retrospective [io]
Nov 10, 2018 11:36:53 GMT -5
Post by shrimp on Nov 10, 2018 11:36:53 GMT -5
There's nothing like watching a reaping to know that your entire term as mayor is nothing but a sham. The highest level of power in the district - officially, of course - and all she can do about it is stand on a stage, read out a speech that in any other event would be through clenched teeth, and be with the families as they stand next to, not with, their loved ones.
She knows the most fervid of reactions aren't directed at her - and she gets off easy, considering that they're all aware of the consequences of speaking their truth in a Capitol-funded building. But when she gets home from the reaping each year, it's worse than when she was in the pool. But she wipes away tears, pours herself a cup of black coffee, and tries to make amends. Amends to her friends, who watched her send off her own with a cordiality not becoming of this sacrifice. Amends to her family, who've slowly gained the ire of the district. And amends to her community.
But Io Wie, even after 5 years, is not a politician.
She's turned the Mayor's Mansion into something more like a community center, an emergency amount of medical supplies stashed in a sterile box in her desk drawer, the first floor a cross between a daycare and a clinic. But even still, it's all short-term. What will become of this place once there is a new mayor, with new goals and new ideas? Maybe they'll be beholden to the thrall of sickly, black gold. Maybe they'll relish in their newfound comforts, and seek to grasp onto it for as long as possible.
But regardless, all mayorships, Io has decided, will be of absolutely no help for those who truly need it.
Her staff is told of her decision a year in advance. Her family is told of it in two, as she travels to their home atop the hill each day and cleans it, cooks with the stove to prevent it from going rusty, sleeps in her own bed. She makes tea for Europa and her love, both in her office and out of it. She takes house calls at three in the morning.
Near the end of her term, it's hard to say whether or not she has already abdicated. The day-to-day still gets done, budgets and meetings and conversations held with a poise formerly unheard of. But her eyes are brighter, the fire starting to crackle once more. When she purchases a small building in the town square with the leftover salary she's been given, everyone knows what it's for. Everyone knows what her next step will be.
So when she announces that she will not be running for reelection, it's not a surprise. It's a formality, a go-ahead for the signage to be finished and the supplies to be ordered.
They tell her she did alright. She disagrees, but perhaps she's just biased.
She knows the most fervid of reactions aren't directed at her - and she gets off easy, considering that they're all aware of the consequences of speaking their truth in a Capitol-funded building. But when she gets home from the reaping each year, it's worse than when she was in the pool. But she wipes away tears, pours herself a cup of black coffee, and tries to make amends. Amends to her friends, who watched her send off her own with a cordiality not becoming of this sacrifice. Amends to her family, who've slowly gained the ire of the district. And amends to her community.
But Io Wie, even after 5 years, is not a politician.
She's turned the Mayor's Mansion into something more like a community center, an emergency amount of medical supplies stashed in a sterile box in her desk drawer, the first floor a cross between a daycare and a clinic. But even still, it's all short-term. What will become of this place once there is a new mayor, with new goals and new ideas? Maybe they'll be beholden to the thrall of sickly, black gold. Maybe they'll relish in their newfound comforts, and seek to grasp onto it for as long as possible.
But regardless, all mayorships, Io has decided, will be of absolutely no help for those who truly need it.
Her staff is told of her decision a year in advance. Her family is told of it in two, as she travels to their home atop the hill each day and cleans it, cooks with the stove to prevent it from going rusty, sleeps in her own bed. She makes tea for Europa and her love, both in her office and out of it. She takes house calls at three in the morning.
Near the end of her term, it's hard to say whether or not she has already abdicated. The day-to-day still gets done, budgets and meetings and conversations held with a poise formerly unheard of. But her eyes are brighter, the fire starting to crackle once more. When she purchases a small building in the town square with the leftover salary she's been given, everyone knows what it's for. Everyone knows what her next step will be.
So when she announces that she will not be running for reelection, it's not a surprise. It's a formality, a go-ahead for the signage to be finished and the supplies to be ordered.
They tell her she did alright. She disagrees, but perhaps she's just biased.
