brienne o'dale // district six // resub

The water is ice cold as you rinse your face. When you were younger, small, when your hands were not frail and wrinkles did not set at the corner of your eyes, you hated the feeling of cold water on your skin. You despised bathtime when you were so very small, that the world to you was your mothers singular apartment. You would scream until your little round cheeks had turned red and you could scarcely inhale you were exhaling with such vigor. Eventually your mother would get you to wash- not without difficulty though. As your world had changed around you, when you had fresh warm running water that came out the tap, you grew to love baths.

You left the warm water, for your children. It was a sacrifice you were willing to make for them, despite the memories that the feeling of ice water against your skin would sometimes illicit. The feeling of water being forced down your throat but- at the same time- not. The feeling of the winters rain against your back as you screamed into the darkness for your sister. You have grown to solder these memories to the furthest reaches of your mind, but the leak through, like a roof with tiles missing. Still, today you let the water drip from your face before you greet yourself in the broken mirror above the bathroom sink.

You run your hands through your black hair- something that only now is changing, speckled with flecks of greyness that is a sign of your 32 years. You skin, still pale, though not as sickly as when you were a child, living on your mothers meager wage or when moonshine had been your sweet release during those years after your sister- you inhale when you think of her, and your eyes glisten with tears. She is one memory you have not been able to keep away, one that is always beckoned by the wrong glance at the clock or a glimpse of your daughters hair. Your throat bobs as you swallow the lump forming there as you think of her- you sister Gabrielle.

When you had seen her first, small, chubby fingers and cherub faced you had be infatuated with her. Her blonde her, her stark blue eye- she was so different from you with your dark brown curls and near ebony brown eyes, and yet in the first moment you had seen her, you had felt a kinship with her. Your mother had been impressed, surprised. Most children, as you had learnt with your four, despised a new sibling. Crying louder than the baby when their eyes feel on it. They realised they were no longer at the top of the parents priorities- maybe that is where you and Gabrielle had differed. You and her had never been the top of yours.

You do not remember it, but you would stay up late into the night watching your sister sleep, your mothers side of the bed empty, your hand resting on her chest as your mother had done once to check she was breathing. When Gabrielle had fallen ill, your mother too laced with whatever drug that flooded her system to be of any help, you had crawled through the cat flap and run to the neighbours, your eyes wide with fear as your baby sister gasped for breath. When your mother would bring home men, when you and Gabrielle had your own mattress to sleep on, you would make sure she did not wake and hear or see the things you did.

You protected her- no matter the cost.

Something inside you seizes and you find yourself grasping the sink, your knuckles turning as white as the porcelain. You do not remember much of your teenage years but you see flashes as your head spins- hand grasping at you, finger tips pressing against your thighs, tears stinging your cheeks until they were raw- they are years your mind forgets, because to know the truth would destroy your already weary soul. You do not forget- however- you never forget, the night he went for Gabi. How the storm raged outside, how you could hear her screaming while you were trapped in the cupboard under the stairs, how her screams had caused you to see red and how the next thing you knew, his head was splitting beneath the iron poker in your hands.

And- oh how you wish- you could have split Circe Lyons head beneath your iron poker for hurting your sister.

“Mama?!”

You look up, and for a moment, you feel as if you are dreaming. Hair made of gold, eyes the colour of forget me knots. She looks at you- and in that moment she is Gabrielle, holding your hand, the breeze on the day of the 75th Reaping brushing the golden hair from her eye was. You feel you stomach drop, and for a brief moment you are falling- her eyes are on you but you are so far away as you wait for her lips to move, for her to utter those words. I volunteer, I volunteer. You reach out for her, grabbing her gently as if she might break and crumble away if you are too rough- but as you hold her, you realise that she is not your sister. She is not Gabrielle who’s body is not more than dust and bones, buried in the nearby graveyard.

She is your Gabrielle. Your darling little girl who looks so much like your sister, you always find yourself catching yourself checking to see if she has changed, turned into your sister. You let out a heavy sigh, silent, you pull her into your arms and cradle her there on the bathroom floor. You close your eyes, burying your face into the crown of her head, biting back the tears so hard that your body physically shakes and so you hold her tighter. So tightly that you swear never to let her from your arms, out of your protection.

When you found out you were expecting Gabrielle, it was a light in the darkness. After they brought your sister home in that coffin, lid nailed shut, buried in the earth, everything had fallen apart. The cracks in your life, the one your sister had built for you, had gotten for you when you spent 2 years in the detention center, had begun to form the moment your name had been called at that reaping, they had only grown over the days as you watched helplessly as your sister fought in the arena, surrounded by dust and corroding metal. They had almost- almost- shattered the moment Circe Lyon’s arrow had embedded itself between her ribs.

It was only when you saw her coffin, did it fall apart. You lost your place at the nurses home, you lost your mind to drugs and liquor and you lost your body to the men who could afford to pay for it. You’d lost your way, in the dark. You came so close to losing your life to hunger and illness, you craved for it in a way. Death. You were always scared but as the time went on, you only wished to be free of pain. You wished to be free- but as you stood, staring down at the churning waters of the river that ran through six, its levels raised from the recent rain, you swore you could feel her life quivering inside you, a golden light. You changed your mind, when the Doctor told you were expecting, you fought as your sister had done- you fought for the child inside you because you felt like it was a calling. A calling for you to stay.

You did not know her father, but you did not let that matter. You cherished the child growing inside you and when it came to birth, you could have sworn that you did not feel pain, only ethereal bliss as you brought her into the world, tears streaming down your face when your eyes fell on the small, cherub faced and chubby fingered child who was placed into your arms. She looked so much like your sister, she looked so much like her that you named the child Gabrielle. For her aunt, for your sister- a reminder that despite the dark there was still good in the world.

Even though sometimes, you might not know it.