can't let go again . evander / neith

evander

Your chest grows tense from the assignment you have been given for the day. Yesterday they had you on meal prep, but today, you find an upgrade to the main stage for the big show: waiting tables. It is better, you suppose, in comparison to your hands growing pruned in soap and water all night. Your boss's (master's? owner's?) eyes turn back to you a few seconds after he walks over to the woman beside you, just to make sure you don't show him any disrespect. That's not your modus operandi anymore. You learned that the hard way a while back when a woman with blonde hair down to her tailbone tapped playfully with her fingertips on your chest and you rejected her advances. Your former fellow countrymen manage to usurp every particle of free will in your bones.

They stop short of calling you their property, but for some reason you wish they would call a spade a spade. If they could do that, at least you'd have the dignity of having no choice. Instead, with their manipulation and condescendance, these residents of the Capitol make you feel complicit in your own punishment, your own dehumanization. Over and over, you tell yourself that it's not your fault. You deserve to be able to run away with Neith and your owls and never come back. But the simple refusal to roll your eyes because you fear the repercussions from the boss tells a different story. There's a saying that you have heard people mutter multiple times throughout your life, live free or die. Easier said than done when people with guns monitor you all day and you find yourself in chains at night. Living free or dying is not an option. Live shackled and forever is the life of an Avox, your life for however long your stomach can sustain a bullshit diet and your mind can maintain its sanity.

The simple clothes laid out for you is unsettling. White dress shirt, black dress pants, shining black shoes. No tie, as there's too much risk associated with such an article that one could choke themselves to death with. While everyone else lives a life of extravagance, you exist to be a simple afterthought in their brains. The only reason for people so high and mighty to even look at you is if they desire something. Or desire you, in many cases. This was not what you meant three years ago when you begged your conscience for its compliance in taking your life a few steps toward humble. You button up your shirt and stick a notepad with paper in the pocket for the night. Your boss keeps a close eye on you and the others as you dress. It's unsettling, but the perverted oversight and the exposure you feel from this higher-up is not something you're allowed to question. He can't violate the privacy of someone who has no rights. You lace up your shoes quickly though, keeping your gaze away from the boss. Your chest compresses again as you rise and straighten yourself out.

All this is why you desire to run away, and have wanted it for years. You felt unsafe even before they took your spirit, your voice, and every other essence of your being. What you saw for all those years frightened you, and made you ashamed of your land, but living it leaves you terrified, paralyzed in thought, in a smoky field of hopelessness. Nonetheless, you have no choice but to move forward and act within your means.

When your boss gives the cue, you and the other waiters and waitresses push open the door between the kitchen and dining hall, and chaos ensues. You're instructed to go to table seventeen. A half dozen people are seated there, already wasted from day drinking. You'd be surprised if any of them will be able to communicate what they want.

No surprise, most of them can't. They laugh along as you visibly struggle to understand what they're trying to ask for. Each one calls you darling and slides their fingertips down your forearm to the back of your hand as you scribble down what it seems like they want.

Once you get the order for all six, you retreat back to the kitchen to hand in their orders. Six steaks, rare but you jot down raw instead, because their karma is a bitch, and a whole lot of liquor. A woman spreads her arm and motions for you to give her the paper. You tear it from the ringed pad and place it in her hands.

And you pause for a moment, recognizing the warmth. Recognizing the woman. Your love.