A Separate Peace [Open]

There’s a place in town where the men go to hang their shoulders and sigh at the moon. They say it’s a place where they can forget about the rough life of district five—and to have some time to themselves before heading back to the rigs. It’s a quiet little place, just about on the outskirts of town, with worn shutters and a wavering candlelight. There’s a mournful sound of music, usually a few twangs of strings and a humming, that comes from the screen doorway. It’s a slow and steady beat, usually old crooning songs from a generation past—a group of men and some women that have long passed reaping age and faded headlong into adulthood. Their voices pitch when they hear a song that reminds them of home—most of them wandering travelers, out drilling for oil and gas, never having enough time to settle down to make a life for their own.

I wonder about the times that my father would come home and disappear to this place. Did he want to get away from all of us, because it hurt so much to come home, knowing that he’d be going away again? That’s the reason I always imagined that he would never stay with us, even if he wasn’t going back for some time. He would come home smelling of rotten eggs—a terrible smell that I miss more than anything in the world—and sigh as he patted my brother, sister, and I atop our heads. He’d be a silly sort of sad, thinking about how much it hurt that he was back and that he’d be off again soon. It was unforgiving work, making sure the machines worked well on the rigs and getting what the capitol needed. He’d made three beautiful children that he might never have seen again, each goodbye a bookmark in time. Strange how all of us got used to this madness, that we were conditioned to know that when he came home it was only for a little while.

The winter wind brings darkness with it. We’re burning the last of our coal in the fireplace, and my mother and sister are darning the clothes that need mending. They’re content that another day has passed, with the sun set and all of us together. My brother has come and gone, just like my father, out to the rigs for another fortnight, until he has time to see us again. Will he become one of those souls that visits the edge of town, sighing about the way things could have been? But this is district five, this is our livelihood. We provide for the capitol, for all the districts of panem. We don’t have much say in how things are—we never will—and I scarcely think to talk politics with anyone. Better to keep my mind to myself, and to think of my own future.

When my mother takes her leave of us, my sister looks up from her work with a smile. She makes mention that she’ll be heading to bed as well, but that I shouldn’t stay up too late. I’ve gotten some work in a mechanic shop—one that helps mend things that go out to the rig—and that I’ll need to be awake soon enough. She kisses me on my head, but it feels cold against my skin. I watch the coals burn down, their bodies flickering heat. I think of my father, of how long we have been waiting for him to come home. Missing is not a word that comes to my vocabulary—rather, just a hope that he is still out there, forgotten, working, not disappeared as my sister says. I see his face in a frame of an old picture and it’s enough for me to search for my coat. I put on my boots and head out the door, breaching into the cool night air.

My steps ring out along the gravel path as I make my way toward town. The skies have cleared after a fresh snow, and the world is still. I press my hands into my pockets, shivering in the cool of the evening. I watch the stars above, staring at the silver of the moon. It’s a wonder that any of us don’t just run away, off into the woods, never to be seen again. Maybe it’s the chill in my bones that has my mind thinking strange things, or it’s the time of year—I hunger for something to warm me up and break me from this train of thought. No one’s awake now, the night hovering overhead. I can think of one place where there might be life, and trace my steps toward it.

There’s a soft sound of music as I stand at the screen door. The wood of the porch creaks as I take a step, and I pause for a moment. My mother and sister would tell me that this is no such place for a person like me, with the men and women all tired and sad. But I’m cold and tired, and wanting of relief. There are plenty with untold stories inside, it doesn’t all have to be sad. I’m not brave enough, however, to move myself from the front step. Instead I wait on the outside looking in, wondering whether or not I’ll show my face and move to become one of them.