beyond the fence {rebellion; n-shot}

My hands shake with the weight of all the suffering and the crushed skulls and the stupid damnable crayons we see on television as I lift the bowl to fill it with tesserae grain and oil. Generously provided, thanks to Salome and Tamron's sacrifice. Salome and Tamron, their names were are, and it's an insult to their memories that some in this district almost seem to think it cursed to remember them.

The oil is slippery beneath my fingers, and shattered ceramic, sparkles of white shards are another tally added to my debt. Useless, the voice in my head chides, because it's a waste and a burden on the family even if they've given up on berating me for it.

People say, in their reassurances, that even the best of us feel that way from time to time, but nobody at all is worthless. But how can I believe that, when other people end up with baskets of fruit by the end of the work day, and I end up with yelling and pink slips?

I still wonder if I should have volunteered. If I should have stepped up early and taken the task on my own shoulders, saving the two people on screen from that fate. I would die in the Bloodbath - a weak little Eleven girl couldn't hope for much more - but the entire district would remember me as a hero.

It would be better than dying in an accident like my mother did, forgotten and unmourned.

But she is not forgotten, a little voice reminds me. She lives on in the memories of my father, my siblings, even if my own memories of her seem to slip away without her presence to remind me what she's like.

I don't even miss her anymore; it's almost like she was never there to begin with. Does that makes me heartless, for letting that happen?

But that's why I couldn't do it - couldn't volunteer to be sent to my death even if I would die a hero. My family would remember, and mourn, and I will not waste the good luck given to us by Ripred, keeping us safe through so many reapings despite the tesserae my sister took, by offering myself to the Capitol.

They would miss me, and I didn't deserve that, but that wouldn't stop them. And who am I to argue against their love, if a broken family would hurt them more than my portion of food ever would? There was no point in being a martyr for the sake of the district, if I had to betray my own blood to do it.

So then why was I so dangerously close to the fence, gazing out at what lay beyond?