Stardust [Vasco/Catherine]

I’ve taken to writing letters lately. Something about putting out my thoughts across a stretch of paper makes them all the more real. There’s an intimacy to letters, too. A secret collection of thoughts spilled across a page for another, they’re a trapped moment in time.

I sit at the mayor’s desk to do them. Part because it’s quiet, after the sun’s gone down and the rest of the council’s gone home. It gives me time to lean back in the old wooden chair and twist a pen through my fingers, or to toss a few darts against the wall. I light candles then, to catch shadows and let myself enjoy the dark. Better than the fluorescent lights they installed overhead. Nothing better than to listen to a candle flutter, or smell the bits of vanilla someone mixed into the wax.

We’re waiting on word from the capitol to come down. After Kass’s victory, and the riot that presaged it, I know that there’s something lurking out in the shadows. People whisper about us again, the Izars, like all of us had a hand in planting the bombs underneath the stage. And I wonder if they think I care about standing for re-election. I suppose there’d be a good few that would rather have the job, and even more that would rather give someone else a shot. It matters less now, having sat in this chair. If having a title is what made me so important, or a portrait hanging in the hall, then I wasn’t much of a leader. But then some folks saw power as a means of lifting themselves up, rather than the opportunity to reach out a hand and do that for someone else.

I spent the first year trying to dig my heels into the earth, and pull us back toward where we needed to be. I listened to folks bring their problems, I dug the wells and ditches, I stepped in where I could. I got tired, and sick, too. Spent a half-year letting others call the shots and stepped back into it again, right as the train came off the rails. And I wondered if maybe I wasn’t much good at this at all. Life was a lot easier out in the fields, pulling out weeds and planting seeds, as opposed to playing politics.

But I can’t stop thinking about the fire.

I can hear the screams and see their faces. The pain, not because of what anyone here had done, but on account of what hadn’t been done. They suffered because we did as best we could alone. In the plume of black smoke and falling white bits of ash, I realized that none of us were going to live a happier life unless we got us to live for one another.

Games footage had played on the little television Druso had put in my office one night, talking about the tributes and focusing on the biggest tragedies. A cup of hot chamomile tea brewed. I was scribbling a note to the Calloways when they started talking about Dusty.

She was a young girl, daughter of the mayor. I listened to a voice talk about how she was the third child, that she’d wanted to make a difference. I set down my pen and watch a photo come across the screen. She’s smiling then, all of thirteen. God. Except I say the unnamed and think that there’s no mercy, there. Just a collection of men and women that brought sacrifice, that cheered on the blood and gore. Those of us that were guilty of begging for our little peace in the world, that we’d be left alone, or do what was best for those who hadn’t had to make such a sacrifice. My hand trembled, clenched into a fist. She’d loved animals, and been keen on her artwork. A devoted sister, she loved her family. Her obituary ended on her placement in the games, and those that survived her.

I brought a fist down atop the desk, shaking the tea in my cup.

Dear Mayor Spark,

I began, friendly enough, energy passing through my veins, a need to write this letter,

I don’t know you any more than you might know me, but I want to tell you how hurt I am by your loss. It won’t do justice to know that I was inspired to write you after what happened, but I wanted to offer you an open heart in this time of need.

I don’t believe that any of us should have to grieve alone. And I know I can’t know your pain, but I can tell you that whatever you’re feeling right now, I hope that you get the kindness you deserve.

The world is full of pain and grief, and I know I’ve found my fair share of it. Sometimes it makes you wonder whether or not we should keep going what with all that’s happened. I don’t suppose this sounds inspiring, but I hope it feels honest. When I lost my daughter, there was a hole in my heart that I knew was forever.

I paused, and rubbed the flat of my palms over both of my eyes.

I was lucky enough to know the love of people that showed me our burdens don’t have to be shouldered alone. You see, my faith has always guided me to believe as cruel as some folks can be, there are a great deal more that only wish for the best in all of us. And I’ve seen it, that stubborn hope that no matter how far down we are, there’ll be someone right there, hand out, trying to lift us up.

I’d like to offer my hand to you, Mayor Spark. Not because I think it matters much or that you should trust me. But that I want to show you what good people can do, especially when they live for one another.

Yours Faithfully,
Vasco Izar

She wrote back, quick enough, because – good people have a way of reaching out, you know?

District Three was a tight collection of chimneys and red brick. As opposed to the whole of eleven spread out across farms and hills, three seemed to have been content all in one place, almost as though the people wanted to try living on top of one another. When the train pulled into the station, I stared out the window toward the folks walking along the platform. Steam obscured the view, but I found hardly any of them in overalls like the folks in eleven. More of them wandered in slacks and dresses, some with jumpsuits, too.

I stepped out onto the platform, poncho covering up my shirt, hanging down to my jeans and keeping out the chill of a cold September afternoon. I dragged my leather suitcase behind me, and turned at the touch of a hand to my shoulder.

‘Mr. Izar,’ She speaks and I’m caught off guard by how tall she is (or how short I am, but – that’s something I tend not to remind myself). She has a shock of red hair, and kind eyes. The sort that tell a story if you look deep enough, but look away before you can figure out just what that is. ‘ I’m Catherine Spark, It’s nice to finally meet you in person.’ She smiles and I nod. ‘Would you like some help with your suitcase?’

I stare at her hand and then to her, and give a grin.

I go in for the hug, arms around her as I’d welcome any of my cousins.

“Mayor Spark! Please, please, call me Vasco.” I pull back, hands on her shoulders. “How are you? I hope you don’t mind me prying, you have been on my mind since I wrote to you.” I know there would’ve been others that hid behind keeping pleasant, talking about the weather or something unimportant. Except I wasn’t ever beige. I favored a world lived in color.

“You know I’m here to talk about how we can work together, but I want you to know that I hope I can help however I can, personally.” I laugh. “So what are we going to see in district three? You all sure know how to live… close to one another.”