Stay by my side {Nyte}

The word “drought” was not an exaggeration. Kids were baking under this persistent sun with not a cloud in the sky to impair its heat. He could see volunteers with sunburned faces and arms rubbed raw from the violent light, and he was suddenly grateful that he had been ordered to work in the confines of protected shelter instead of in the pastures. The sweat trickling against his flushed skin and staining the fabric of his shirt was uncomfortable enough – he didn’t need to add burns to the mixture. Even to a homeless kid from five the sun had never been this unforgiving. It would be a struggle to adjust to the harsh environment, but as long as he was able to sooth his parched throat with water then he figured he would be okay.

There were very few designated areas where water was still up and running, so the line was lengthy and miserable underneath the yellow sun. Heat could drive people mad, someone had once told him, and he could see why. Kids in front of him were bickering about “cutting” and everyone’s expressions were twisted into sour scowls. Ezabel tried to keep a level head and diverted his gaze down to avoid unwanted eye contact. He didn’t want to provoke any grumpy teenagers. He overheard one boy scream ”YOU MOTHERFUCKER,” and he didn’t avert his eyes to see what the fuss was about. It was none of his business.

It seemed he could not avoid conflict, however, because he felt a body collide with his and a pair of arms constrict his torso. Initially he thought he was being attacked, but then a choked up voice spoke into his ear. ”I'm so sorry, Little man. I'm sorry. I'm sorry..." For an instant his heartbeat quickened because he knew somebody who had always called him “little man.” Ezra, I miss you. Even as children it was Ezra’s nickname for him, besides “nerd” and “wimp.” Little man, despite having been so far away from manhood and so far submerged into hopeless childhood. The influx of memories punched his chest until it ached, but he knew it wasn’t Ezra. This was just some stranger, probably mistaking him for somebody else. Or maybe the folks in ten were just really affectionate people. It didn’t matter what anybody said; Ezra had buried himself beneath an electric fence and disappeared into the forest. He was dead, dead or captured by Peacekeepers to have his tongue ripped out of him.

The stranger’s embrace was unrelenting, and he wasn’t sure how to respond to the awkward situation. He decided to try and soothe him with words. ”It’s okay,” he whispered, patting him on the back. A high-pitched mewl answered his reply. It definitely wasn’t the stranger talking to him. ”Is that a cat?” he unraveled his arms and stepped away from the boy. Sure enough, a furry head with ears poked its head up and stared at him with unblinking cat eyes. He would’ve smiled and stroked its fur coat with a sweaty hand if he hadn’t chosen that moment to glance up at the mysterious stranger. He abruptly backed away, blaming the sun for trying to fry his brain like an egg. The breath lodged in his throat escaped when he parted chapped lips to speak to his hallucination.

”You’re not real.”

His imagination had run rampant after Ezra’s abandonment. He had thought of all the ways he could've possibly died outside of the fence. He could starve, he could dehydrate, he could be mauled by mutts, he could be captured and executed by Peacekeepers, he could be swept away in a violent storm or crushed by a giant tree or poisoned by a slithering snake. Wherever he could possibly go he would meet his demise, Ezabel had been sure of it. How could a child survive out there on his own? It wasn’t possible, it just wasn’t. This couldn’t be Ezra. The windswept hair, the eyes – they belonged to Ezra. Everything else was familiar, but different. There was more definition to his facial structure, a touch of growth here and a scar of maturity there. This was an older version of Ezra. He didn’t know how his feeble imagination had formulated something so realistic, but it was cruel. Cruel and beautiful all at once.

”You can’t be real, you—“ he wiped frustrated tears out of his eyes. His brain was teasing him and it wasn’t fair. ”You’re dead, Ezra.” Leave me alone. I don’t want to see a ghost. Ghosts aren’t real, no matter what he said. They’re not real. He’s not real.

”You’re dead.”

The illusion looked, spoke, and reacted like the true Ezra, except puberty had blessed with him more bass in his voice and cursed him with an even fouler mouth than Ezabel remembered. ”Oh I am? That’s fuckin news to me,” he said, and it was awful. Awful because his own hallucination was screaming at him, infuriated with his words of honesty. Why couldn’t it be a delighted Ezra with a cheeky grin spread from ear to ear? Why did it have to hurt? The pain both emotionally and physically was too realistic. When the apparition socked him in the shoulder it stung, and he yelped. "Did you plan me a nice fuckin' funeral? Did you cry like the goddamn nerd you are?" Tears hotter than the afternoon sun stained his cheeks. No, he had never planned a funeral. He couldn’t. He had been isolated.

Part of him had wanted to believe that Ezra was alive and kicking, so he hadn’t even allowed his imagination to wander to something as final as a funeral. It would just confirm what he didn’t actually know. Sure, he accepted the concept of Ezra’s death after a few years, but only because it was a frightening, terrible place outside of the fence. Trees, mutts, no food or water or anybody to care for him. What else should he expect? A miracle, maybe, but in his experience miracles didn’t exist. Look at the Hunger Games, for example. A miracle would demolish such cruelty for eternity, just as it would save all of these starving children in ten. That wouldn’t happen, though, would it? Because miracles didn’t exist.

Yet there was a miracle standing in front of him now, face flushed and wet with angry tears. Ezabel didn’t know what to say to him. The pain in his shoulder was real, evidence that Ezra was real too. But Ezra was angry with him, and he was always speechless to Ezra’s raw anger. ” "DOES THAT FEEL LIKE A DEAD MAN TO YOU EZABEL!?" This time he flinched when the fist launched at him. He felt a gush of air abandon his lungs when flesh struck flesh, knocking wind out of his chest. It forced him a few steps backward, but he was too shocked to acknowledge the pain properly. Ezra – his Ezra – grabbed him by the wrist and thrust his palm to the left half of his chest. He laid his palm out flat, waiting for the thumps to register. He could feel it pulsating, his heart. Thump thump thump. It was wild, like his spirit.

Ezabel shook his head frantically. It’s not real a little voice in his head persistently cried, yet it was real. It was one hundred percent real. How could he deny the warmth in his palm, the heart beating underneath? Could he reject the bruise on his shoulder and the ache in the flesh on his chest? Real pain, a real heart. This was Ezra in the flesh, grown and alive and almost exactly the same way he was when he was a child living with Ma and her tyrant husband. He couldn’t blame Ezra for his rage – here he was, denying Ezra’s existence to his face. The boy was never one to take Ezabel’s stupid nonsense lightly. He was always snapping at him like a viper. Today was no different.

”I-“ he choked out a quiet sob and lunged at him with arms spread open. He pulled the shorter boy – who would’ve thought that I’d end up being taller than him? – to his chest and buried his face into his shoulder. He heard the cat’s mewling again. ”I-I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” His voice was muffled by the fabric of Ezra’s shirt. It reeked of sweat, but he knew he smelled ten times worse. ”I thought..” He sniffled and refused to let go. He didn’t care how much of a scene they were making or how hot the sun felt beating against his back. Eight years without Ezra, he thought. Nothing else matters.

”I thought you were dead, I’m sorry. I didn’t think – I didn’t…I didn’t expect you to make it out there.”

Because you never came back. But that was the whole point, wasn’t it? To leave everything behind and start anew. That was what Ezra had wanted, and his wish had apparently been granted.

The sun felt warm, but Ezra was warmer. The heat drawn from his tears, from their embrace, and from the afternoon sun roasting everybody alive was enough to suffocate him where he stood, but even between labored breaths he refused to let Ezra go. It felt as if any disconnection would put him at risk of losing his best friend again, and he wasn’t ready for that. Not after eight years of silent prayers and false hope.

He uttered a whimper of protest when Ezra forced himself away and grabbed his hand to tug him along, away from the wandering eyes of ignorant children. He wiped the tears from his flushed cheeks and took a deep breath. They had made quite the scene, hadn’t they? Not that it mattered. There were more things in life to be embarrassed about, like his own homelessness, his illiteracy, his quickness to tears over the smallest sentimental fragments of his childhood. The opinions of a few strangers were meaningless.

The room Ezra pulled him into was cramped and stuffy, and he figured it was identical to his own. A single mattress and a canteen wasn’t much, but it was shelter. Safe from the harsh environment outside. No bugs, no rain, no wind, no wild animals and no sun. The ventilation was terrible, but he wouldn’t complain, not ever. "So uh... I guess I owe you an explanation huh?" he said, and Ezabel nodded silently. He needed to know everything, Ezra’s entire adventure. He squatted next to the friendly cat and stroked its fur as it rubbed its cheek against his pant legs. ”Friendly fella, aren’t you?” he muttered, voice still somewhat hoarse and quivery.

He listened to Ezra’s story and drank every detail. He tried to come back. He couldn’t believe it. Brave, bold Ezra had tried to return, but even if the hole hadn't been mended he would’ve found Ma’s house emptied of little Ezabel. He hadn’t remained for very long after the abandonment. Two nights, maybe? Two nights was all he could bear with that man still lurking about, shouting at him and pulling his hair with little provocation. Two nights without Ezra by his side to defend him. He couldn’t say that to him, though. He didn’t want Ezra to know how badly Ma’s husband had bruised him after realizing that the boy had vanished. ”I know you know where he is, you fucking rat!” he had screamed. It had been true, somewhat. He had known Ezra was on the other side of the fence, but where?

”Did you get the picture I drew? It was gone when I went back there.”

He wanted to cry again. ”Yes, I have it. Not with me, but I hid it.” Except he had been roaming the streets at that time, and without shelter there was no protecting an old flimsy drawing from rainstorms. It fell to damp shreds in his hands that night, and he had cried about it for a while, his last remnant of Ezra’s existence destroyed because he had run away from his foster home. Stupid.

Ezra didn’t have it so bad, though, and he was relieved. He had ended up in District Four of all places, and with a woman to live with – and Salmon too, the friendly cat. Even Ezabel didn’t have an animal to soothe his heartache.

”I was always tryina find you Little Man. I regretted l-leaving the moment I set foot out t-that gate." Ezra was near tears, and he felt his own heart lurch. "I'm s-s-sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sor-sorry." He rose and stepped forward to wrap his arms snugly around his best friend. ”It’s okay,” he whispered. ”It’s okay. Tell me about District Four. That’s where the ocean is, right? Did you learn how to swim?” he asked, eager to change the subject and vanquish the boy’s tears. He didn’t deserve to cry at a time like this. He deserved to smile.

The crying ceased, and relief flooded his veins. Both pairs of eyes were dyed red with distress and damp with leaked tears, and both bodies were entwined in an embrace until Ezra separated them, their hands remaining melded. He had only wanted to change the subject to distract Ezra from the regret that appeared to be ripping apologies out of a guilty gut, and as much as he appreciated apologies he didn’t want Ezra to feel the burden of fault. It was Ezra’s fault for abandoning him, but it was also his own fault for choosing not to follow. He could’ve left it all behind – the pain, the risk, all of the sorrow he ended up suffering and the hunger that manifested in his teenage life. Had he known that Ezra would survive and live out his days in District Four, Ezabel would’ve gladly joined him.

The chances of survival had been slim, yet he still made it. I should’ve known.

He said he knew how to swim. He said the whole district was full of water. He couldn’t imagine so much water when there was so little in the streets, and so little in this desert district. ”When Angel kicked the bucket I didn't get to as much. Too busy survivin' y'know?” Angel, poor angel. He didn’t even know the woman yet he mourned for her. She had saved his best friend’s life and taken him in as a guest in her home. That was more than he could’ve asked for out of a complete stranger, and it was a shame to hear that such a hero had perished. He could feel the ache in Ezra’s heart, too, because it bled into his tone and stained his voice with sorrow.

Salmon wedged himself between their sweaty hands and purred. The simple things make you smile. At least one of Ezra’s companions was alive, small as he was. Ezabel scratched him behind the ears again and listened to his friend’s questions with downcast eyes. ”How're things back home? You still livin' with that fuck? When we get back I'll kick his ass for ya, how 'bout it?" Things back home were hopeless, but never as awful as living with Ma’s new husband. ”Don’t do that,” he said. He honestly hadn’t seen Ma or her husband since he ran away, and there was no reason to revisit. It was too risky. What if they ended up hurting him? What if they ended up trapping him? He couldn’t return to that house, not ever, and neither could Ezra. What did he mean by “when we get back”? Ezra lived in four, miles away from District Five. That was his home now, there was no going back.

”I don’t live with them anymore, I ran away.” he sat down and stared at the wooden floors, hands fumbling in his lap nervously. ”I live with someone else. Her name is Ms. Bo,” Except Ms. Bo was long dead, and he was lying through his teeth for the sake of comforting his best friend. I can’t tell him that I’m homeless. It might worry him, or hurt him. Best let him believe that he was safe and sound in a woman’s home instead of roaming the streets with no money. It wasn’t like Ezra could truly return to District Five. He couldn’t sneak onto a train or simply run back into the wilderness beyond the fences to find his old district. They were trapped in two different worlds, connected now only by charity work. Ezabel was stationed here for a few weeks, so a few weeks was their limit.

”She has two daughters, they’re really nice,” he continued, and this time it wasn’t a complete fib. Ms. Bo’s daughters were sweet and smart, always giggling with friends or burying their faces in their books. They never bothered or bullied Ezabel, even when he couldn’t read. Sometimes they would even cook breakfast for him to lift the burdens from his working shoulders. They knew Ms. Bo always worked him too much with all of the chores while they earned the luxury to relax. He would’ve loved to stay with them, but they were foster children too, destined to be shipped off elsewhere. He couldn’t handle another foster home. He couldn’t trust anyone.

Only Ezra.

He didn’t catch wind of the lie. When I go back, he’ll think that I have a warm bed and hands to feed me instead of nothing and nobody. Ignorance was bliss, right? It would be better for Ezra to believe in a fantasy life than agonize about his risk of starvation and illness. He would do the exact opposite of what Ezra did to him; he would let Ezra live in peace with the false knowledge that his best friend would be okay rather than admit the truth. Reality had yet to decide if Ezabel was going to survive dwelling in the streets. There was a homely little soup kitchen he visited for food and water every once in a while, so he wasn’t without sustenance to keep himself alive. If anything he was at higher risk of perishing by disease. He couldn’t afford medical center bills if he were to ever contract an illness, and if it was deadly he would surely wither. Fortunately that hadn’t happened yet, and he prayed it never would.

”Y'know you're gonna get sick if you keep that thing on,” Ezra said, stepping away from him. That didn’t sound good. ”You're soaked and you smell like cow shit, take it off. I have an extra shirt around here somewhere.” He sniffed his shirt to confirm it – he did indeed smell like cow manure, and it was even more potent now that the fabric was soaked in sweat. He decide to oblige for both of their sakes (and Salmon’s, poor thing) and lifted the shirt over his head. His pale skin was sleek and sticky with perspiration, but it could be worse. He could be flushed red with burns or colored with awkward sun tans. He imagined the former would be painful, and suddenly he was glad to have been stationed in a barn despite the unpleasant odor it left in his wake.

He set the shirt down on the floor and frowned. There was that “when” again. When we get back to five. Why was Ezra so convinced that there was a way back? He had always been a stubborn kid, but the idea was preposterous. ”Ezra,” he muttered, unable to restrain the dejection from seeping into every crevice of his expression. He intended to avoid the subject of Ms. Bo and the lies behind his teeth. There was nothing further to discuss about her, anyway, not without risking Ezra’s suspicion. He had never been the best liar, after all. Within a few minutes he would be transparent if Ezra started digging for details. ”How are you gonna go back to District Five?” He couldn’t conceal the edge of defeat in his tone. He didn’t say it like it was confirmed – he said it like it was an impossibility, like he expected an answer that didn’t make any sense.

It was true, that was what he expected. There was no way for Ezra to return. No train would let districts mingle so freely, not legally, and Ezra could not risk arrest like that. They would execute him, or worse – make him an Avox. A slave of the capitol destined for silence and obedience. For Ezra, that would be worse than death. ”Your home is District Four now.” The urge to cry was emerging again. Their reunion had quickly turned to misery. It was relieving to know that he was alive, that Ezabel had been wrong this entire time. But fate was also cruel to let them meet here, because they were now destined to stay apart forever. He could see his best friend now, and he could cherish their moments and smile because he was alive, but after that? After that they were separated forever, and Ezabel would truly never see him again.