To Kingdom Come [Charade; VT]

I could blow her to pieces if I wanted to.

They have little pellets of fertilizer, and ammonia, and all the things that I need to make this whole place go up in smoke. I made a handful of mason jars at the start of the games—filled them with scoops of the little while pellets they put on the soil to make the crops grow and the cleaner we use when the winter months come, so the metal doesn’t rust and crack. There’s not much to it. There’s folk from the dark days still left that know how to set the world on fire. Guess people just forget, with time—but that’s a lie. People choose not to remember, on account of it making them think. If they knew that we still had any scrap of power, they might not have an excuse to sick back like cowards. They’d keep going on breathing, like that’s living. Because the world is a lot better when it’s small, and you only got the space in front of your nose to worry about.

Katelyn came home to us. It was the start of our collective amnesia, when the whole world up and celebrated like we had gotten some queen. There’s nothing I understand less than the idea of us being happy because some kid gets to come home after everyone else dies—how much can you forget in a year, that we’ve lost too many to count, and after how many years we have to celebrate a stroke of luck? They won’t fix the holes in our roofs and that certainly won’t change the scraps they give us to eat. And next year? We’ll forget the ones that come back to us in boxes because they didn’t win. We forget all about the ones that make us think—that gave us pain, that hurt whole families and tear them apart. Instead we have to celebrate someone who isn’t any different than me, or Deval, or Benat, or anyone that this whole district has.

Try talking to anyone now about how bad the district is and you’ll see. Whatever chance we had at a new start disappeared the moment they put the crown on her head. Oh—you want to see things get better? These people have forgotten. Worse, they’ve fallen asleep. Their eyes ain’t even open to see that nothing has changed, nothing’s ever gonna change if we don’t take a stand. The capitol will always have the power and we’ll always have none. Because people are too happy with the way things are, always thinking that it could be them some day—as though we will ever wear the crown, as though we’ll be fawned over, that we’ll be able to make a difference or live in some fancy house upon a hill where the gates are iron and the peacekeepers keep watch.

The Victor’s Village is a ghost town, and maybe that’s what keeps people away. The old houses that were built for all of our would-be winners have stood for seventy years of failures, of regrets, and loneliness. It is why; the moon hanging up overhead, there’s no one within a mile—save for the girl I want to meet behind the doors. Not that she couldn’t be somewhere else. Maybe she’s stomping around the district with the crown on her head, seeing folk and tending to what needs tending. But I bet it’s more likely she’s wrapped up in her own little world, busy forgetting all the folk that got her back here. I wouldn’t be surprised—and part of me doesn’t want to blame her, neither. Iago had the same feeling about all of us, that we weren’t good enough for saving. Why on earth should the district get any better, when folks are so happy to just keep toiling the earth and have their heads down? We got only ourselves to blame for how the world is. They’d rather have this little piece of life than none at all.

It used to be enough for me, too. That’s what got my feet to take me here. Thinking about how I used to be, how I used to just want to live, and heal, and forget—that’s how we all learn to survive. If we focused on all the terrible things, of people we lose and what we wish we had, we’d never get up out of bed in the morning. But we can cherish those little moments, and hold them in our hands like we’ve found a diamond—like when we were at the watering hole, all those years ago. When there was just us, twelve, fourteen, eighteen years old and the world only stretched as far as the water. Those were the days when I was brittle enough to break, when I thought feeling better meant forgetting about what hurt. And I remember her—being there, with us, too.

I know now that I am the last—the strongest of those left—the Izar that has to speak, because no one else can. Levi had only his mother; Deval has gone away; Nekane wouldn’t dare. And so it goes. They drift away, fall asleep, or die. Just like the men and women around me. The whole district would rather we be happy than remember things will get worse again soon. And then we’ll be left hoping the next girl or boy will come home with the crown, or the next. Not that we could never just not send them—that these lives aren’t half worth living if we can’t live them on our terms. We should be turning over tables, smashing silos, and burning every last crop in the fields.

But does she believe that?

I close my hand to a fist and knock against the oak door. Once, twice, three times. My stomach tilts. I’m not afraid of the girl that’s come back. I’m terrified of what she’s going to tell me.

HAYANA OF CAUTION 2.0