7f ❧ darby / finished

It's an easy, terrible story to tell.

Orphaned by war, isolated by my own social awkwardness — there's really not much worth sharing. And I blame myself for that. It's my own fault for not paying enough attention. I can't remember what my father did for a living before enlisting in the rebellion; only little glimpses of memories that I can't bring myself to dwell on for very long. He had an office up the stairs and to the left, and he was kind, and smart. My mother was gentle, encouraging all of my silly dreams, and she always bandaged my cuts with a steady hand.

Wondering if they were doctors, or teachers, never seems to take away from the fact that they're gone now. Dead. Thinking of being thrown into the air and falling into their arms only leads me to that foggy day in the cemetery. My laughter fades into the sound of my own sobbing, staring down at graves where the grass has already grown over in patches. So, no, I'm not fond of the past. I only have years of war to reflect on, and the loss it has caused.

When strangers ask for my name, I tell them it's Darby, and not Kimber. It's a small way of honoring my parents. And when the world tries to find a place for me, well — I run. Maybe that's why I'm considered a problem child. Stealing maps and compasses are a strange, separate thing; but escaping from two different orphanages, being kicked out of a third, and spending four weeks in holding after sneaking through the border fence and bolting into the forest has given me a certain reputation. I don't think I'm very likable.

And I'm fine with that. When people look at me with anger, and frustration, that means there's no pity. No sad eyes that scream, 'you're hurting, and you just don't know any better.' That mock sympathy only leads to the scolding that never does anything for me. "We understand that you're going through a difficult time, Darby, but so is the whole district." Say it how it is. The entire country is struggling. That's what they mean. Because, yes, I am in pain — but so is every other stranger walking past me on the street.

Apparently, I'm supposed to be okay with that. Living in this cage that's already so close to overflowing. But there's nowhere else to go. Just to stand in all of this hurt, and let it happen. Because my neighbor's house is on fire, and so is mine, and by that logic we should just sit in silence and let it all burn. Because if I'm hurting, and so are you, then we're shit out of luck. I have it all figured out, or at least I'm convinced that I do. If all my suffering is linked to this place, this blood soaked land, then the only option is to get out.

Never look back.

Where I'm going, I can't tell you. I'm too young to know what's on the other side of the woods, and I'm too old for my dreams to be humored. I'm a fool, and a delinquent, and selfish to boot. Isn't that ironic? My one goal in life is to disappear, and that makes me the bad guy. Because I can't swallow down this restlessness inside of me, and just deal with it. This. Listening to kids my age waking up in the night, screaming at the top of their lungs — watching as twenty four reflections of me are shipped off to fight for their lives every year. Like clockwork. Like our pain is an annual sacrifice.

Like it wasn't already.

I write memoirs to put my father's lessons to use — and because I don't trust myself to tell anyone how I feel. Maybe someone out there understands, surely there has to be someone, but it's easier when you go into it alone. I can't take anyone with me, after all. So I write down my thoughts, and I allude to my plans without any directions on where to find me, and I hope. With everything in me, I allow myself to believe that I'll actually make it to that place I've been dreaming of. Where the memory of everything I've suffered isn't bleeding into all my surroundings. Where I can breathe in the air, and look at world, and not feel so afraid.

It's a little sad, I know. That I have learned so little about the people around me, and that I've shared nothing with them in return — but I tell myself that it's the only way. Can't be too careful. If I confirm that nothing will ever stop me from trying to get out, well. What's one more casualty. The sad thing is that when I disappear, when I'm no longer a constant annoyance to the officials tasked with taking care of me, I have to wonder if they'll even notice. If they'll care. I'm a vanishing act without an audience. Gone with the blink of an eye. No applause. Not a sound.

Does that make me any less real?