Damn It Jim, I'm A Doctor, Not A Magician! [TLB; Day 1]

I have never been all that frightened of the dark. I've lived all sorts of places over the years, and none of them really had a light source for me to cling to in the darkness. As unloved children, our father never allowed Ruth or I to have the lights on. I think there was even an instance where I had had a nightmare and turned on the light, only to be whipped for it in the early morning hours. I craved the dark after that. I don't think I ever flicked on a light switch or lit a candle again.

After that I was in the streets, completely reliant on street lights that attracted moths and buzzed all night long on the occasions that they were actually on. Most nights I just huddled in the dark, clinging to Ruth (though for so many years my inner masculinity had convinced me she was clinging to me) in the cold, dark alleys that lined District 5. We would hide ourselves in trashcans or beneath a cardboard box so that the scary homeless men wouldn't get us in the middle of the night. Neither of us mentioned the fact that we were homeless too. We were too young to understand that ... or maybe we just didn't want to hear the truth so blatantly aloud.

And then we got to Sycamore house, and I was nothing more than a husk of my old self - angry and stubborn and pessimistic enough that no matter how often Ruth or Lilith or even little baby Ara (the only orphan who still knew how to smile) tried to make life better I just couldn't accept that anything could actually be good or fun or perfect. When Klaus donated money to us to fix Sycamore after the fire I knew for certain there would be some horrible catch, because for as long as I can remember, there has been.

And then Laila was reaped and the part of the house that had been repaired - the hearts of the Sycamore children that had been slowly healing - were crushed beneath a burden much too heavy to carry. And once more, the darkness was all I knew.

I have never been all that frightened of the dark. But I do admit to fearing what lives in the dark, for I have seen the monsters that lurk there. And I do admit that I fear being alone. Because despite what I boast about the life of an orphan and how alone each of us is, I have never been alone in my entire life. Even when I thought I was alone, I was not. Ruth was always there for me. And when I looked into the crowd of teens gathered at the Reaping this year, I saw each of the kids I lived with looking back at me with a pained look. Because to some extent, we all cared. We didn't like to admit it, but we did. They do. I do.

But right now all I've got is Twelve and Fishboy to cling to. I'm sure they wonder where the hell I was during all this, considering Twelve is beat up pretty bad even after all the first aid magic and Fishboy is calling him an idiot for getting so beat up in the first place. Personally, I still think they are both idiots. But I keep my mouth shut. No need to instigate anything, especially when we are so close to each other and I'm sure they would both be willing to bash my face in. Which reminds me of the sword I hold at my side.

"Hey, Fishboy," I whisper, hearing myself echo even when I am trying to be silent. "We should trade weapons." I hand it to him as best as I can in the darkness and he hands me a blunt object in return, something I am much more able to handle. "Oh and it's got a name carved in it. Melanie Clark, whoever that is." I murmur, the name unrecognizable to me, though still super disgusting knowing that it is a bone weapon and is clearly a mindfuck from the Gamemakers. Jokes on them; I can't put a face or feelings with the name. I pray Mr. Superior Career here won't tell me the story - I'd rather not know.

Just like I'd rather not know what happened back at the dimly lit Cornucopia. As I ran away with a sword in my hand I heard the struggles, heard what was happening, heard death, though I could not see it. I was pretty certain of who was left with the Wealth and I certainly understood how lucky I was to have been left completely untouched considering the state Twelve was in. But thinking about what had happened only made me want to run away like a coward again, so instead I focus on the tiny echoes my feet and make a little rhythm out of it, thinking of my music sheets from back home.

But then I remember the boomerang in my waistband. I remember Laila. I remember Edgar. And Lilith. And Silas and Arwen. And Septimus. And I even remember that piss poor replacement for Laila, Ezabel. And of course I remember Ruth. And then I remember Sycamore. And District 5. And home.

I miss home.

I want to go home.

And then I run straight into someone. "Shit!" I burst out in exasperation, dropping my club in the process, the metal sending a very loud clinging noise through the tunnel. "Sorry." I mumble under my breath, feeling around on the ground for my club, finding it just as a pinging noise sounds. And as soon as the package landed in Twelve's lap I could hear him setting to work on fixing himself. I slumped down on the ground then, my feet aching and my eyes no more adjusted to the dark than they were before. I listen to Twelve trying to make it all better, followed by an, "Uhhh... help?" only to find a sponsorship gift landing next to me with a rather heavy thud.

I jump out of fear, only to be surprised that I've gotten anything at all. I knew for certain Sycamore did not have the money to fund me. But as my hand falls on a sturdy handle I find an empty water jug tied there. And as I gently feel my way to the head of an axe, I'm not sure if I should be sick or smile. I settle with a heavy sigh. Someone out there wants me to kill people ...

My heart begins to pound fiercely against my ribs just at the thought of it.

I just want to go home.

Can't I just go home?