just don't know. It's scary, to not know. It's scarier than seeing your own parents cry. I'm fragile, it seems, to fear ignorance. I want to be strong, but a lot of things mesmerize me, distract me. And those things are emotions I can't rid, I can't run away from. Because I know I can't run away from myself, who I am. I'm messed up and complex. But I can't change. And the only person I'll ever be is me. But I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. I just don't know.

The wind with its icy fingers brings me back to life. It ruffles my hair and blows back my sweater. I want to go back inside. But I like the fresh air. I like to wonder because I have no place to be. I like to find myself at a destination I've never been and trace my way back. And most of all, I like to count my footsteps as though they mattered.