meadowlark | asa|oneshot

I can hear shouting next door. It's loud, angry somehow, emotional. As far as I can understand, someone is mad because someone else doesn't want that person to go and they're taking it out on the girl who was reaped. That doesn't make much sense. I guess people don't make sense when they're upset though.

My fingers tap a rhythm against the hardwood paneling on the walls and I wait, quiet and slightly desperate for my own door to open and for someone to come in. I doubt they will, people seldom seem to recognize the moments when I need them. More like they just don't care. Half of me is hoping my father will show up and divulge some bullshit wisdom or at least tell me he's proud of me and that he loves me. Yeah, that'll happen when pigs fly. He's not going to bother coming here and he's never going to tell me that he loves me because that would be a lie and we both know it.

I just sort of wish that he would, that the door would creak open and he'd step into the room in the same old pair of scuffed black loafers that he's always worn and he'd be playing with his hat the way he does when he's nervous.

He has nothing to be proud of yet, he probably doesn't even know that I've been reaped, he's probably going to feel nothing but relief that I have been. I'm Asa after all, I'm the second son, the disappointment. What does he have to be proud of? I'm just a waste of his time, always have been, always will be. I'll probably accidentally step off of the platform early and end up getting twenty-fourth place, bringing eternal shame to the Reau name.

I can't believe that I've only got a week left to live.

There's a lot that I haven't done yet, a lot that I'll never get the chance to do. It's sort of sad.

I always wanted to see the ocean and build a sandcastle. I wanted to really fall in love with someone, someone who loves me back and I wanted to have my first kiss. Sometimes I imagine that, what it would be like. In my head there's always a gazebo and twinkling lights and it's the perfect moment. I guess I'm just a romantic.

Always have been. I figured if I just worked hard enough then my father would love me and my mother would come home. My brother could love me too if I had only worked harder and our family would have been perfect. I just always ruin everything. That's why no one loves me, that's why I'm alone, always. At school I see couple in the hallway and all I want to do is hold someone else's hand too, feel that warmth on my skin too. I want validation.

I'm never going to get that.

The minutes tick by and the space outside my door is silent even as the door in the room over seems to open and close over and over again.

I wonder how many other losers like me sat here and watched the door stay shut for their allotted five minutes. The life of a career is pretty lonely, it is a competition after all. No one is really your friend because they'd kill you in an instant if you were in the games together. It is dangerous to live in a District like mine, where everything is a competition. People forget how to be human.

I have never truly lived.

I meant to, I did. I just forgot I suppose, I thought I'd have more time, I figured someone would always volunteer for me. I never expected myself to accept the tribute position but I never expected to actually get reaped either. I guess I just couldn't bear going home to my father. I asked my mother if I could live with her once and she never replied. For all the love she always says she has for me, she doesn't show it much.

I want my mother, badly.

My eyes stay trained on the knob of the door and I wait but it stays silent, stagnant. I dare it to turn, to open, but it doesn't. Why would she come for me. She has always left me behind. They all have.

It's customary to take a token into the games but I have nothing to bring. Just the pocketbook full of poetry I always keep on me and the ink pen I keep in order to write in it. I doubt that they'll let me take the items into the arena. It's alright, my poetry is terrible anyway. I doubt it'd be worth it to bring it, I doubt I'll be writing much.

I'm not very good.

I only started writing in it because Eren said it was a good idea and he'd ask for poetry from us and I'd never have anything to give. I still don't. I don't read my poetry at Society meetings because I'm far too shy and everything I write is terrible. I shouldn't even write it out, it's offensive to even keep that things that I write because they're so bad. So I don't know why I bother, I just do.

It's nice to have something that is forced to listen. I can force the pocketbook to listen, to know me.

The doorknob twists and I move forward with a start, hands stilling as hope flies up my throat and out my mouth in a hushed sound. The thought that someone has come for me is nearly too much to bear. Maybe I should not give up hope yet, maybe this is a sign that I am a life worth fighting for.

"It's time."

That's all the Peacekeeper says before she takes me by the arm to guide me to the train. We leave the room then, sunlight making the dust motes swim over the thick carpet.

you a r e so
b r a v e and q u i e t
I forget
y o u are
s u f f e r i n g