tell me what you know about dying (sera/junie)

[florentine, d4b ❁]

Junie St. James 

Junie argues with Romily about her manners, and with Reinhardt about her hair. Her mentors try and talk to her, but she puts her fingers in her ears and screams. She does not want to know. She has heard enough. She started by refusing to go down to train at all, but eventually boredom overrules her obstinance, and she uncrosses her arms and crawls out of bed. 

"You need to wear shoes!" says one or the other of her escorts, but she pretends not to hear them, and goes downstairs in her bare feet. Junie doesn't think she needs anything, really. Well, nothing she is going to get. 

Junie had always been the sort of child who found herself in trouble. It wasn't that she was mean-spirited, but, for reasons beyond her control, trouble was the inevitable end to all of her pursuits. She was a regular and resigned visitor of the principals office - back again, Junie? What is it this time? - and, as Pa said, the reason for both her fathers' grey hair. 

She had gotten sort of used to Father getting her out of trouble. No matter what she had done, there was no problem too big for his calm, thoughtful appraisal. His advice was sage, his patience limitless. He was always, always on her side. Father, how do you always know the right thing to say? She asked him once, when she was ten and accidentally broke a window at school, kicking it with her foot while climbing onto the roof. He had winked at her. I know I'm very, very well behaved now. But I'm no stranger to trouble. 

Her endless faith in him was shattered when he told her he couldn't save her, this time. I can't do magic, Junie, he'd said, eyes full of tears, while he tucked her hair behind her ear. She'd shaken it loose, wriggled away from him. Her eyes had sad: save me, please, I'm sorry. Her mouth had said: If you loved me, you'd do something. 

Junie wishes she could take it back. But sometimes, you just can't. 

This is what she is thinking about when she arrives in the training room. She cannot stop thinking about it, even when she is holding a sword in her hand. It is almost bigger than her. She swings it, without intent. It thuds on the foam mat, useless.

She tries to tie ropes, next. They twist and turn and slip away from her fingers. They loop and unloop, refuse to make sense. Junie squints at the little pictures, trying to find meaning in the instructions. They do not tell a story she understands. She thinks she should leave, that it was stupid to come down here at all. She will go back to staring at the wallpaper in her room, she decides, and abandons the ropes, haphazardly tangled on the bench. 

She bows her head so that the tears on her cheeks are shrouded by her hair. Hopefully, nobody has noticed her presence here at all. 



(If you loved me you'd do something/If you loved me you'd do something/I can't do magic/I can't do magic/I can't - do something - I can't - do something. I can't.)

[Cait]

SERA

⟡

KEOCH

It’s kinda funny to sit and watch the other tributes running around the Training Centre like any of it matters. World’s worst mentor Flynn Garner would probably cringe knowing how I’m wasting my precious time like this, but I’m sure I could argue my way out of his disapproval. Put it all down to gathering data, sizing up the enemy, some bullshit like that.

For instance, you’ve got your typical Career show-offs prancing around like they run the whole joint. It’d be infuriating if I could even bother to care – or if they didn’t look so damn impressive in everything they did.

The way Ruby Wolfe swings a knife? Hot.

Then there’s the average Joes – usually from the middle districts. Alternate universe Seras who aren’t completely jaded and think they might actually stand a chance of survival. They flit from station to station, starting off with the more familiar – knot tying, shelter making – before bravely working their way up to the weapons table. It’s only a matter of time before someone loses a finger. I’ve heard stories, you know.

And finally... well. There’s winners and losers in every game, I suppose.

The sad story of Junie St. James rests more heavily on my heart than I’m completely comfortable with. As far as the Reapings had gone, hers was by far the most brutal in my humble, unimportant opinion. If I close my eyes, I can all too clearly see the tear-stained cheeks and the gaping mouth stretched into a silent, sickening scream. Twelve years old. Forever twelve years old.

I watch her float into the room now, her blank deer-in-the-headlights eyes dashing around wildly like she senses the danger she’s walked herself straight into. Her hair falls dejectedly into her face as she makes for the weapons table, picking up the scariest, ugliest sword from the bunch.

Forget what I said about the finger. She’s about to lose a whole damn limb.

Luckily for everyone present, she’s smart enough to realise the mistake of her choice and drops the evil looking thing to the ground with a useless thud.

The light flips on; someone brings a mirror to a gun fight. It’s her and it’s me, we’re both twelve years old without a clue. Sinking under the weight of things bigger than us, learning what it takes to survive in this world. Callouses and dirt-caked fingernails and skeletons in the closet that take the form of rusty shovels as new beginnings. Feeling strangely protective all of a sudden, I’m halfway to her side to teach her what I know – to show her that she’s not a lost cause, that all it takes is one well-placed hit with a stick to get back home – but she’s onto the next bench before I have the chance to show my humanity.

Maybe I didn’t give her enough credit. Maybe she’ll be a fighter, a survivor. Maybe she’s not as meek and miserable as –

Oh.

Oh, oh dear, she’s crying. Again.

My heart aches, sure, but I’m the last person a crying kid wants to be trapped in a room with. It’s better for the both of us if I just leave the consoling to someone else.

Only there’s nobody else within a five foot radius of us. Which means I’m the scapegoat.

And sure, I could leave, let it be water off my back – and I might have done just that if it wasn’t for the aggressively loud sniffle that racks her impossibly small body at that very moment, and fuck me, maybe I do still have half a heart left.

I suck in a deep breath, exaggerated and dramatic. Karma better find me for this.

“What you doin’ there?” I offer, not expecting a reply at all as I tuck myself into a ball, shrinking myself down to her size. “Feeling overwhelmed by all the tables? Me too, dude.”

Silence. Go figure. I fight against all of my impulsive urges - to roll my eyes; to clear my throat; to jump back to my feet and put as much distance between myself and the odd little girl as possible.

“Well, surely there’s something you’re good at?” Is this as embarrassing for her as it is for me? “Do you like painting? There’s a whole camouflage station in the back corner. Or... maybe gardening? There’s always a plants station. I’m pretty sure I saw a skipping rope somewhere around here too...” I cycle through the hobbies like the days of the week, watching Junie’s face closely for any sign of interest.

Nothing.

God, why do I even bother.

“Maybe we should just go dig our own graves and get it over with,” I mumble under my breath. “At least then one of us will know what they’re doing.” I slide to the ground beside her, resigned to writing the rest of the day off and marking myself as an outcast in the process. Flynn would be so proud of me.

[florentine, d4b ❁]

Junie St. James 

Junie is just about to leave when the girl asks her - "What you doin' there?"

It is a question Junie herself does not know the answer to. Did she mean here in the training center? Junie had come down to escape herself, but here, lit by the florescent downlights, she abruptly discovered that herself  had followed her here.

Did she mean, perhaps, here in the Captiol? It was a destination at the end of a train journey. If it had been another world, Junie might have liked travelling by train. It was like flying, with the world rushing past in a blur of colour, like the mess you get when you  run a flat palm across a wet painting.

What am I doing here? Junie asks herself - in Panem, at all?, when really everybody knows that she is a peculiarity, an exception to every rule, a person who is not a person by all of the popular definitions? Junie stares up at the girl, wide-eyed, tripping over the million questions nested inside her query, stacked up like a sardonic Russian doll. 

Luckily, the girl is determined to rescue her. "Feeling overwhelmed by all the tables?"

No, Junie wanted to say. The tables are the least of my worries. 

Instead she said absolutely nothing at all, just swallowed her heartbeat. Sometimes, animals played dead when they were afraid. Junie relates to the philosophy; the thought crosses her mind that maybe, if she just lies still and holds her breath, the girl will leave her alone and go and offer sympathy to some other kid.

She doesn't. "Well, is there something you're good at?" 

And then: "Do you like painting? There's a whole camouflage station in the back corner. Or... maybe gardening? There's always a plants station. I'm sure I saw a skipping rope around here somewhere." 

The girl is persistent, almost manic. Junie's eyes widen even more, insectile, dark brown. She considers jumping over the table in front of her in order to escape.

"Maybe we should just dig our own graves and get over it. At least then one of us would know what they are doing." 

This catches Junie's attention. She looks up sharply, narrows her eyes in suspicion. 

"What do you mean?" she looks at the girl through her eyebrows. She does not look pleased. Then, she speaks again, a little louder, to ensure the girl has heard her: "What are you talking about?" 

Her little white fingers are clenched into fists. Junie knows a thing or two about digging graves. She has dug a grave for: seven birds, a field mouse, three squirrels, a raccoon, and a stray cat. Currently, she is digging her own. 

[Cait]

SERA

⟡

KEOCH

It was a bad idea. That’s the only useful thought bobbing around in my head when my rambling comes to a gentle intermission. Of course I can’t relate to this wonder of a girl. There’s a reason the younger orphans used to steer clear of me in the hallways. I thought it was just the stink of death that kept them at arms’ length, but now I’m starting to think it’s always been something more.

She shrinks away from my voice; I see the silvery wings protruding from her spine, curling protectively around her frame, rendered otherwise useless in this wingless place. Even so, I don’t think of her as strange. Fearful, sure, but maybe that’s only because she doesn’t belong to this world. Ethereal being, maybe she just needs someone to help her navigate the darkness.

But I don’t think it can be me.

So I go to take my leave, perfectly fine with never speaking to the strange girl again because hey, at least I tried. That’s more than can be said about the rest of the tributes. Not that it’s a competition or anything. Obviously.

“What do you mean?”

The voice is so tiny, so shaky, that at first I’m sure I must have imagined it. Surely no person alive could truly have a voice that close to disintegrating completely.

I manage only a single step more before I realise the caged bird in front of me is more human than I thought.

“What are you talking about?”

I blink slowly, head cocking stupidly to the side like something you’d see in a cartoon. Really, I’m just trying to get a new perspective to help me figure out what she’s talking about, and what I was talking about, and it’s all just a very confused jumble of backtracked words and –

Oh.

“Oh.”

The death thing? Damn. I guess it checks out that the poor thing would latch onto something so morbid. But I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t feel a tiny sense of relief at finding the common thread in our rapidly intertwining worlds.

But how long is a piece of string? How much of myself can I give to someone before they run away from the ugliest truths? Am I brave enough to risk that type of vulnerability ever again?

...

Ugh. Fuck it. I’m as good as dead anyway.

“Well, back home, in Six...” I keep my voice hushed here, not really believing the two of us are interesting enough to rouse the attention of anyone important, but I guess paranoia has always run deep in my veins. “I spent a lot of time in the cemetery.” I shudder, at all the memories that come rushing back of a life I’ll never see again. Of all the bodies, piled higher and higher with every passing year. Of the sound of the cold squish of skin in the aftermath of rigor mortis. Of the never-ending promenade of funerals and all of the discarded lilies left on strangers’ graves.

And when I look at Junie, expecting to see horror and disgust in her eyes that mimics my own, she looks absolutely enthralled by me.

“Okay, don’t get too excited. It’s not as cool as you think it is.” I rush to pacify her expectations, wondering what I’m supposed to say to her now that I’ve opened this massive can of worms. Probably best to keep things simple. “My friend and I–” and at this, I furiously blink away any evidence of tears threatening to surface, “–used to dig up bodies and sell them to the Hospital. For science, I guess.” That’s what I tell myself to keep my conscience clean. I’m still waiting for the day I finally believe my lies.

“It’s kinda awful, actually. Dead people are gross.”

I did a lot of bad things to survive. I wonder how many more I’ll have to do before I die.

[florentine, d4b ❁]

Junie St. James 

The girl looks at Junie with cautious surprise, approaches her as though she is a skittish wild animal, likely to be spooked.

Junie looks back at her warily. It is a sort of stand-off, an exchange that rests, at this moment, upon a very fragile precipice.

The girl is brave; she gathers herself up, speaks slowly and steadily, a hush in her voice like she is telling Junie a secret. Junie likes secrets a lot. Junie has lots of secrets of her own, things that the voices in her head have warned her sternly never to tell. She likes to gather them up, keep them in her pockets and between the seams of her skirts. She doesn't know what the girl's secret is yet, but she wants it, badly. 

"Well, back home in Six..." the girl begins. Junie knows little about District Six. She knows that they make medicine, but not the leaves-and-incantations kind, rather the sterile white coats and squeaky floors kind. She is glad that she lives in the forest. The smell of bleach makes Junie sick. 

"I spent a lot of time in the cemetery." Junie, too, spends a lot of time in the cemetery, back at home. As she does not go to school, she wanders often, and the gravestones draw her back. Sometimes, she uses a crayon to lift the indentations of old graves onto parchment paper. Other times, she sits and reads beneath the big stone angel, covered in moss. It is quiet there. The faeries do not like to visit, as it makes them sad and still, so she can go there to escape the voices. 

Junie does not realise that her expression has betrayed her until the girl warns her: "Okay, don't get too excited. It's not as cool as you think it is." In response, she tries to subdue her features, shape them back into submission. She scolds them for giving her away. She cannot erase her hope, however. She wants to know more. She inches forward subconsciously - tell me the secret! 

"My friend and I-" if Junie was more adept at reading people, she might have noticed the catch in the girl's voice here, the treasure trove of feelings buried beneath the simple statement. She does not. "-used to dig up bodies and sell them to the hospital. For science, I guess." The girl is not sure. 

At this, Junie's jaw drops open. She narrows her eyes, furrows her brow, unsure whether to believe the girl or not. This macabre confession seems, to Junie, like a trick, a fairy-story, designed to shock her, to make her afraid. She is the opposite - she is captivated by it, enthralled.

"It's kind of awful, actually. Dead people are gross." 

Junie is wary. She does not want to be made a fool of by this girl, however at her core she is a believer, a head-first, questions-later accepter of things others don't believe. The faeries have made her this way, open to the impossible. After all, nobody believed her when she said that it was them who set the curtains aflame.

Junie looks around furtively. "You want to be careful, calling dead people gross, when there are twenty-three of them right here. You might offend somebody." 


None of the other tributes are looking at them. All of them seem quite absorbed in their pretend-play, in their arranging and re-arranging of weapons. The rope-tying station is neglected, and their secrets are safe, for now. 

She has a thousand questions. She selects one. "Tell me, then. I'm about to be dead myself, so I deserve to know. How long until it's only the bones?"

Maybe it will be easier, when Junie herself is only bones. She will be lighter, then. She has often wondered if the flesh itself is a curse, if perhaps that is where are the feelings are kept. Perhaps it will be better, to be bones in a box, to be in the quiet.

Junie cannot stop one more question from slipping out, against her better judgement. "Are you scared of being dead?" What she means is: please, tell me, should I be afraid? She lowers her voice, almost an impossibility. "I'm good at keeping secrets."