[85th] The Reaping - District 12
Jun 1, 2020 19:07:02 GMT -5
Post by D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza] on Jun 1, 2020 19:07:02 GMT -5
bird ivy
I like stories.
My mom was the best storyteller I've found in Twelve, she managed to find a way of telling stories with equal heart and hurt. I could listen to her for hours talking about the worlds she creates in her mind, losing myself in the vision of these imaginary friends that felt more real than the friends I really had. She told the best stories because the characters were never heroes, they were normal people. Simple people — the type who could count their freedoms on five fingers, the people you'd recognise at the market for always wearing the same pair of shoes, the people who seem to be here, there and nowhere at the same time. The faces that blend in and are forgotten — she'd find a way to turn their myth into something worthy of a legend.
She'd tell these stories for ages. Night time would come and she'd be telling a new chapter, and she'd tuck me into bed with a kiss on my forehead and a fantasy world to dream about. Sometimes I'd just lie there, staring at the ceiling for hours with a hope I'd somehow be able to conjure the perfect conclusion to the story just so that I wouldn't be thinking of her cliffhangers until dawn. Mine were never very good — they were too fairytale, crammed full of twists and turns that tied themselves neatly into a pristine bow.
Stories shouldn't be like that. Mom said that the best stories are the ones where things get lost. She'd tell stories with characters that got skinned and eaten alive, stories with characters who got so close but fell at the final hurdle. I like them the most. It made them feel real; Twelve isn't a place for fairytales and happy endings. It's got bad people and bad things and most of the bad people rise above the good people, and those bad things are sewn into the fabrics of everything we wear, sprinkled on top of all the food we eat, laced in between the air that we breathe. Inescapable.
It's understandable why the normal people she'd write about wouldn't succeed very often. She'd write about ones that died trying and I'd cry thinking about how awful it was that they could get so close but still be so far. I'd cry thinking about how they'd give their all for a cause only for it to amount to nothing. I'd crying thinking about the friends they'd made along the way and how they would get left behind. I'd cry thinking about the ones who managed to get out of the hell they were living in only to find it personified in a new place and have it strike them through the heart like their come-up wasn't worth anything. Dad said that Mom's stories were too depressing for a kid.
They probably were. But some of the normal people she'd write about would succeed and they'd find themselves a different person to who they were. They'd defeat whatever monster threatened to turn them to stone, they'd burn everything they love and lose it so that they could get it back and feel that love again. The people who wore the same shoes to the market every single day would make themselves powerful through the smallest, most simple of means. She only told the winners' stories once every blue moon. I'd have to endure rooting for a character only to be rewarded with a vivid description of their body rotting in the ground numerous times before I was told something of gold.
It was always worth it. Every single time. Because it's just like the real world. Happy endings don't happen to anyone, but when they do, you feel them so much more. The elation and euphoria. The liberation. Having to be shut out from heaven a hundred times before you are finally let in makes you realise how good it feels.
When I was younger, I'd get under the fence and out in the forest and live the worlds she created. A stick would be my sword and mud would be my armour. I'd be Bird from Twelve who would die a thousand times falling down rabbit holes, Bird from Twelve who'd get betrayed by her closest friends, Bird from Twelve who'd lie lifeless on the ground because her army wasn't enough. It wasn't healthy, but it made me happy. Mom's stories made me content with the fact that sometimes, you lose.
And since then, I have lost. I have lost my charm bracelet. I have lost my homework. I have lost teeth. I have lost control. I have lost the storyteller I loved the most. As sad as it is — it feels like every story she'd ever told prepared me for that moment. I cried, as any daughter would, but I was okay.
I sometimes think about what kind of story she'd write about me, if she got the chance. A dreamer, a hard worker, an escape artist, a snail lover who loves a little too much, a poor kid with not much to her name, the fifth friend who can't fit around a table for four, a girl with grass-stained knees and thorns in her side. I'm just as normal as the people she wrote about and I know that she'd be able to turn my myth into legend, making it every bit heartbreaking as it is heartwarming. She'd make me fall in love with myself, somehow.
But she's not here. Her stories are memories. I can't remember all the details. The characters are distant. I go into the forest and walk the creeks where I recreated epic scenes trying to find where I left my old sword and armour. I lie awake staring at the ceiling thinking about how I want the escapism back so bad because Twelve is so bad, and her storytelling was so good. Her storytelling made me forget about all the bad people and all the bad things because normal people could, would and did.
She'd write a good story about me. A really good one. But she wouldn't give me a happy ending. She'd give me something to get lost in.
"I volunteer!"