viola ruined | d5 | FIN

V I O L A R U I N E D

fourteen - district five - odair

I'd become known as the little girl who would stand at the foot of their graves: the past tributes. A single flower entwined between her fingers which would eventually find itself lying in the surrounding grass all alone, in pieces. I'd tear them all to shreds. The pretty, delicate petals would find themselves being carried away in the sickly wind; the leaves would dry up in the grass and slowly rot, rot, rot away; and the stem which was once so strong and reliable would wither, breaking into a hundred and one uniquely shaped pieces which would blend in with the green of the grass. Before: I was a young girl which a hope that her sister wouldn't come back in a box, but now, I'm a girl determined to forget it all.

~

I'd always wear the dress that had been stitched numerous times to try and fit my petite frame. It was a hand me down, from her, and would always fit loosely around me. I'd always been a weakling: dainty and fragile. The older children at school would worry that with their hasty touch, I'd fall over and break, like a porcelain doll. I imagine I would. My bones are brittle and would crunch. Shards of innocence and purity would be ground to a thin dust, sinking into my veins before being pumped around my body with every breath.

My eyes used to be full of life, a sprinkling of hope when the light would shine into them. Now, they're empty, irritated and red. The tiffany blue remains but is misted. A cloud of worry obscures my view, thickening with every blink, with every move I make. I still have faith that one day the blinding sun will burn it away, turning back time, making me the girl I used to be. But do I want to be that girl when my lips are stained with the toothmarks of nervous biting? They've been injected with a poison which only drip, drip, drips out with every cut I make. I woke up in the night, the liquid oozing down my chin; I thought this was the end - but it all ended so long ago.

I was always the one with manners. "Please" and "thank you" would leak out from my lips like it was nothing. I'd flaunt the three words around, thinking they'd seperate me from the crowd. They never did, and with each day, it was becoming more apparent. Until, one day, the leak ran dry. No sounds came out of my mouth, no words, no meaning. A drought had taken over, and I've given in to it. I'd allowed it to place a heavy metal padlocks on my mouth, locking me up. I'd watch as it'd throw away the key. It'd fly through the air and my eyes would follow it - but it'd fade into the strangely familiar darkness that flooded in around me.

Emotion was sucked out of me the moment her name was called. "Pixie Ruined!" and my legs fell limp. My breathing slowed completely and I felt a burning sensation all over my body. It's like a vulture swooped in and carried the child inside me away. It drew a cold line through my immaturity and wrote a new word in permanent marker. The word would sink in through my skin, penetrating every nook and cranny until it'd find itself in my blood. And in the blood is where it became fact.

All my strength goes in to trying to forget. The heartbreak and tears shed by my mother are kept safe in a jar at the back of my mind. But, that's not good enough for me. I want it gone. The whirlwind of emotion that was felt in our home throughout the course of the games needs to be smashed, beated and bruised black and blue until it knows it has no place with me. I admit, I want her to be honoured for her bravery, but I want it all to slip out my ear too. The expectations to move on pile pressure on me, pressure which I'm slowly crumbling under. If I don't forget about it all, how can I know that it's history? I'll eventually become one of those people who has no worries and dances in the breeze of today, in the cascading winds of the present. Or, so I hope.

Three years had passed since my father descended into an everlasting darkness. His death was all around us, slowly closing in on our family leaving us no escape. My mother would always try to forget his passing, yet his death left a blood-stained hand print on our memory. With each day, the happy memories fade more and more, and eventually his being will disappear and float like a ghost into the void.

Nothing has been the same since she went. She was taken by death's hand so peacefully. She didn't struggle when her name was called, it's like she knew it would be her, and she accepted it. The thought of her acceptance cuts deeper into my heart; it slashes away and laughs hysterically as I bleed. Her final words to me spread about my mind like a plague. They bounce of the orderly walls causing havoc in a place that should be organised. If I could turn back time and watch my skinny finger pulled the clock hands anticlockwise, I'd tell her that she'd be okay. I'd tell her that we all loved her, and I'd tell her that everything will be okay. But all those days ago, I was just that little girl who was grateful it wasn't her name that was pulled out of the bowl. I wish I could pick up a magical quill and rewrite our heartwrenching recent history.

And now, I count down the days until the next Reaping comes about. When the day finally arrives and another girl and boy are taken away from the comfort of their family and home, I'll know how their siblings will feel. I'll say a silent prayer as I close my eyes, shutting the rest of the world off. I'll do myself a favour - and not bring the past into the present.