{The 69th Annual Masquerade Ball}

When I was five, my mom took the training wheels off of my bike and by the end of the day, I had fallen at least eight times. But the next day it was only seven. And then six. And by the third day I was a master. Practice makes perfect, my mom always said. The more you do something, the easier it becomes, right? I wish loss worked that way too. But it seems like every day that I lose him, I still fall eight times all over again.

I’ve lost myself too, beneath the layers of intricate makeup, the sparkling gown, the updo that has tamed my brown curls, even the mask. I spent at least thirty minutes staring at myself in the mirror, trying to find any slight trace of ugliness that indicated that there was in fact a human beneath this enchanting face staring back at me in the mirror. I didn’t find any. So it was certainly not me in that mirror. I think my mother likes that. She thinks this is a good opportunity for me to meet people without their unnecessary preconceived judgements about me. This is my chance to be someone else: not the troubled, rebellious criminal daughter she raised.

But who really am I anyways? Who am I when I’m not with him and when I’m not consumed by this sadness and when there’s no one around pulling me in this direction or that? Am I anything more than a heap of displaced emotion? I look down at the sparkling blue dress my mother had insisted I wear. She says it looks beautiful on me. But I’m supposed to be in black. I’m still grieving. I am forever grieving. I don’t know how many more times I’m supposed to lose hope before I never get it back again.

I walk along the side of the ballroom, thinking about my mother, how she had told me to give myself a chance. She wants me to go to college. She wants me to be happy and have a family and keep dreaming for the future. But I know she knows about him. I know she knows about it all. And I know she knows that no psychiatrist, therapist, psychologist, or counselor of any kind is going to fix this situation. Or maybe she doesn’t know that. But I do.

I continue walking along the side of the ballroom, my hand brushing the wall as I continue moving and moving and I’m always moving but am I really going anywhere? There are so many people in this hall, I wonder if I could suffocate. Maybe that would be nice. A young man wearing some sort of crazy, unappealing donkey-looking mask turns to me, and in a voice that sounds too much like his, says, “Say, care to dance?” He holds out his hand and I repress all the emotions that immediately arise within me. Everything reminds me of him. Everything always sounds like him. Without saying a word, I roll my eyes and brush past the man in the donkey mask. People here are crazy. I don’t need his ridiculous hand. I don’t need any of this.

And most importantly, I don’t need words.

I have nothing to say.

Creeping across the wet grass, the young woman irritably adjusted her mask for the fifteenth time. Why had she agreed to wear this mask again? Heavy and uncomfortable, the ribbon tied tightly about her head, the woman would do anything to just rip it off. Why did she have to hide her face anyway? The door flew open when she knocked, bright light spilling eagerly over her and an Avox hurried her inside. She yanked her coat off and threw it into the Avox’s arms as they entered the front room, before pressing her cool fingertips to the jewels in her mask to make sure it was still on. It felt foreign and hot on her face, sticky even. She’d give anything to toss it into the Avox’s arms too, the very same Avox that had touched her arm when she’d led her inside. She’d give anything to arrive at the party, fresh-faced, eyes narrowed, mouth drawn into a tight line, as she normally did and watch others either turn their backs with pale glances or rush to her side to greet her. She wanted people to know who she was.

The invitation to attend President Snow’s masked ball was of no surprise to her. She was often invited to these sort of functions. It was just the masked part that baffled her. Why is everyone going to be hidden? Wouldn’t that upset the delicate hierarchy established in the Capitol? Why, if she wasn’t careful, she might find herself entertaining someone to the likes of her mother—and that wouldn’t make her very happy at all.

The party was in full swing when she entered, her hand still firmly clasped around the edge of her mask, in fear that it was askew. Masked face upon masked face greeted her, ornaments amongst fancy streamers and long curtains where Avoxes, also masked, ducked in and out. One hastily handed her some champagne that she gratefully downed before brusquely sending the servant off for more.

A weaker woman than here would feel nothing but anxiety, lost in a brightly colored sea of masked people, without anyone to latch onto, but she was no such woman. She glided with ease through the crowd, eyes darting around from under her mask, trying to remove them with her mind, trying to figure out who each one was. Some party-goers had their faces completely covered, not simply their eyes. She began to judge people based on the type of mask, how expensive she could gage it to be. That was the one good thing about her mother; she’d taught her daughter a lot about material.

She came upon the foyer where most people were, sipping champagne, making their ridiculous talk in high-pitched voices and comparing masks. Here the woman fell against the wall, adjusting her mask again and crossing her arms. Even masked, the party-goers were the same. To her, it was just another one of President Snow’s parties; drunk, wild, uncomfortable, young men asking her to dance, offering her drinks, sliding their palms over her bottom with those wide grins, unaware of who they were touching, until her smile reared up, white and sharp, and her long fingers shot out. Last time she’d been in this room, she’d broken two fingers.

Grinding her teeth at the very thought, the woman cast a glance to her side to see that a man there, squeezed behind a large pillar. His mask took up his entire face, leaving only two holes for his eyes, which she couldn’t quite make out. The room was glittering with light and his mask threw a kaleidoscope of colors back at her and she squinted at him. His mouth was covered and eager for some bait, she snarled out, “What are you? Some kind of Avox?”

I keep walking, but the young man calls after me as I scurry away in a voice that sounds like his. It is his. I shake my head; people tell me I'm crazy, and they're right. Maybe I'm just so trapped in this indescribable need for him, so much that I'm letting him follow me everywhere I go. I run faster now, trying to escape this feeling, this need, this gaping hole that only grows wider within me: this hole that I'm waiting for time to heal. Because time is the only thing that can truly heal loss, and never all the way. Just until the loss stops bleeding all the life out of you, until it's just a scar that you see when you look in the mirror once in a while.

Escaping past the crowds of strangers and the man who can't be Rum Tum, I steady my hand on a doorknob and open it into an empty room before shutting the door and immerse myself into the darkness. I lean against the wall and take a deep breath, the voice finally extinguished. He's okay. He's okay. He's somewhere and he's okay and I just have to believe that instead of letting this loss and this guilt hang over me, selfishly clinging to this gap that he needs to fill and to all the mistakes I made, all the ways that I hurt him. There are hopes and worries in this world that cause too much pain. Thinking that I'll see Rum Tum in this huge world again is one of those useless hopes that I need to suppress. And thinking that he's dead is a worry that I also can't afford.

The door opens, the light flickers on, and my heart jumps a beat. I look to my left. It's the man in the donkey mask again, asking to dance, and it's his voice. It's definitely his voice. Maybe I'm not crazy. I have to know. Without another moment's hesitation, I take a step towards the man and put my hand on his mask, pulling it off over his head until his identity is revealed. A smile crosses my face and without another thought or word, I throw my arms around his neck, which is devoid of a shock collar, and pull my face towards his until my lips are on his and somehow I'm still smiling. He's so warm, and everything is okay, he is okay, and I'm okay, I'm not crazy, it was his voice, and to think of how big this city is and how many troubles we've overcome, the fact that we're both alive and healthy and together in this moment must mean that we're meant to endure.

I have many people in my life who love me: my parents, my friends, the little girl next door. But not like this. I've missed this. Why have I missed this? Rum Tum kisses my hands and I feel that gaping hole within me becoming smaller and smaller and I don't know why I need his affection to do that to me. He pulls my mask off of my face, but really, he is always pulling off my mask, even when there's no mask to hide behind. Because when I'm with him like this, I'm happy. I'm free. I'm curious and optimistic and someone else entirely. And I like that person. I want to be that person forever. But why -- why am I not that person when I'm apart from him? Why does it take his hands pulling the mask off my face to reveal the few things I like about myself? “Please don’t leave me, please, I want to dance with you and don’t say you can’t…” He smiles. “Freya…"

I squeeze his hand harder, as if I'm afraid that someone will burst through the door and try to pry our hands apart. Of course I won't leave. Not now, not ever. Everyone keeps pulling him away from me, but I won't let that happen again. I won't risk this being the last time I see his face. I feel my hands trembling at the thought, and I wonder, is Rum Tum as empty without me as I without him? Who am I without him? Is there supposed to be this gaping hole in me that I've left for him to fill? Does that mean I'm weak? Does that mean I'm not really a person, just the fragments of one, still waiting to be put together again? Who am I, really? Who am I anymore?

I know who I used to be. I know that I liked to speak, and that I liked to speak loud, but I also liked to read and learn and explore and think about all the things that everyone around me always overlooked. And I liked running, in the mornings before everyone was awake, and I would run for so long that my legs felt like they were on fire, and I always ran into that fire. I always had to run faster or further, faster further, further faster. But now I don't run. I just follow. And I let people take things from me. I let my parents take Rum Tum from me. I let them make up lies to the peacekeepers about how I had been kidnapped, about how I was still recovering, about how I just needed some time.

All I do anymore is wait: wait for good things to come. And now they're here, and I can't let them slip from my hands again.

"No," I say, my voice hoarse from being idle for so long: days, weeks, who knows? "I don't want to dance. Not here, no. I...I want to get away from here right now. With you. And I never want to come back. I want to go to the ocean and see the faces in the rocks and live under the trees and I never want to lose you ever again." I can feel the tears at the edges of my eyes, but I quickly wipe them away and wrap my arms around him, burying my face in his shoulder. I'll keep losing him here. And I'll keep losing myself.

Or maybe I've already lost that.