Outside the Lines [Frumtum]

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Outside the Lines [Frumtum] Jan 5, 2015 0:59:01 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Jan 5, 2015 0:59:01 GMT -5

I think what sets us apart is the way we see the world.

I know it’s not that easy to hear, being that there’re so many different views of the same thing. Even here, in the cramped little spaced tucked down the hall, the world comes at me like a cracking glass. Each new eye brings another crack. First there’s what you see, then the slice of someone new. It’s not hard to see how the whole world suddenly piles on, and the glass shatters to pieces. When we put so much force on defining who we are, we don’t think about breaking down the bits that other people make. We’ll grind them up into dust before they get to shine a whole way new. I try my best to keep back, to let other people make the cracks in the mirror because I know, and I’ve seen how many different edges of the world there are. No sense in carving up such a small, tiny space. That limits you to just one little peephole of what’s fabulous and new—what’s great and what’s daring. Life is the sum of all those pieces, sewn together in one thick, empty pane of glass. We’re just breaking something beautiful by focusing on one, tiny spot.

The fever came after the vomiting, and the blurriness after that. Someone must have taken me back to the room with all the pretty flashes of lights—I wish I could’ve kept them in my hands, the warm reds, greens, and blues. They reminded me of the feathers of the birds we saw outside of District Eight. A bright, red little bird was squawking on the tops of an evergreen, until a blue bird came swooping down to silence the noise. And I thought—well, just isn’t that how life is? Making your own noise until someone else decides that they want to cut it short. They say that animals and children never lie, and so I’ve put a lot of faith into seeing just what they have to say. People don’t want to admit that the little flecks of life floating in their eyes is any bit as meaningful as the deepness humanity brings but—I’ve got as much from them as anyone else.

It’s cold, now.

I was swimming through black. A big, deep sea of warm black that covers over my eyes and makes me think that the ending is indeed better than the beginning. You got a definite warm feeling that floods through you, heavy like a blanket, to make you comfortable. The sweat might drip but you give in to what you think is taking over. Sleep or worse, there’s no fighting the heavy, the darkness that’s not good or evil—just a speck that grows into everything, from here to there. Peace. That’s what came next, the good and the bad, the shrinking feeling that there was nothing and wouldn’t ever be anything after. You get afraid, a deep fear that starts through your toes and runs up, up and out of your eyes until you want to shriek. No breath, nothing but empty space that stretches on forever. And I think, I think that this is—an empty space. A nothing but me, a world that isn’t either or was. And that fear, that shrinking little fear is beaten back by emptiness: a lonely, hollow little place where no thoughts live.

Rum Tum.

I see her first. The woman with the long, brown hair, and kind eyes. The one who shared the world, forwards and backwards with me. My mother is as she was—beautiful, thin, and tired. We’re walking the old trails outside of District Twelve, and she’s stepping forward, holding my hand. I’m all of five and she’s whistling a song, laughing at the birds that cluck back at her. I look up at the sky and get lost in the glare of the sun. The trees go up a long hill, filled with green of leaves and flush with the scent of rain. Farther still, a lake reflects back the diamonds of the sun. Yellow and white, dancing forever in the warmth of the afternoon. I’m tired, my little legs are tired, mama I say to her. But she keeps whistling, keeps pressing her feet forward so that we don’t have to stop in the middle of the forest. Just a little further, she says. But it’s always a little further! I say. She looks back at me and brings a hand up to my chin. Those eyes are the same ones that used to watch me at night, through the flames leaping up above our heads. We’d play a game I’d always lose: whose eyes could carry more sleep—and there I was, lids closing, pressed down to darkness.

You never told me about you, My reflection that is not my reflection looks back at me. Benat Izar is atop a hill, and I—can see that there is the brook, and the farm not a ways off. Sampson must be in the reeds somewhere, he’s always not far from his brother! But we are brothers, too. That we came from the same place, He says, and I look back, half expecting to see my mother’s face. He smiles a warm smile, because Benat Izar is always smiling. He was my twin in every sense. Whether stories from Sampson or—a boy whose spirit flew to the stars—I imagine now that we are one in the same. Maybe two halves can’t be separated. I say back, and he nods his head. Maybe we were never meant to be apart in the first place. That is, when the world decided that he could not win, and that I could not win, we were destined to be separate forever.

I don’t know if we would have ever been happy, the four of us trapped in the fields of District Eleven. Benat was to his brother what a dream is; we remember them not as they were, but how they made us feel. Remember that, He says. Remember how they make you feel, And it’s a plea now, his brown eyes wide. And I think about all the faces of the boys and girls that I’ve seen, of the strangers that I’ve talked too on the roads that have lead me—to where? I’m not quite here and I’m not quite there. That’s all I can think, that I’m not quite one and not quite whole. Lost in what should be beyond, or a dream, or somewhere where I cannot fit.

It’s the truth of my whole life: that I do not fit in any space.

With me, Sampson says, all wide-eyed and small. He coughs and takes my hand. It’s cold to the touch. The snow falls, and the little fire between us begs for more life. You and I got each other. And I smile for him. I am strong and I am brave for him because I know, as all older brothers do, that when we are faced with the truth we have but two choices. We can speak to the head, the part of the body that sullies dreams and chains us down to the earth. And though it can remove barbs and make us strong, it can even make us seen what was not seen—speaking to a head that is fragile threatens to shatter it to pieces. The second is, as all good brothers know: speak to the heart, where we can revel in hope and drink from happiness. Because if your brother is weak, you give him part of you to be strong again. My heart has always been stronger than my mind, so the choice has always been easy. And while we are cold, huddled together we can start to get warm again. We got each other, I repeat, because I want to hear the echo through the woods. I want to feel that for one moment, I’ve found what’s a part of me, a missing piece that I haven’t collected until now. Two brothers, because—we don’t have to be anything more.

And I hear her voice—calling but, through the black, not there. She’s too far away, too much of a speck. Freya Hanig is, and would be a part of my heart, but not my mind. I don’t think I ever want to understand, or figure all of her out because—what would be the fun in that? Where would the heights of high and lows of the lowest appear, to make my heart race and to have me laugh the water out of my nose? But the blackness, this black—do we have to be so distant, from one world to a next? If I’m to be here and she’s to be there, what’s the sense of being anywhere at all? People fuss all the time over love, of how—the heart is purple, the world is more than just the sensation of feeling, of one belonging to another. But I, I, I, seeing her!

If I could tell you, Freya, of why to be happy—of why the world matters more to me when you smile than when you feel nothing at all. But I’m a failure because my answer is simple, and not high philosophy. It’s that, in a place where I’ve never fit, there’s only ever been another who’s been as outside of the inside as me. That doesn’t—and won’t make much difference to me but I know, from the tips of my toes to here, that I, Rum Tum Tugger, was never much more than the figments of who you were.

And what has made me so unhappy, and you, too—is that we let the world tell us that we’re to be happy by being… what the world wants us to be. Well—my happiness has never been in living in between the lines of another person. My joy has been glued to the edges of the lines, of being so far off the map that people struggle to find me. Perhaps, my whole life has been a journey to find where I fit—and I see now, as the world goes dark, and you’re still so very far away, that I’ve been asking for what doesn’t exist. I don’t fit anywhere—and that’s okay. I’m not supposed to fit into to a solitary box, or two solitary boxes, or even seven solitary boxes.

Because the world has been so much more beautiful stopping to take a breath and feeling—with my eyes and my tongue, with my fingertips and my nose—that we are not meant to be that single, solitary piece of glass. We can carve out a single section but we will never be happy with what we see. The limits that this world has put on us, on me—that’s what has made me lose the joy that I’ve always found. And it’s hard, to see that the world can put shock collars on us, can lock us in rooms, or have us married off to men that we will never love. There’s no good answer, I’ve got no good answer to the pain and suffering, but I do have, of all things, the capacity to hope we’ll endure.

We’ll endure.

We’ll endure.

And my eyes flutter, seeing the black fade, the shapes form.

Last Edit: Jan 5, 2015 0:59:24 GMT -5 by Deleted

cici
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Outside the Lines [Frumtum] Jan 7, 2015 1:07:04 GMT -5

Post by cici on Jan 7, 2015 1:07:04 GMT -5

“A dark world aches for a splash of the sun"

freya hanig

My mother is beautiful.

I know that is true because I see it in her smile: her real smile, not the forced smile that she wears when she invites guests and even friends into our house. Because underneath that sad smile is only a billowing sea of worry. If you look closely enough, you might see the crease in her forehead that nevers seems to disappear no matter how many things she has done to her face. I can always see questions swimming in her eyes: “Does the front lawn look okay? Why isn’t the rug clean? What will they think when they see my daughter?” And I wonder if thinking is her curse in this boisterous corner of the world where the mere idea of a thought is a foreign concept. She has never trusted Avoxes to get jobs done the way she wants them done. Then again, I doubt my mother has ever trusted anybody, not in this world where she works a mind of her own.

And I wish I could tell my mother that I understand what it’s like to worry: to wrap your head around a thought until it’s got you all wrapped up instead. I wish that I could let her come near enough to me that we could sit together and she could hold me tight and calm my tears the mothers are supposed to. I want to tell her about the waves and how they came reaching towards the shore no matter how many times they were pushed away. I wish I could tell her about how Rum Tum does the same, how much it hurts to look at him, and how much it just hurts to breathe.

I wish she hadn’t taught me how to live a lie so well.

But my mother is possessed by lies.

I look at my mother now, her hands folded as she sits across from me at the table while I eat my eggs. “Freya,” she says,” and her eyes are so serious, so undisguised. She must be lonely, always careful to step over the cracks and put every puzzle pieces into its place just to see that no one gets hurt, just to see that everything is the way it should be. “Freya, your father and I were talking and…” She glances to the side as my father enters the kitchen. He sits down at the table, and an Avox immediately puts a cup of coffee in front of him. I put down my fork, alarmed by the sudden family gathering. I look from my father’s unfaltering expression to the slightly regretful look on my mother’s face. I just want to see a smile stretch across her face again like a hammock connecting the stars. I wonder how long she stays up after dark, lying in bed worrying that her daughter will go missing again. How she still walks on two feet is a miracle to me. Because three years ago, I thought she never loved me. I couldn’t have been more wrong. If only I hadn’t been.

“First of all,” she says,” and I look down at my plate, trying not to anticipate the worst. But I already know. I already know what she’s going to say. “We want you to know that we’re really happy to see that you’ve been talking more lately.” I look up, surprised. My mother, of all people, should know how easy it is to put on a smile and say “I’m okay.” Because I certainly don’t feel like I’ve gotten any better. I’ve just gotten better at pretending. “But there are some things we cannot tolerate.” Oh, here it comes. “One of those being Avoxes in your room unwarranted. Especially not lying in your bed!” I swallow down the knots in my throat and look back down at my plate. It’s amazing how effortlessly my mother’s voice can transform from its usual high-pitched chatter to a lower, deeper tone. She transitions in an unfathomably short amount of time from social butterfly to concerned parent: still the same puppet, but with someone different pulling the strings.

“Freya, do you understand?” I nod, but I don’t like hearing my name on her lip’s, or on anyone’s lips for that matter. Even with distress lingering at the edge of her voice, she still says my name so gently, in the same way that Rum Tum used to. But if only they would all stop loving the person who’s done nothing but hurt them, maybe then they’d be happy.

“I don’t care if some Avox is about to drop dead. You don’t know where these things came from or what they’ve done” -- mother, you know they’re not things, don’t you? -- “And the last thing I need is something else happening to you. What were you thinking? Didn’t you at least think to come one of us he was sick?” I shake my head without a word. Please smile, Mom. I had spent most of the morning trying not to think about the other night, attempting to divert my thoughts from what had happened. I feel like I’m walking through a world of glass, and every which way I turn, something falls. Something breaks. Something shatters.

What had I been thinking, hiding Rum Tum in my room? Was I thinking my parents would never notice his absence? Had I really thought I could conceal it? I can still hear the sound of my mother picking the lock when I didn’t answer: my mother, who was sick of me shutting her out, and my steaming father right behind her. I can still see him pulling the shock remote from his pocket, followed by my own instinctive flinch at the sight of the single shock. But most of all, I remember how silent it was after a couple of Avoxes came up to guide the half-asleep Rum Tum back to his room, and I remember standing there, wondering why every time I try to mend what I’ve broken, I only manage to do more harm.

“Anyways, we decided we’re probably going to sell that Avox once he gets better. Sick or not sick, his actions were entirely inappropriate, and I just cannot believe that he could just assume it was okay that he could just...he should not have been sleeping...in your room.” My stomach drops, and I feel the blood draining from my face. I just want my mother to smile. I just want to see her smile the way she did back when I was a normal twelve-year old. I just want her to tell me she’s kidding. Tell me it’s all a joke. “Or we might just hand him over to the peacekeepers. I don’t know. I doubt anyone will take him anyways. He’s not good for much.” I almost open my mouth to protest the statement but quickly stop myself. I glance over at my silent father, and the intuitive look in his eyes tells me he suspects something. That’s the thing about my father. When he wants to, he can inspect every element of something long enough to see straight through to the truth.

“I...I think you’re overreacting. It was all my fault,” I say, pale-faced, as I attempt to come to terms with what I’ve sentenced Rum Tum to. My parents shake their heads, and my mother makes some more remarks that I’m not actually listening to. Isn’t this what I want? Rum Tum out of my house? With all the harm I’ve burdened him with, I doubt there are many others that can do much worse. However, the idea is unsettling. I stand up from my seat. “Well anyways…I think I might go to Rachel’s today.” At the mention of getting out of the house, my mother’s face lights up just a bit, and she smiles a tiny, genuine smile. My happiness is her happiness. My happiness seems to be everyone’s happiness these days. Now if only I could please everyone and actually be happy.

I walk out of the kitchen, but instead of turning towards the stairs to go to my room, I discreetly turn towards the other direction and slip down the hallway to Rum Tum’s room. I jump up to reach the top of the door frame and grab the key when it falls to the floor. I shove it into the lock and silently open the door to a sleeping boy. I close the door and enter the room, crossing over to his bed and debating on whether or not to wake him.

I don’t want him to wake: not yet at least. I sit down next to sleeping Rum Tum on his tiny bed and put a hand to his forehead; it isn’t too hot, but his room sure is cold. I run my hand gently through his hair, and smile at the sight of his peaceful expression. Perhaps I never loved anybody. Maybe I am only in love with the idea of love. Because when this boy wakes up, will I still love him? Will I still admire the way a fraction of a smile still stretches across his face even in sleep, and will I still wish that I could pull him closer and closer until we are just like the two kids huddled beneath a quilt next to the fire: the two kids we used to be? Will I ever be able to tell him all of that which I’ve been holding in: all the concerns, the hopes, the fears, the little things that I always feel he won’t understand or won’t really listen to? I don’t know.

No one is who I want them to be. No one will ever be who I want them to be. I suppose there are some people that you have to accept are nothing like you: people you have to make changes for, because the good feeling they leave you with is worth every conflict, every trouble, every doubt. And then there are people whose differences are harmful, so much that tolerance is a dangerous option. But I have parents who love me too. And I don’t know; I don’t know if I can make them unhappy again. I don’t know if I can make Rum Tum unhappy again, either.

But maybe I can just have this moment: this quiet, peaceful moment before Rum Tum wakes. When he wakes, I should tell him; I should tell him that I want him to be happy, and I want everyone to be happy, and that that in itself is why this will never work out. My sense of hope is as fragile as the rest of me, but that’s because I am just glass -- broken and strewn across the floor in a dangerous array of shards. Hope was never inscribed in broken glass.

I know that when Rum Tum wakes, I’ll have to tell him of my parents’ plan to sell him off. I don’t know how, but I feel like he needs to know. I feel my hands trembling in a mixture of fear and relief as I imagine Rum Tum being shipped off to another home. I have to think of something. I have to do something. I have to negotiate with my parents, anything. Because I might still be lost. I might be lost in this turmoil and pain but you won’t be lost, Rum Tum. I won’t ever let you be lost.

I move my hand from Rum Tum’s hair to his shock collar, trying to remember what his neck looked like back when it wasn’t there, back when I was so sure that there was no on else I ever wanted to be with. But one thing I’m not sure I’ll be able to tell him anymore is that I love him. Because every moment he’s awake, I want to scream. I want him to hear me. I want him to understand. And he doesn’t. My parents don’t.

I love the idea of loving Rum Tum. But how do you really know when you love someone versus when you’re just desperate to be wanted? Or when you’ve just spent too much time being with them to imagine your life without them? Do I really love Rum Tum or do I just love fragments of his personality? When we visited the mountain with the heads, I had been so sure. But now, I can’t see myself being fully happy with anyone.

Rum Tum’s eyes open, and I instinctively pull my hand away. All of the words I've been forming in my head fall away, and the only statement I can manage is: “How are you feeling?” I wonder what he remembers from the other night. “If you’re better, I was thinking maybe we can go for a walk?” I don't know how to help Rum Tum after all the damage I've done, but I need to get him out of here, if just for a moment. I need him to see that this place -- the Capitol -- is not all destruction, that there is beauty here too. I need him to see that I'm trying, that I'm trying for him and my parents and my home, and I may be failing, but as long as he knows, as long as he understands...he won't be lost. I won't be lost.

Who am I kidding? I'm a lost cause.

Last Edit: Jan 7, 2015 1:12:20 GMT -5 by cici

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Outside the Lines [Frumtum] Jan 14, 2015 23:44:10 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Jan 14, 2015 23:44:10 GMT -5

It’s amazing to me how such a big room could feel like a cage. When you’re used to the endless sky, any sort of wall will have you breathing fast. It’s something all the creatures of the capitol will never understand. They like their worlds cramped, so that they’re pushed up right against one another. I wonder about Freya—that she missed this constant friction. The heaviness of her eyes, that’s what I notice most. You can hide a lot in your smile. People try to mask the lines on their brow or smother their faces with make-up. But the eyes will never lie. You can see it there, in the turn of the brow, the little red lines that form in the absence of white, slowly revealed when she stares off to the side. Tiredness won’t be lifted no matter how hard she tries.

But I can’t complain about the push or the pull of it all. She’s still here, which is better than not—for as much as she’s tried to push me away, she’s never really gone. Even in the darkness between dreams, I had felt her close. We’re not fully gone between worlds, after all. You don’t believe in that? Well, folks outside the wall have to believe in something and I—I liked Sampson’s stories. We’re all connected to those stars, to the earth beneath our feet, and to one another. None of us got here on our own, which is exactly the reason none of us should finish alone, either. It’s more important that we don’t break, even if all the pieces don’t fit together any more. And the little quiet that we do have, these moments where we can just see one another... I look up at her. The sweat drips off my brow and I take another breath.

How are you feeling? She says, and I lick my chapped lips. There’s nothing to say to this. I smile instead, because a smile is an invitation and gives her more than any old empty set of words could. After all, what would lift us both, talking about how my head was still caked in sweat, that my mouth felt full of cotton? No—lots of people use empty words because they thought they could fill the space between them. Freya and I will live or die without the empty words, because I want her to see me the same way that I see her. Through all the empty words or rambling stories, there’s someone underneath that’s just as amazing and full of life. Not the synthetic of the capitol, because that’s all they’ve ever had—a pale imitation of what life really is.

If you’re better, I was thinking maybe we can go for a walk? She speaks again, and I let my mouth hang open. Now I’m the one who can’t form words. I feel a lump form in my throat and I push back the tears that have built up on the sides of my eyes. I know I’ve got to keep fighting, even as tired as I am. Maybe it’s the Tugger that has me so stubborn, or the Izar that doesn’t know when to let go, but all I’ve wanted is to hear this Freya again. She needs me as much as I need her, too. Because even as blurry as world may be, I know that we can’t lose sight that we need each other more than ever. I press my chin down into my chest and take another breath. I can settle, I can become a part of the world again. It’s only out of doors, along the same cobble streets with the strangely dressed people. And Freya. Freya.

“I can walk with you, Freya.” I say. My voice croaks out the words and I give another smile. I press my hands down along the sheets, and reach to take one of her hands in my own. She’s soft—not like we were in the wilds, when she was scooping up wood for the fire, or carrying a bucket of water back to the camp. I still remember in the summer months, when I’d strip off my shirt, and she’d uncurl out of layers to reveal elbows and ankles—curves of skin that made a person. Not that other parts don’t, but people often forget about the smallest pieces, and how the dirt smudged onto an elbow, or the crease underneath the knee can remind us of times long gone. Of when the two of us would walk together, because that’s what we would do—is walk, and talk, and take in what was and had been missing.

“I’d like to see the city with you,” I add. “I’ve seen the capitol, but no one’s shown it to me. You could show it to me,” I said. “It’d be nice to do something together.” I take another breath. “Where would you want to go?

cici
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Outside the Lines [Frumtum] Jan 18, 2015 12:40:28 GMT -5

Post by cici on Jan 18, 2015 12:40:28 GMT -5

we're not broken, just bent

freya hanig

The air is fragile with silence: so much so that trying to fit a single word into this mass of tranquility would be like inviting Iago Izar and Emery Moreno to a tea party. Everything would shatter. Literally. But that’s okay, because there are millions of words inscribed into Rum Tum’s smile and millions more in his bright eyes that speak louder than any word that could fall from our lips in this moment. Which is why the only other thing that fits in the cracks and fissures amongst the silence are my own heartbeats. Thump. Thump. Thump. My heart races and races, but not in the paranoid manner of a deer soaring through the woods or a rabbit scampering across the lawn. My heartbeats are racing towards something: something, something, something this something, these butterflies in my stomach, the smile creeping onto my lips, the warmth in his gaze, this feeling of almost being close to someone again, this beautiful, kind, loyal boy in all his strange naivety. I want to pull him closer. I want this. I want us.

But my desires are dangerous. That’s a lesson the universe has instilled in me more than once, and despite all the kicks and punches I’ve thrown at the natural order of events, the universe won’t budge. The universe always wins. And I was only built to fall.

“I can walk with you, Freya,” Rum Tum says. I turn my head to glance at the door, instinctively worrying that someone will walk in, especially after what happened only a few nights ago. My heartbeats transform, beating not with excitement, but with paranoia. I turn my head back to Rum Tum and smile at him, but the joy upon my face is rapidly disintegrating. When I reach to catch the scattering pieces, I find that my hands are already too filled with all the misery I’ve been ensnaring within my two fists. Rum Tum reaches to take my hand, and I flinch at the surprising sensation. For a few moments, everything feels warm. But then I remember how my hands hold all the misery I’m trying to keep away from him, and then everything feels wrong and dangerous, because if my parents walked in here right now, the universe would punish me again and again and again and again and again and--Rum Tum is saying something about the city, but I can’t hear him. All I hear is my heart beating at the walls of my chest as if it wants out, where it can be free of all the worry and the pain that’s been written into every inch of my bones. Because even a heart that screams 100 times per minute is no match against 206 bones, 805 muscles, and billions of neurons that adamantly avoid love at all costs. I slip my hand away from Rum Tum, standing up from his bed.

I open my mouth to say something, but I am trapped in the crevices between words, clinging to every millimeter of silence as if it might calm the threatening worry that fills me. I don’t know what to say to Rum Tum, because the words I speak are always dripping with poison, able to leave a scar that plows deeper than the ocean floor. Then again, a year of watching my parents try to lure words from my motionless lips taught me that silence can leave even deeper scars. My eyes dart towards the door, paranoid that it will open. I look back at Rum Tum, but when I speak, my words drip like molasses, slow and careful. “Sorry…” I say. “I didn't mean to pull away...it’s just..." All I can think about are the words rolling off my mother's tongue. "He's not good for much." No, he's good for me. He's good for me, mother. You can't sell him off or throw him away. You can't. They can't. But they will. "Sorry. Let’s...let’s go. Into the city. Yeah, I have some ideas.” Every word that rolls off my tongue is tense and frigid, and I hate it. I hate that this house attributed an entirely new meaning to the beautiful friendship that Rum Tum and I used to share. Every moment I let myself get a little closer to letting Rum Tum in again, my life becomes a pit of endless worry and fear. I can’t live that way. I have to tell Rum Tum that they're going to sell him off, but I don't know how. Not here. Not now. Not with that sparkle in his eyes and that courage in his smile.

I turn to Rum Tum’s closet and open it. “Go ahead and pick something out. You’ve seen how people here dress. I trust your judgment.” Do I really? I turn back to Rum Tum and take a deep breath. “I’m going to change real quick too and then we can go out the back. Oh, and try to make sure the collar of your shirt hides that shock collar if it can.” I exit the room and close the door on my way out before rushing upstairs to my own room. I know Rum Tum sees right through my hesitant words, but I don’t know how to tell him. I wish I could apologize for every moment I’ve ever pushed him away; I wish he knew how much it hurts me, how much I want to pull him closer.

I open my closet and flip through outfit after outfit, trying to find something simple but nice. As much as I can deny it, I want Rum Tum to look at me and see someone pretty. He’s seen me in my worst appearances: with frizzy hair and dirtied hands and as a disheveled disaster lying in bed, but right now, I just want what he sees on the inside to be on the outside too. I slip out of my pajamas and into a black floral printed dress, a pair of leggings, boots, a white scarf, a violet coat, a white hat, and a pair of gloves. I move to my bathroom and apply makeup as quickly as possible before bounding out of the room. My eyes stop on the door to my father’s office across the hall, and I move towards it, glancing around me before entering. I feel uncomfortable when I enter, immediately remembering the night I took Kormiko in here. Kormiko. Kormiko. Dead. Gone. Kormiko. My hands open drawer after drawer until I find the one where my father stores his various key cards. The amount of power that is only two inches from my hands is overwhelming. Paranoid, I glance behind me before stuffing the first key card into my coat pocket, and then the next and the next and the next and the next and next thing you know it, I have access to half the Capitol. I close the drawer and shut the door on my way out, scurrying down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Realizing that Rum Tum hasn’t eaten yet, I grab a large double chocolate chip muffin from the center of the table -- if I remember correctly, Rum Tum seems to be quite the sugar consumer -- and scurry back down the hall to his room. I stand outside the door for a moment before knocking, holding his breakfast in front of me. “Rum Tum? Are you ready to go?” I whisper heavily. Every moment more that I spend in this house is suffocating. The air feels like it's thickening, closing around me. I am constantly reminded that they're all going to take Rum Tum away. He's going to disappear just like Kormiko, because the universe wants me to be miserable. But the warmth in Rum Tum's hands, the persistence in his eyes, and the strength in his smile is enough to remind me that he is my secret weapon against the universe. And what he has -- what we have -- is enough to triumph over whatever sad and lonely fate the world had in store for us.

It has to be enough.

And we can learn to love again

Last Edit: Jan 19, 2015 16:32:15 GMT -5 by cici

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Outside the Lines [Frumtum] Jan 27, 2015 14:28:33 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Jan 27, 2015 14:28:33 GMT -5

For the longest time, I had been a part of the world on my own. And to me it was the best that I could have done, because no one else lasted long enough to share it. There had been a few that had come and gone, but all I had left were odds and ends; wisdom that occasionally popped up between my two ears. It hadn’t got any easier without my mother, or Sampson. The capitol was as bitter cold as the edge of January, and just as sharp, too. I had taken for granted all the times I’d had someone around the fire to share the warmth, or make up names to constellations with. It’s easy now to romanticize the good—because there was the bad, too. The moments when our stomachs grumbled, or a fever ran too hot. That we were in between worlds, at best, and at worst, hunted like foxes for the sake of getting rid of us. But even all the bad never seems to outweigh the good because, as silly as it sounds, all the good makes me feel a thousand times better than the bad.

I watch Freya’s eyes, because they are what tell me how her heart is beating, and can see the delicate pause. It’s the dance that continues as we stumble along. We’ve been hobbled by the capitol, by the weight on our own backs, and are relearning the steps that we used to share. And I think about how far we’ve come, that there is still hope even after all the failure. Even when she pulls away I smile, because I know that Freya is scared, but willing to take the chance. I wish I was a poet so I could tell her all the beautiful things she’s done for me—for us—because she deserves to hear how, instead of why, we’re still together. Then I think of how words come out so hollow and false, it wouldn’t be fair to give Freya a gift like that.

“It’s all right,” I reply. I smile, and raise my eyebrows. Simplicity has always been more beautiful. Maybe it’s why the capitol has driven me mad. I can’t understand why anyone would need so much extra to prove what is beautiful, or what’s certain. If you have to take so many words to get the beauty of an orange sunset, maybe you’re hiding behind a lie instead of telling the truth. Then again, celebrating flaws has never been part of the districts, and much less so a part of the capitol. To me— we’ve only gotten stronger from all of our mistakes, and scars, too. Why anyone would ever want to cover up a wrinkle, or hide behind a thousand diamonds… it seems so empty and hollow. Like a life as a decorated egg: you’ve given up what makes you whole all for the sake of how you want to be seen by other people.

Sorry. Let’s...let’s go. Into the city. Yeah, I have some ideas. She opens the closet and turns back to me. I like the way the stray hairs fall over her face. They draw attention to the brown of her eyes, which always make me notice her button nose. Go ahead and pick something out. You’ve seen how people here dress. I trust your judgment. I open my mouth to speak but close it once again. I know better to question Freya, especially when it comes to getting dressed—so I half-listen as she hurries out of the room, and before I know it I’m left there, staring at the various garments hanging there. To me the pants I managed to stitch and keep together were always itchy, always brown or grey, and never made for comfort. It was the one thing that forced me back into the districts. My mother had been adept enough to skin animals but I’d had neither the stomach nor the skill to figure out how to make a deerskin jacket.

I wish I could find another wool sweater, with pants to match—and plain black boots too. At least the itch would remind me that this isn’t forever, just until we can get away. I keep thinking, I can make it through whatever they want me to do, however many shocks, because it’s what has to be done. We’ve seen that there’s so much beyond the walls, the parties, what all the rest of the people here think is important. And that’s—that’s what I want to show her, even when we’re walking through the city streets. Making a life doesn’t mean you’re living, any more than putting on a suit makes me handsome. They’ve got such a hold on her… the same people that find Freya strange, because she doesn’t fit the same molds they’ve come out of.

I move to pull the shirt over my head, and then to buttoning, until I’m going through the same motions I’ve come to learn all the mornings I wasn’t sweating sick in my bed. It’s for her, I realize, that I choose the tie and nicely pressed jacket, that I can survive these little things. The mirror on the wall shows the whiskers across my face, and the tired little bags underneath my eyes. I wrap my fingers around a comb, which is to detangle the mess on top of my head. By the time I’m finished, I’ve tucked away every stray hair, and every sense that I might have walked a thousand miles on my own.

Rum Tum? Are you ready to go? I open the door and stare back at Freya. I pause to straighten my tie. I chew my lower lip sheepishly.

“I think so,” I say. I grin when I notice what’s in her hands. “Chocolate! Oh man, can I?” I move toward her, and grin from ear to ear. Maybe there were some things that the capitol did right. “Where’re we going? Somewhere fun?”

Last Edit: Jan 27, 2015 14:29:27 GMT -5 by Deleted

cici
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Outside the Lines [Frumtum] Feb 3, 2015 23:54:06 GMT -5

Post by cici on Feb 3, 2015 23:54:06 GMT -5

“Won't lay down our heads till the day is won "

freya hanig

I smile at Rum Tum when he opens the door. His hair is neat, his tie is tied, and the black suit jacket fits perfectly. But the smile on my face is quickly replaced by a look of skepticism. “No, no, you look too much like an Avox. Take that jacket off.” I rush back to Rum Tum’s closet and sift through suit jacket after suit jacket, pulling a bright blue one off the hanger. He has to blend in; he needs more flamboyance. Who knows what would happen if someone saw me talking to an Avox on the streets? “Here,” I say, holding it there so that he can pull it over his shoulders. “There, that’s better,” I say, standing in front of him. A sad smile crosses my face, because it isn’t fair that I just did that.

I’ve always wanted Rum Tum to be mine, but not in this way. Not in this way where I’m allowed to tell him what he has to wear, what he has to do, where he has to sleep, or where we have to go. Not in this way where I can tell him love him when I want to and tell him I hate him when I have to and push him away when I need to and still have him come back every time. This isn’t fair. I don’t want to own him. This isn’t the way I want us to be. I can’t help but wonder if he’s suffocating under those layers. I don’t know how much longer I can bear acting like Rum Tum is inferior to me.

I hand him the muffin and then look behind me, careful that my parents aren’t coming down the hall. I beckon for Rum Tum to come out of the room before closing the door and reaching up to grab the key from the top of the doorframe. I lock the door and slip the key into my pocket. If my parents come to check on Rum Tum, I can at least hope that they’ll just assume the key has gone missing.

I can hope.

The word, hope, grows weaker and weaker with every slight increase in the rate at which my heart beats. I bite my lip. “C’mon,” I say to Rum Tum, sinking my hands into my pockets before scurrying down the hallway to the back door of the house. I look both ways before opening the door and walking out. Even once we’re outside, I still feel my heart pounding, my breathing heavy with anxiety. I walk fast, assuming that Rum Tum is following. Light snow is falling, and I bury my face in my scarf. It was snowing on the last day I saw Kormiko. It was snowing when the muttation attacked Rum Tum. It’s snowing it’s snowing the world is as white as a blank sheet of paper, as white as my mother’s dress.

I pull out some cash and purchase two tickets as we approach the station. The train arrives in only a matter of minutes, and I motion for Rum Tum to follow as I enter the first train and sit down. “It’s about 15 minutes to downtown,” I tell Rum Tum, but my breathing is heavy, and I notice my whole body is shaking. Fifteen minutes to downtown, but how many minutes until I never see Rum Tum again? How many minutes until that, huh?

A woman with long brown curly hair sits down on the other side of the train car, and I hold my breath. My mother is here my mother is here my mother is here. I sink into my seat, biting my lips. The woman turns her head, and I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s not her. It’s not my mother. This irrational sense of fear is closing in on me. I look out the window to my right as the train starts moving and feel a chill run down my spine. I wonder how many days until they’ll put Rum Tum in a train again. Or a car. Or a bus. It’s only a matter of time until they ship him away, only a matter of time before he slips through my fingers.

I gasp and take a glance to my side, thinking maybe they’ve already taken him. Maybe he’s already disappeared just like that. But no. Rum Tum is there. Rum Tum is sitting right beside me. It’s okay. It’s okay. He’s here, and we’re getting further and further from home.

There’s no one on this train to tell us what role we have to play. There is no reason to be afraid.

We’re safe now.

For now.

Ignoring the fact that we’re on a crowded train, I grasp Rum Tum’s hand in my own and in one quick, unexpected motion, I pull my head up towards his until our lips meet. I bring my other hand up to the side of his face and think about how it's been three years since the last time I let my lips touch his the way they do now. And if I wasn't trapped in my own fear and in the walls of my own house, maybe it wouldn't have been that long. Because I’ve been wanting to tell him that I want him and need him and that I think I love him - no, I definitely love him, don't I? - and somehow those words get lost and buried and I just need him to know that we’re both misguided and a little disconnected, but we’re not lost. We’re not blind. We’re just a little trapped in the dark, feeling our way around the unfamiliar until our eyes adjust to see the path back to where we started.

And I think my eyes are adjusting, because I’m starting to see the shadows of what we once had. I’m just afraid that when I can finally see what’s right in front of me, once my eyes finally find the strength to see through this thick darkness surrounding us, Rum Tum will already be gone, and they’ll have already sent him away.

"Won't stop running till we reach the sun"

Last Edit: Feb 3, 2015 23:57:01 GMT -5 by cici

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Outside the Lines [Frumtum] Feb 6, 2015 0:07:43 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Feb 6, 2015 0:07:43 GMT -5

Three words that became hard to say, I and love and you

It’s all wrong—the clothes. I deflate under her gaze, and as soon as she starts laying her hands on me I know that I’m never going to understand how things work around here. Except, just when I start to purse my lips and pout, Freya puts her fingers around my collar and starts to work. And I think about how that feels—a safety between those fingertips—that I don’t mind. It’s fragile, but she’s firm, like I’m some sort of egg shell she doesn’t want cracked. She’s better at this sort of thing, and if it’s what she wants, I’d put a bucket on my head if she asked. When she puts the jacket over my shoulders, I think about how I’ve never told her how much she’s really meant to me. I’ve been so caught up in all of what the capitol has pushed on me; Freya’s only heard me so much as apologize.

But then she takes my hand while I’m still staring, and leads me down the stairs. My heart pounds up into my ears and I hope that there’s no one else watching. Even if Freya’s the one that can do no wrong, that doesn’t mean her parents won’t shock me to kingdom come for not being within arm’s reach. But when we stagger out into the fresh air, I take a breath, and I smile. Because if I’m going to see the world, there’s only one person I want next to me. Freya’s hair blows in the wind and I laugh. We’re going on an adventure. Even if that adventure hasn’t taken off my shackles, I’m still here with her, and it’s enough to get me grinning from ear to ear.

I’ve never had a best friend. Is this what it’s supposed to feel like? When I was little I used to have an imaginary friend that kept me company. I think about how silly it must have been, talking to someone that wasn’t there. It wasn’t same sharing stories with the men and women we’d come across. There was a blond boy that had cussed me to kingdom come and woman that tried to sleep a little too close. But never a girl like Freya. Never someone willing to speak so openly, to live so fully. She counted the stars with me, or dusted off the snow that tangled in the curls of my hair. That’s what friendship is, I think. People want to belong for the sake of belonging, because no one wants to live alone. Except when you live alone, you get to see what’s important, and think about what you really want in another person. I don’t need someone else to tell me how good I am—I’m plenty good. And I don’t need to be a part of something bigger than life. That’s an empty way of living, and I’ve seen enough of that around here. I just need Freya to look at the stars with me and promise that, as old as we get, they’ll still be our stars, even if we’re the ones that change.

The snow comes down and we walk, and she moves faster and I think about how strange all the snow is with these buildings in the way. And there’s so many, many people that all seem to know where they’re going. I look down at the sidewalk and keep my hands in my pockets, because there’s always a chance that someone will stop me for looking familiar. My teeth chatter as we all pack into a big metal car, and the people—they keep coming, keep pushing to get in. It won’t be long to get downtown but my heart is beating now, and all I can think is that there are too many of us on here, there are too many and we’re going too fast! It’s not natural for all of us to move like this, in one space, all cramped together. Even if I’m sitting right next to her, what if something happens, what if the big metal box falls off the rains and all of us are lost together—and, she puts her hand on mine—and then this is the last thing that we’ll ever do, is be in this metal box—and she moves her hand behind my head—and it’s just so cramped her, it’s too hot in these clothes, and I—she presses her lips against mine. I close my eyes.

Her lips are soft and I press in, holding.

There aren’t words for all that—for the moment when our two lips are together. And if I shared them with you, it wouldn’t be quite so special anymore. Because sometimes, the littlest moments, like this, are important enough that you don’t need to tell the whole world. You learn that explaining them with whatever kind of fancy philosophy you have is like adding lemon to milk. You just kiss the other person back, and you hold her hands. You smile, and stare down at your two hands together. And you let out a little laugh because—it’s all you’ve ever wanted to have happen, way back when you met her in the forest. Not that you knew it then—but you could feel it.

The train rattles on, and all I can think is that wherever she wants to take me, I’ll go.

“Freya Hanig,” I say, when the kiss has ended and I can breathe again, “You’re the most important thing to ever happen to me.”

Last Edit: Feb 6, 2015 0:08:02 GMT -5 by Deleted

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Outside the Lines [Frumtum] Feb 8, 2015 4:40:49 GMT -5

Post by cici on Feb 8, 2015 4:40:49 GMT -5

“Won't lay down our heads till the day is won "

freya hanig

I feel my face reddening the moment we release our lips. I look down at the floor, searching for an explanation, or at least a valid, verbalized justification, for the sudden kiss at such an inappropriate, unexpected time. But all I can think of is how this will probably be the last time. We are out of time. Honestly, I wanted to have my chance at loosening this wide gap between us and claiming our two seconds of freedom before they remove him from the house and send him off to who-knows-where.

“Freya Hanig.” I can’t help but smile when he says my full name. I don’t know how he makes it sound so nice when it rolls off his tongue. I don’t know how. “You’re the most important thing to ever happen to me.” I smile half-heartedly, because I notice that he didn’t say I’m the “best” thing that ever happened to him. Of course I’m the most important. Of course, I blinded him, put a shock collar around his neck, and stripped him of his freedom. I changed his life. I took it away.

And what’s so beautiful and terrible is that Rum Tum is still so willing to do anything – anything for me. And it’s not fair. It’s not fair that I have the privilege to be loved by someone so selfless, kind, and genuine while he only has…me.

I squeeze Rum Tum’s hand, trying to think of a response, but every warm word I can come up with feels dishonest. Because inside, I can feel the worry eating away at the muscles holding up my smile and the grasp keeping our hands together. So instead of speaking, I just nod politely and then turn my head back towards the window. “Oh, we need to get off at this stop,” I say, grateful for the interruption as the train enters the downtown area. I stand up, willing myself to stop worrying and keeping a gentle hold on Rum Tum’s hand as if to convince myself that everything is perfectly okay. I lead him off of the train and step onto the sidewalk, beginning to walk as to not hold anyone up.

“Okay so there’s a lot of shopping and restaurants down this street, fashion down the next, the Hunger Games complex is up a few blocks where they have the training center and all. Hmm…what else?” I wonder if Rum Tum has lost me yet. “Well, the City Circle is also up a few blocks, and they have an ice rink and some other things, I’m sure, and oh! That’s the old building my dad used to work at – did I tell you that story about how me and Kormiko --” I immediately stop myself. His name feels so wrong in my mouth; all of the bad feelings associated with it gather in a chill that stretches down my spine. And to think that Rum Tum’s name will be like that soon, whenever he is taken from me. “Well I don’t know, there’s tons more. But you choose.” I don’t like having the power to choose things for Rum Tum. Not to mention, I’m starting to feel uncomfortable around so many people. I don’t want to be here anymore. I just want to be back on the train: an empty train, though, with a destination far from here. As far out as it goes. To the ocean, maybe.

And when we’re on that train, I just want to kiss Rum Tum again. I want him to hold me and for me to hold him, and I want to have the freedom to cry without having live up to this expectation of being happy, because I feel the joy shattering again. And most of all, I just want to talk to him. I just want to tell Rum Tum that I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry and that’s probably an obnoxious number of apologies but even more obnoxious is the number of things I have to apologize for.

When people love one another, they’re supposed to be honest with each other. Maybe that’s why there’s never any love in my parents’ eyes when they look at one another. My mother hides her doubts beneath her smile like a pea under a stack of mattresses; if you’re smart enough, you might just get the slight sensation of it being there. And I always said that wouldn’t be me. I swore I was an open book, a truthful person. So then why is it so hard for me to tell Rum Tum about my parents’ plans to sell him off? Why have I never fully told him about Kormiko? Or about my parents? Or about the nightmares and nightmares and nightmares that plague me every night? – (And I still can’t understand how my subconscious manages to create nightmares that I haven’t already lived through) – and what about how sorry I am? Can’t I even tell him that? Or how impossible it is to erase this terrible feeling in my stomach every time I see the shock collar around his neck?

I always considered words to be my tool, but they have been failing me more and more often. I’m afraid of using the wrong words: words that will hurt Rum Tum. I’m afraid that if I can’t be happy, Rum Tum won’t be happy. I’m scared that he will leave me, and I’m scared that he won’t leave me, and I’m terrified that maybe he needs to leave me in order to be happy in this lifetime. But I’m most frightened knowing that he definitely is leaving. And not on his own account, either. My parents are probably making calls at this very moment, trying to find someone who might be willing to buy their Avox. It's only a matter of time. Time and fear.

"Won't stop running till we reach the sun"

Last Edit: Feb 22, 2015 16:31:16 GMT -5 by cici

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Outside the Lines [Frumtum] Feb 16, 2015 22:58:34 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Feb 16, 2015 22:58:34 GMT -5

Three words that became hard to say, I and love and you

Is this the part of the story where I’m supposed to know just exactly what to do? When the fairy tales get told, it’s that the prince takes the princess off and away into a world that she deserves. They don’t usually make stories about boys that are at the bottom of the rung like me. I guess that’s because no one wants to feel they haven’t got any power to do anything, even when the whole world is waiting to begin with them. That’s what hurts more, that we have so much that the two of us could do, and go, and see. Great big mountains where the clouds dance off—where we can sit under trees when the rains pass, and wrap ourselves in blankets to keep out the cold. I can kiss her there, not in a crowded train but alone, the way that it’s supposed to be. It’ll be just the two of us, listening to our hearts beat in our ears. Our tongues will still be tied, but I’ll press a hand to her face and tell her, you’re beautiful. And she’ll laugh because she always laughs at me, because I’m never serious except I’ll be deathly serious, that Freya Hanig, you’re more beautiful than the sun coming up over the mountains.

We’ve had a lot of hurt that’s kept us from this point. My lips are still wet when she pulls back, and all I can do is blush, words—not coming to my lips. I take a breath, thinking how for years we’ve held hands and marched over sunsets, but never have we done, have we kissed. It’s not that I didn’t like it—quite the opposite, it should’ve lasted longer, all things considered—but that it makes me scared. Because now we are here, we’re so far from where we once were, and I’ve never been in a place like this. I’ve seen plenty of things out in the wild, and even here in the capitol, but I’ve never been a part of another person before. That’s what this means, at least, I hope that it means, we’re a part of one another. More than just her being the one who’s shared my journey with me, which I’ve been lucky to have, but the one that I guess—the one that gets to share the stars with me.

I guess I’m supposed to know by know what love is supposed to feel like. Freya could have been on to something with all of those books, they probably would teach me a thing or two as to what it’s supposed to be. I’ve never—didn’t ever quite have the chance to wrap my hands around… to really know, what this was supposed to feel like. Isn’t love supposed to just… be? That’s the way my mother always talked about it, that love isn’t something that you pick and you choose. It comes the same as the wind, you just feel it between your fingers and toes. You’re supposed to follow it, and never let it go, because once that starts to slip through your fingers, you may never get it again. There’s always a chance another gust of wind will blow your way, but love—never comes the same way twice.

My mother never let go of loving my father. She would spend hours telling stories of how the two of them traveled together, of how they were just two great wanderers that got to see the whole world. He would lay down next to her, and she would always close her eyes first, because he wanted to keep the both of them safe. You bleed, I bleed. He would tell her. ‘Cause the two of them were supposed to be unbreakable. It’s why, she would tell me, he’d been the one to take on the great mutt that had killed my family. He fought just long enough, and just hard enough, that she was able to get away with me. Sacrificed his life because love, in the end, was supposed to be about sacrificing every last piece of yourself for someone else until you weren’t you anymore.

But those stories weren’t true.

My father lived in District Eleven, with his new wife, and with the children that he’d made. Benat had been his son because—why did he pick Benat over me? There wasn’t the great love that my mother had said but just one, longing for the day when they would be back together again. She had never gotten over him, even after all the years had passed on, and lost her life over it. They didn’t have love, not the kind of love that I ever wanted in my life. Not that it could have been much better for the both of them, being trapped with someone that didn’t bring you joy every morning. I may not know much about how I want to love, but I do know what it isn’t. My mother gave up too much of herself because she’d thought that’s what would bring her love in return.

I look at Freya and cross my hands across my lap. She goes on about how it’s our stop and the people begin to shift. I stand and begin to move, trying to follow her footsteps. Does she care about where we’re going is this, is this adventure something more? Why aren’t we talking about the kiss? Are we not going to talk about—I take a step off the train and Freya is still saying something but I can’t listen, I can only think about how the world is going to fall off of its axis if neither of us say something to one another. Does she feel the same way? She has to feel the way that I do, she has to have her heart beating and her blood rushing, to want to duck into the little alleyway nearby and press our lips together again. And again, and again because it felt nice, it felt so incredibly nice for the two of us to just—to have our bodies together. That’s love, isn’t it?

“I don’t know where I want to go,” I say quietly. There’re always so many people walking around the city center, and so many more pressing in and out of the shops. In the spare moment we find peace, there’s usually someone that comes to tap me on the shoulder and ask me to do my best impersonation of Benat. I let out and stare out at the skyline at the metallic sheen in the distance. The windows reflect their light back on us, and I hold up the palm of my hand above my eyes to get a clearer view. I give a grin and point to the tallest building, the one with strange statues lining the side. It looks important, and is quite a ways from where we are now. Which should give us plenty of time to talk, or not talk—because if she doesn’t want to talk then I won’t—about the train. And the city. And us. “How about there?”

It’s my heart beating again that I recognize. The thumping in my ears drowns out the rest of the world around me, and I can only smile. Smile because I’m with Freya, and because I have no idea what I’m supposed to do next. There’s a way that the people of the capitol might do things, and maybe the people in the districts another but, I want it another way entirely. I want her to kiss me again, and for her to say that she loves me. And then I can say to her, I love you, too. Then we can hold hands and walk through the capitol together, or run out of the gates, or do whatever it is that we’re going to do, together. That’s all that I want—and is that so selfish? Putting myself first is what got my mother into trouble, but there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong in telling someone that you love them. It shouldn’t be a crime to tell someone that they’re your sun and stars—but my heart certainly beats fast enough to say that I must be wrong.

I should keep it locked inside, until I find the right moment. That’s what got us into trouble, is all of this spur of the moment, do as we please sort of business. I have to figure out how things work here—not just jabber out that she’s the one that needs to run away with me. She mentions Kormiko—the boy that she lost before—and it makes me think, about how she’s already been in love. She already knows what all of this feels like, so rushing through it like a child would probably only end in heartbreak. I take a breath. I don’t like that word at all, heartbreak. It makes it sound as though your heart will crumble into several thousand little pieces that can never be put back together again. I look back at Freya and wonder if she’s ever been heartbroken. When we fell apart, was she—

I take a breath and whistle out. Sometimes it’s better not to know all the answers, especially when things are bound to hurt us. I don’t think she’d tell me, even if I wanted her to. And I shouldn’t tell her, that all those nights I let Sampson fall asleep first, I would think about how she must have been somewhere—somewhere safe. That I’d been the one that couldn’t listen to her, hadn’t waited long enough to see her come out of District Three all right. I spent so many nights imagining her across from the fire, and how she’d stare at the little embers until they burned low. When you really love someone, all they have to do is be, because just knowing they’re with you is enough to make it through. The world needs that sort of love; the kind that helps you put one foot in front of the other. Too many people here are unhappy because they can’t see what’s important.

“You don’t think, you don’t know,” I start, hands in my pockets. “Kormiko was—” I know I shouldn’t bring up his name, but all I can think about are the ways that she must have felt, and all the questions I’m not supposed to ask. How did they know each other? Why does she still talk about him? What happened to him, and did she ever talk about me that way? Why won’t she talk about me that way? I should stop, I should stop because I know that this will be nothing but a problem for both of us, especially now that I’ve gotten her to say so much. She does care about me, otherwise she would have never set foot in my room, or taken me out of the house. I could have been miserable and disgarded and thrown away ages ago, but Freya was good enough to see that I was here—that we were better together than apart.

“I’m sorry,” I start again. “I don’t really need to know I just—I was just making conversation.” I hope it’s enough for her to understand. There’s still butterflies in my stomach, and all the piles and piles of questions that I have about everything here. And all I can think is how much I want to kiss her again, why can’t I kiss her again? I let out a little laugh and bring my arms across my chest. The crowds are starting to shuffle past, and the faces of important people dance on the screens that line the streets. There’s so much noise calling out to the both of us, I wonder whether or not we’ll ever be able to hear one another. But I know that’s not true, because even when I can’t speak I can still see her, I can hear her that way. “I’m happy to be here with you.”

Words: 2017

Last Edit: Feb 16, 2015 22:59:24 GMT -5 by Deleted

cici
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Outside the Lines [Frumtum] Feb 22, 2015 17:35:20 GMT -5

Post by cici on Feb 22, 2015 17:35:20 GMT -5

“Won't lay down our heads till the day is won "

freya hanig

Rum Tum asks about Kormiko, and a resounding sense of pain fills me. I miss Kormiko. And I shouldn’t miss him. No, I’m not supposed to miss him, am I? I have Rum Tum now, don’t I? ~~But not for long.~~ “I’m happy to be here with you,” Rum Tum says. Happy...happy...I wish I could be happy to be here with you, Rum Tum, but when am I ever happy? How can I be happy when I know they’re going to tear our hands apart and take him away? I don’t think he sees the way I’m breaking and shattering and trying so hard to step over all the tragedies that keep tripping me over and over and over again. I want to scream, (because remember when I kissed Kormiko like that? Remember when the moon illuminated his face, and I had to wipe away the tears from my own because I thought I was undeserving and unloveable and I didn’t think he would actually find me and kiss me and tell me I was worth it because no I was just a silly girl I’ve always been just a silly girl and at least remember when I was a silly girl in love and do you remember how we kissed there and then in the middle of the street in the dark and how they came and pulled us apart and took him away even though it was my fault i was the silly girl who handed him the matches who told him to do it do it do it and remember how i hated myself then and how i hate myself now and how we never thought we’d see each other again but we did we saw each other and we knew we’d endure we knew we would we had faith in the universe because we were young and free and in love and the world was ours maybe not this world but we built our own world with our own bare hands and our beating hearts and in the end it still crumbled. in the end, we still lost.) but instead of screaming I smile. I smile, because Rum Tum doesn’t see. He doesn’t understand, and maybe it’s better that he doesn’t. Maybe it’s better that he smiles and that I smile along.

I try to match that smile on his face, picking up the breaking pieces inside me and putting them back into place. “I’m happy to be here with you too.” But everything feels empty. Everything feels lost and broken; why can’t I just be happy like Rum Tum? He doesn’t want to see me sad. No one does. And all I want, all I want is for him to be happy. After all the time I’ve made him miserable, shouldn’t he be happy? Shouldn’t I at least give him that? But I know this universe is just gonna pull our hands apart like those peacekeepers pulled apart mine and Kormiko’s. So why do I keep fighting this endless cycle of grief? Why do I gradually let myself be vulnerable to the wonders of the universe again when they lead me to the same dead end every time? Every. Time.

“Rum Tum,” I croak. “Rum Tum, I’m feeling…sick,” I say as I stop walking, letting go of his hand. I blink a couple of times, but there’s that chill down my spine, that panic in my chest, that uneasy feeling in my stomach, and I’m thinking so hard that my brain seems to be pounding against my skull. The tears at the edges of my eyes are threatening to burst, and there’s a lump in my throat that makes it impossible to speak even one word more. I take a step to the side towards the building so that I’m not in the way but it doesn’t really feel like I’m taking a step am I taking a step I don’t know but I’m gasping and I wonder if I’m breathing and I wonder if any of this is actually real am I even real part of me hopes not and now i’m sitting down against the side of the building and it’s a public street people are looking at me and I think I’m sort of okay I’m sort of breathing but how much longer will rum tum be breathing what if they kill him what if he’s so useless to them they have him stop breathing

I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I wish I could sustain enough steady breaths to even speak the words. Because I need to talk to Rum Tum.

I need to fix everything.

“My parents are sending you away,” I say in between shivers. I gasp again and reach out for Rum Tum, because I want him to sit down with me and put his arm around my shoulders and tell me “it’s going to be okay” like he did in the woods when there was a blanket pulled around us and a fire to keep us warm. For a while then, I was so afraid: so afraid that the soft rustle of the bushes was a wild animal waiting to emerge from the dark trees at any moment. But Rum Tum kept me safe. And somehow, I’m so bad at keeping him safe. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. This is all my fault,” I say, shaking my head. “When does this end?” I put my sleeve over my mouth, trying to stifle the incoming tears. Because here it comes. Here comes all the feelings that I’ve been trying to keep locked inside me. The tears start rolling down my cheeks, and I hide my face behind my knees. I don’t want to do this here. I don’t want everyone to see me, but I can’t stand up. I can’t run away. My bones are too weak, and I can’t get any more words out of my mouth. The ground feels so cold and I am so small and where is Rum Tum Rum Tum is so far.

And he’s only going to be getting further.

"Won't stop running till we reach the sun"

Last Edit: Feb 22, 2015 17:37:35 GMT -5 by cici