pay the piper, whatever the price {rook/python/arx}

and the experts

say i'm delirious

If I'm really quiet, I can still hear his joyful laughter echoing through the woods.

Then again, that would make me crazy. Normally I wouldn't be bothered by the idea that I am delirious—I mean, this is Panem after all and isn't everyone here at least a little bit insane?—but as the adult of the household I have no time for delusions of an incapacitated boy running around the woods with me. Then again it isn't a delusion; it is a memory. A memory I've tried to rid myself of for nearly 3 years now. And still it persists, clawing at my darkest memories like a feral animal with teeth bared and claws ready. Because every happy memory I have of my brother reminds me of the day I---

I forgot to lock the door.

I stop dead in my tracks and twist around, the memory simply falling away as fear creeps back into my mind. I had told myself that today would be a good day when I crawled out of bed. My morning coffee tasted better than usual, Mom's smile seemed brighter than it had for nearly a year, and the sunrise was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I only went through my morning routine twice, feeling confident that locking and re-locking the front door three times was plenty enough to feel safe.

But had I really locked it? Or had I forgotten to re-lock on the third try? The last time I left it unlocked...

No.

I stop myself from moving back towards home, but that doesn't stop my stomach from churning. For a moment I think I might actually be sick and I drop my bag next to me, ready for my breakfast to make a reappearance. It never comes. After a few minutes I stand again, the nausea and fear slowly passing as I begin counting the number of leaves below me. By the time I've reached one-hundred, my heart has stopped racing and I've turned back around. I begin to count my footsteps.

It's a long walk from my house to the cabin where Mrs. Conwell lives. Under normal circumstances I would simply find her at the District Square where she sells her pumpkin rolls and apple strudels, but I'd rather not have to explain why I have over 20 pastries that I didn't pay for in my backpack. It's a wonder my mother and I haven't been arrested yet. She can't help but steal every useless item she sees and I can't help but put them back where she got them before anyone notices their disappearance. But this has turned into a very regular routine, and in that, I find some solace.

Leaves crunch beneath my feet with every step and for some reason the sound reminds me of crunching bones—morbid, but accurate. It's the same sound my nose always made when the bully at school used to break it. It's the same sound that my brother's sternum and ribs made when I tried to resuscitate him on our kitchen floor---"Four thousand six hundred and twenty-seven. Four thousand six hundred and twenty-eight. Four thousand six hund--" I speak the numbers aloud to drown out the crunching of the leaves and too keep my mind away from anything that might make me turn towards home. But I know those memories of my brother lying lifeless on the floor are something I will never be able to forget. Nor do I want to.

But I'm busy. Dwelling on the past isn't going to help me. Not today anyway. Besides, I take pride in returning what isn't mine. Well, that and putting it back without anyone noticing. I once was able to sneak a twenty pound statuette back into the whittler's shop without turning a single head. Granted most of the attention had been drawn to the stink bomb I had placed out front, but I still like to give myself credit in the art of stealth. Reverse thieving—if only all of Panem lived by my standards.

My boots sink deep into the mud as I get closer to the stream. The chill of the air reminds me that spring is approaching slowly this year. Looking over the landscape I realize I haven't visited the creek since last summer. On summer nights when I scavenge the creek bed for pebbles to take to my brother's bedside, all I can hear is the incessant croaking of toads and chirping of crickets. Winter is leaving them in hibernation this spring.  Maybe when the ground thaws and the temperature rises my brother will wake up, too.

I take a deep breath, expecting to find comfort in the smell of wet earth around me. Instead all I smell is nicotine. I gag as the taste invades my senses; I've never been able to get used to it even though my mother has smoked since I was born. I glance around, letting the sleeve of my jacket act as a filter over my mouth. I don't see anyone, hear anyone. As far as I can tell, I'm the only one out here. I have been known to be extremely paranoid, so the idea that I'm just imagining it crosses my mind. After a few minutes, I chalk it up to nothing more than just that—my imagination.

It is only when I'm staring at the blade of a knife that I recognize I made a mistake in doubting myself. I nearly stumble back into the brush I had just escaped from, restoring my balance on a patch of brambles which I quickly realize are thorn-ridden. But the pain isn't much compared to the knife pointed at me so I don't let it bother me.

After a few moments I realize I've taken in as many details as I possibly can; I'm still utterly confused. A boy stands in front of me, half-naked and glistening. His feet are bare, muddied, and though he looks relatively clean, my better judgement tells me he spends a lot of time out here. A cigarette dangles from his lips rather skillfully, the way my mother holds her when her hands are busy. Which brings my eyes back to the blade in his hand. I raise my hands defensively, swallowing hard.

It's not that I haven't faced deadly situations before... Okay, so maybe I haven't ever actually been in a situation where I might be killed, but I see it every year when the Games begin. I should be used to this, know how to handle life-threatening situations. And I know as soon as the words pop into my head that they are the wrong ones, but they slip out all the same.

I chuckle nervously, praying I look less like a smart-ass and more like a terrified girl with thorns in her hand and a nervous laughing habit.

"Knife to meet you, too."

Terrible puns make terrible defense mechanisms, but I've got nothing better to offer. I smile because I don't know what else to do; I prompt him when I feel like eternity has passed. "Get it?"

and you can keep

all your misery