edric mayfield, eleven | fin | Hunger Games: The RPG

edric mayfield, eleven | fin May 14, 2023 15:20:14 GMT -5

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Post by dars on May 14, 2023 15:20:14 GMT -5

I've been hungrier than this before, but the gnawing at my gut is a discomfort I'll never grow used to. Ingrid returns eventually, as fast as she could manage, and tells me the new place she's found is a real upgrade from this dump. She rests her chin on the edge of my bed so that our eyes are even. She knows what I'm really hoping to hear. The ends of her lips curl up into a smile, and she silently produces a shiny red apple from her pocket.

"I didn't even have to steal it! From an orchard, anyway!" she brags, not because she cares about the industry-official export, but because she knows there's more of a risk in stealing from those places. "There's an untended tree close to the place I found. It's way out there in the outer banks, where those cranberry bogs are."

I'm only ten at this point, and I'd been intent on being mopey, but the sight of the apple alone is enough to make my stomach growl. I sit up and take it as politely as I can manage, before digging in. I still remember the distinct feel of that exact bite- the delightful pop of the skin's surface being broken, the bits of it digging in between my teeth, the juice dripping onto my tongue as I chew. Looking back, it isn't even a particularly sweet apple, but it is for me, who hasn't otherwise eaten anything in days.

I don't want to leave. Not because life in this old fishing shed is anything worth missing, but because it officially means we are on our own: if Mom ever comes back, we won't be here for her to find. I've pointed this out several times, though, and as Ingrid keeps pointing out in response, our mother has been gone since before the new year, and we are in the ides of summer now. "She ran away or they finally found her. Either way she isn't coming back."

I know even as a ten year old that she's right. We saw them the other day with their dogs out on the main road- thank goodness we were downwind from them- and just last week Ingrid took down more posters with our faces on them. Wanted, these posters claim, showing first Ingrid's face and then my own, neither of us any more than tweens, in connection with the with the Mayfield Diamond Heist. The same heist that got our father gunned down and sent the rest of us on the run. Mother swore it wasn't true. I don't think it much mattered to my sister and I, in truth, but we both enjoyed believing her story: that our father was falsely accused, that the heist was an inside job that'd been unrighteously pinned on a lowly security guard and his innocent family.

Ingrid picks up the stuffed bear I've carried with me for years and places it on the pillow next to me. There was a time when that toy was the most important thing in the world to me- the last thing my father gave me before my semblance of a normal childhood was taken. He slid it into bed next to me one night, closer to the end, and whispered Keep him safe for me, okay? He'll do the same for you. I'm getting older now, so mostly I only keep it around for the sentimental value of it. One of its little button eyes has been pulled loose and hangs there by a string, and I dropped it into a puddle once which has stained its right leg a permanent shade of yellowy off-white despite several attempts at cleaning it.

"We'll go tomorrow," Ingrid says, patting the bear's stomach, "before sunrise. Get some sleep, okay?"

Five years later and my life has not improved in the slightest. Ingrid was right about the new place being better- it took the keepers months to catch our scent that far out, but another close call eventually had us running from pillar to post with our tails tucked between our legs, always just as desperate as before, but maybe slightly less broken up about it and a little more broken in ways we cannot understand.

Currently, we're staying below a bridge which passes over a shallow river with some great fishing if you know what you're doing and if we keep the fire small enough, the bridge does a good job of hiding the smoke. The only downside is the cold, of course, as there's not much to shield the wind that accompanies the stream. But as far as places go, it's another of the nicer set ups we've managed. There's not a lot of foot traffic out this way, so we don't have to worry about staying quiet during the day like when we were staying in the attic above that bar that only sold room temperature draft beer.

But eventually, either Ingrid or me will be out exploring and we'll see them in their white uniforms looking for something- maybe us, maybe not- and we'll get so spooked that we'll run before we have to find out. It's what we always do, us Mayfields: survive, because the fear of living seems too easy anymore.