The Great Wave // Gideon One-Shot

In the midst of destruction, of terror, of the giant wave that crashed into District Four's crowded coast was Gideon Avery. The water washed over his house, knocking anything that wasn't nailed down away in a pile of clutter and debris. The boy's blue eyes looked over the mess that was once his neighborhood. A pain filled his chest, the kind of hurt that crawls into your lungs and threatens to drown you on dry land. He stumbled down driftwood piles, mountains of useless items that at one time had so much value. He could hear the men working, ripping parts of docks to help the screaming people beneath them.

The tsunami is gone now. Most of the district has been rebuilt enough to go on with everyday activity. There are still holes. The merchant who always gave the street child the bruised apples- missing. The fishwife with the loudest lungs- dead. These little details in the background of Gideon's life had been washed away leaving holes in the canvas. People have extra scars, extra bags under their eyes. A disaster and a reaping back to back- the people of District Four have been tossed around quite a bit. Everyone agrees that this was one of the worst things to happen to the area in years. People grieve over the dead and count their lucky stars that more did not lose their lives. Everyone is grateful to see another day. Everyone is thankful.

However, there is something under Gideon's blue eyes. While he smiles to the people he passes on the streets and makes small talk with the other fisherman, there is something deep within him that is twisted with pain. While everyone in the district wakes up ready for another day of rebuilding and work, Gideon is dragged from sleep slowly. He stares at the ceiling for a few moments- his skin feels numb. Eventually, he rises and throws on his work clothes. He goes through his day in a robotic trance. Do what you're told, speak when spoken to, smile back. Everyday is like this- listen, speak, smile. He grins, he works, he talks about the movement of fish. He smirks, he works, he assures his friend his knot is done well.

The boy is too young to feel so heavy. He is too strong to feel so weak.

It's on the way home that the feeling creeps into his skin. When the sun is dipping into the water and the district is dim enough to cast shadows everywhere. Little thoughts easily slip into his mind. A quick dip in the sea with a few rocks.

He shakes his head and moves on.

A hook to the wrist.

Fists clenched he moves forward.

A leap into front of a Peacekeeper's gun.

He gets home.

A few words are exchanged with his uncle but retiring to his room. He spends his evenings alone. He writes mostly. About his day, about the people he saw or the shapes the clouds made. He doesn't write about his thoughts. Putting them down in ink would only make them more real. They're easier to brush off when they're only his in head, but lately they've become harder and harder to brush away.

He sits by the window writing in his little journal. His hand grips his pencil too roughly, he presses it into the paper to hard. Snap. His only pencil broken. He'd have to take it to work with him in the morning and use the knives there to whittle it into a point again. Sighing, he tosses his journal aside. It thuds onto something on the floor. Looking down, Gideon spies a thick length of rope. Uncle and Gideon had been using it to keep a temporary roof on their home until they fixed it completely. Now, with a sturdy roof, it had been discarded in Gideon's room.

By the moonlight he just make out the tawny brown color. It was thick stuff, made to keep boats from straying in the harbor. It would take little work to loop it into a hangman's knot.

Gideon quickly looks outside his window again, focusing on the neighboring houses instead of the danger by his feet.

The boy had never had these thoughts before, but he couldn't say he'd always been completely happy. A lot of the time he felt like everyone else was standing on dry land while he was submerged in the sea. It took so much effort to pull himself up to the level everyone else was at that he hardly tried anymore. Now that he stopped fighting he felt himself being pulled even farther into the depths. So deep that no one would see him ever again.

From his little window he watched District Four return home from work. He could smell fish frying near by and while it made him smile it did nothing to fix the numbness that had set into his chest.

Truth is, if Gideon wrote everything down in his journal- his true feelings about the day, about his life. If Gideon Avery wrote the truth about himself on paper it would read.

"While many are grateful the have their lives after the great wave, I find myself to be the soul person who wishes their's had been washed away."