All That Is [Left] Us // (Shrimp)

[L△LIA]

( C A L L I O P E L O R N E B L O O M )





Well it's been a long time
Long time now
Since I've seen you smile
And I'll gamble away my fright
And I'll gamble away my time

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It's the small things that tap me on the shoulder, sending me reminders in the middle of the night.

Trailing fingers across the hallway wall, I listen to the floorboards creak beneath my careful footsteps as I walk to the kitchen in the dark for a glass of water, determined to hold onto the haze of sleep that's tugging lazily at my eyelids. It's so quiet. The world pauses as I pull myself up short and hold my breath with a sudden gasp. Fingers splayed over the peeling paint, I press my palm into the steadiness of the decaying surface as all the muscles in my hand contract with a simultaneous push and pull, as if —

—as if he's hiding in the walls and all I have to do is find the hidden door. The hardest part is that there's some truth in that. Although I'll never again hear the muffled buzz of my brother's snoring as I pass by his bedroom door, the memory of it is so much louder. Few things have been more difficult to deal with than the change in sound after the world's softest somethings were transformed into the most deafening nothings of my life.

It's the vacancies that bother me most, all the little blank spots peppering my days that send my mind skipping and jumping, looking for ways to patch the pieces up into something akin to sense. If this were a story, written down into something I could read without bias, there would be words that went missing with him, leaving scatterings of empty places that make it difficult to read. Maybe Aesop wasn't always the key words, but even then, he was still the connecting ones. And, of, to, for, as — like those simple words, he had his own way of making everything a little easier.

Breath hitching in my throat and sleep forgotten, I sprint into the kitchen, heavy footsteps booming through the silence. I'm greedy with the water, as if it could wash my thoughts away like drowning: devastating and merciless. I know it doesn't work that way, but I can't stop myself from trying, cup clenched in the grip of both my hands as my teeth gnaw anxiously at the plastic rim, my mind wandering from the task at hand. Sometimes the dark makes it easier. When I can't see reality, it's almost like he's here... or maybe I'm there, because reality was never his home. Darkness can be a gateway or just a gate, dense and oppressing as it keeps me in and shuts me out all at once.

And in a year, a year or so
This will slip into the sea
Well it's been a long time
Long time now
Since I've seen you smile

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"Why am I the only one left?" The words leave my mouth with an accusational whisper as I stare at the walls that separate me from Napoleon and our father, and the air that divides Aesop, our mother, and I. There's a spark in my chest and it tells my insides to boil, tells me to hate my living brother Napoleon for never stepping up to anything of real responsibility and that I should lash out with cruelty toward my shut-in father who replaced his children with sorrow and locked doors. What's the point of the two of you being here if you're still so far away?

I hear the CRACK of the cup breaking before I feel it, battered plastic snapping pathetically in my frustrated hands with edges sharp enough to cut. Yelping from the pain, I hurl the offending object at the ground and clutch my wound to my chest, sucking air in through my teeth until I can't take anymore tonight.

I'm running again (one foot in front of the other; left right left right left right), only taking time to grab one of Aesop's old jackets from where it still hangs on a hook by the front door. Then I'm conquering more hallways and stairs, as though earning my freedom, until I break out from the suffocation of our apartment building and sprintcrashflee with a left right left right left right through the streets of District Six. I don't want the lights of the city, the evidence of people; I want the lights of ghosts, the evidence of... something in the nothing.

Slowly — steadily — the stars promise me that it's okay to slow down, to stop, to look and listen without being confronted with emptiness. Staring up at them, their light cuts through the scattered wisps of night-clouds, huddling around the moon like children. The breeze twists through my disheveled hair and I tug the cuffs of Aesop's jacket over my hands as I curl my arms around my chest for warmth. Suddenly aware of the old sweats and ratty shirt I'm outfitted in, a hapless laugh tumbles through me, because even if I weren't wearing Aesop's jacket, I'd still be dressed just like him.

The sound cuts away as the thought sets in with a sigh and I plop down on the grass and release myself to nature, limbs sprawled out and face turned to press my cheek into the dirty earth. "Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight," I'm not even looking at the sky, but with my eyes squeezed so tightly shut, the patterns of persistent light don't look so different, "I wish I may, I wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight." Before everything, I used to have a lot of wishes, more than any stars could ever hope to grant, but now I don't have much. I don't even know what I'm wishing for. Just... Watching the swirling trails of light move across the insides of my eyelids, I choose one and doggedly begin to follow it in infinite circles. Something. I remember that I always had something to wish for.

Nobody raise your voices
Just another night in Nantes
Nobody raise your voices
Just another night in Nantes

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[shrimp]

[bg=0D0D0C][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,500,true] When I was younger, Momma had a box of cough drops. It was kept under lock and key, or placed on the highest shelf where an energetic, ambitious five year old wouldn't be able to reach for it with her stubby little fingers. They were always amazing: glucose-filled tablets that tasted of cherries and summer and love that I was addicted to. I would feign sickness, develop a cough so terrible that my throat would be dry and screaming in agony just to acquire a small piece of paradise. If I can just get one more, I'll never do it again, I would think. But then weeks would pass and my addiction would flare up once more, and soon my mother realized the powers of my acting prowess and stopped giving them to me altogether. While we were not the richest family in District 6, and could purchase another box of sugar-sweet syrup with enough savings left to spare, my mom was never one to waste a single thing, be it a ripped-stocking or a broken glass. "We can use it for something else," she would say in her high-pitched voice, and the two of us would spend the days spent holed up in her cubicle fashioning ourselves scarves out of our "chic" rags or making mosaics with leftover glue and sharp shards of shattered ceramic. So, needless to say, when she found out that I had not been sick and simply wanted to taste the candy that sat in a tin box on top of the refrigerator/hidden under the bed/crammed into the highest cupboard, she was beyond mad. "You're ruining our principles," she had moaned, and locked the ruby orbs far away where I'm not even sure she would be able to find it. But I was a sneaky child, and a few years later I unearthed the stash hiding under a floorboard in the attic, and rejoiced, sneaking back up every so often to gaze at the stars glistening through the dirty skylight and nibble on a piece of heaven. Yet it wasn't the same, for each time the flavors melted down my throat, I could hear her accusing tone in my head, reprimanding for failing to follow her few rules. And it hurt, because out of everyone in the universe, my mother was, and still is, the only one whose opinion mattered. I haven't touched a cough drop since her passing, until today. It's been eight years since I last saw her eyes look at me for the last time before I was ushered out of the room as they began to glaze over with pain and emptiness. The tin box was exactly where it had been left, turned into a thriving metropolis by insects that collapsed as I made my way into the room with a broom and protective layering. But then, to my dismay, the gleaming droplets of sin had been reduced to a single sticky blob, overrun with bugs that had become encased in its tar and had died a grisly death. With superhuman strength I had vanquished the evil-doers and somehow removed the bloody remnants from the tin, which sparkled as little by little, years worth of caked on candy was broken off with snaps and tears. Then, all that was left was a clean box and an empty heart. So I attempted to fill both by making my way to the confections shoppe at nine o'clock, not bothering to tell papa where I was headed - he wouldn't care anyway. The only one who cared for me at all is already decomposed six feet underground, her frame the only thing remaining of her glorious laugh and gleaming silver eyes. Not even the cashier cares that I've purchased junk rather than essentials, which has helped him stay alive for one more week as he rings up my purchases (a tin's worth of hard candy whose colors range from the most invisible "clear" to the deepest black all the way to the most vivid "cough drop red") with a mumbled "Thanks," and dead eyes that speak of hardships and a fragile facade. He barely even looks as I dump the contents of the plastic bag into the tin with a large clunk, and wander out into the darkness sans guardian, sans friend, sans anyone. And now, here I am, standing in a familiar square with dead grass and silent laughs that echo throughout my memories until I swear that I can truly hear us laughing as we eat our sparse sandwiches and watch the skies as momma points out Orion and Lepus and Eridanus that even now sparkle above my head, their anachronistic way of being opening memories best left reminiscing when happy and energetic. The laughter is truly loud now, and for a second I wonder if I've turned schizophrenic when I realize that there truly is someone here with me and that this is dangerous I shouldn't have come what is my problem? I turn to my right to see a figure cloaked in the shadows, her whispers barely audible in the night's music that whistles through ears and causes the tree(s) to dance. It is only when I move closer that I recognize the voice; it's Calli. Calliope Bloom is the girl who had it all; she was so smart and kind and so, so determined to make a name for herself that I felt a pang of envy every time I saw her scribbling answers down in chemistry class while I was forced to resort to comparing the compounds to names of stars in the hope that I would acquire some sort of partial credit, or when she never flustered when administering a medicine to a lab rat while I shrieked with fright every time it attacked me with yellowed, rotten teeth and evil eyes that howled for my death. Calliope Bloom was my role model, the one who I would try to emulate whenever my tests came back with a mediocre 72% or a Try Harder Next Time. And then, one day, she disappeared. The rumors said that she had dropped out of school after her brother's death. Aesop had fought valiantly for us, but finally losing to Mace Emberstatt meant that he was so close, yet so, so far. And the Blooms were left without a brother. I never tried to pass judgment on Calliope's decision; she was always smart enough to handle herself without a proper education, and I'm sure - I had to be sure, else I would be wrought with worry and would glance out the window each day to see if I could spot a glimpse of Miss Bloom doing well for herself, that she would handle herself. But now I see her here instead, and I walk quickly towards her figure with a quick "Callie?" A closer examination of the predicament and I become filled with fright. "What happened to you, are you alright?" I frantically look around, looking for the source of her misfortune - she's not lying towards the sky, so it must be apparent that something has happened. "Did anyone hurt you? Where are they? If they did do something to you I'll... I'll smash their faces in with... With my fist. Are you alright? Okay? Ish?" A stream of babble has sprung from my mouth and somersaulted into the air and maybe some people would have already shut up by now. But I do care for her, not even because I vilify her in every way possible, but because someone has to care for everyone out there, even if the one who cared for me has already moved on into the afterlife. And thus, I don't bite my tongue, rather I look at her face, turned sideways and stained with tears with concern. For she's worth it - they're all worth it, even if it's apparent that I'm not worthy of such things anymore.

[L△LIA]

( C A L L I O P E L O R N E B L O O M )





If I was young
I'd flee this town
I'd bury my dreams underground
As did I, we drink to die
We drink tonight

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My senseless recitation of a childhood lullaby is interrupted by the sound of my own almost name, spoken so quickly that I might have missed it if it weren't for the follow-up questions: "What happened to you, are you alright? Did anyone hurt you? Where are they? If they did do something to you I'll... I'll smash their faces in with... With my fist." The verbal barrage builds on itself, something that might be genuine concern bubbling beneath each successive consonant and vowel, carrying them with a force that's either the beginnings of panic or just unstoppable. It's the final inquiry that convinces me to open my eyes to the world once more though. "Are you alright? Okay? Ish?" Other people might be more readily moved by the offer of violence — oh, violence moves me alright, that should be obvious enough by now — but it's rare that anyone bothers to ask how I'm doing anymore, much less openly acknowledge that my response to such questions might be anything less than I'm lovely. And yourself?

Ish? Impulse tells me to reply with a snippy yeah, I've been pretty ish for quite a few months now, but instead I squint up at her through the darkness with a non-committal mumble of sound that doesn't even bother to pretend to be words. Familiarity finds its way into not only the sight of hair so red it refuses to fully acknowledge that color doesn't belong in the dark, but also in the memory of a voice this persistent. "No one—" I almost say hurt me before I realize its a lie, especially tonight, and pull myself up short. "I'm alri—" the ght doesn't belong at the end of that thought and I abandon my efforts to reply verbally for the moment, pressing my lips into a tight line and opting to shrug my shoulders against the grass.

Far from home, elephant gun
Let's take them down one by one
We'll lay it down
It's not been found
It's not around

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I don't have an answer to her questions. They are straightforward and ask after a different kind of pain, but the thoughts that nag at me don't come with such easy explanations. A sigh drifts out my lips, as soft and thin as the wisps of clouds that have strung themselves across the sky tonight. Only, they are frayed threads in the distance and the air from my lungs is all tied up in my mouth, a breathy knot of almost-words. "I came to see the stars." That's not entirely true, but it seems to be the least of a lie that I can think of right now. Peering up at the girl, I search her face for a name, finding only a tiny nose, thin lips, and a place. It's not so difficult to sort out where I know her from, even when all the particulars are escaping me in the haze of my panic attack. School.

It's been a while since I dropped out and convinced the factory Aesop used to work at to give me his old job — although "his old job" only goes so far. Napoleon hasn't been shameless enough to ask me to replace my brother as The Great Bloom Family Pill Thief... yet. I can see the words caged behind his lips some days though, when his supply is running so low that his personal desperation starts to flare up. Sooner or later his habit will win that war and I don't know what I'll do then. My old textbooks are still scattered around the house, notes and old homework assignments stuffed between the pages like a memoir. Touching them feels like running my fingertips across blocks of ice. I tried for a while, but Aesop had doodled rogue stick figure graffiti in all the margins. The present started to feel too much like the past and if I was going to go down that road then I figured I should go all the way. I know what my half of that path was like, but I never knew Aesop's. I was too selfish, too content to let him give his life for mine. In that shameful way, Mace Emberstatt is no worse a killer than I am.

Let the seasons begin
It rolls right on
Let the seasons begin
Take the big king down

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Cocking my head against the ground, I can feel the dirt working its way between the carelessly pulled back strands of my hair, finding new homes in the tangles. "People say they look like the city lights, but I don't think I see the comparison." I used to keep it brushed smooth and as clean as my clothes, but it was easy to be frivolous and a little uptight then. "We could turn the entire city off with the flick of some switches, but that," raising my arm up, fingers splayed out as though I could pluck one of the tiny sparks of light free if only I were to stretch a little further, I can't quite tell if I'm pointing at the sky or reaching out to it, "stars are too stubborn to be put out so easily. The darker it gets, the brighter they are."

"Someone told me once," maybe it was you, "that even after a star has burned itself up, it doesn't matter that it's dead, it's still there when we look up, just as bright." Dropping my arm back down to lay at my side, I catch myself holding my breath for a fleeting moment, although I'm not entirely sure why. "Do you think that's true?" There's another pause and something tells me I should stop with that sentiment, but I've never been one for such simplicity — not when it comes to this... or throw away questions about hi, Calliope, how are you? "There's something cruel about that though, pretending to be there after you're already gone. Shouldn't the star just leave completely then? Instead of making us feel like it's still there? It's not really," trailing off, I almost don't have it in me to finish the thought, but maybe I know how to be just as unstoppable as the girl beside me, "fair."

And it rips through the silence
Of our camp at night
And it rips through the silence
All that is left us
Is all that I hide

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[shrimp]

I've lived in District Six for all my life. I've seen the changes that have racked us to the core, foundations rupturing and breaking with every new law that the government issues. Every day, a homeless man perishes from the cold that chills us because he has nowhere to go. I've glanced at their corpses, lying peacefully in the street, almost as if they decided to take a long rest from the chaos they have deemed "life". As such, I think that I've gained something akin to intuition, and right now I know that all that Callie needs is someone to help her. The way that her face is mangled into something from a depressing movie does not allay my fears in the slightest, nor does her paused speech or eyes that are bloodshot with stress and mourning.

She's been through so much already, she doesn't deserve to have to get along with her life without someone to be there to support her. I don't know if she has any more siblings, or if her family is there to take care of her, but for now on, I've decided: I'll be the one to do that, not because I want to be friends with her (although that statement is 150% true), because that's simply the right thing to do. I mean, I can't just leave her here, shaking on the College's lawn. It's not right, and I wouldn't be the Galaxy Clements that my mother raised me to be. Plus, I know how she must feel because I've been there. I've wallowed in angst for an eternity, wished that people who've crossed to the other side could come back as good as new. But it's not going to happen, and I know that she must know this because Calliope Bloom is anything but ignorant.

Hark, she speaks! Her words echo through the deserted area and I feel like hugging her even more because she wants to see the stars. Since I'm going to be an astronomer, I know a thing or two about these spectral orbs. But perhaps Callie doesn't know about them; rather, the pathos that these things of beauty generate are enough to send most people into nostalgic fits. Perhaps Callie's thinking about her brother, or her schooling that has turned into dusty textbooks and classrooms that are missing something vital. But no, the girl tilts her head back and begins to speak and the only thing that I should do is listen, so I sit besides her as she continues. "People say they look like the city lights, but I don't think I see the comparison. We could turn the entire city off with the flick of some switches, but that," I gaze up as she points off into the horizon, gray eyes blinking as I study the stars that are beckoning themselves to Callie. "Stars are too stubborn to be put out so easily. The darker it gets, the brighter they are."

This is true, but I wouldn't expect her to not know this; students are expected to take at least one astronomy course, and I'm sure that Callie was able to study it easily, understanding the basic components as easily as she completed math problems. "Someone told me once, that even after a star has burned itself up, it doesn't matter that it's dead, it's still there when we look up, just as bright. Do you think that's true?" I nod. I remember the teacher saying this in the basic course, his spectacles lying lazily on his nose as he droned on in his monotone voice. I believe that many fell asleep while he lectured, but not me. Astronomy was always the only class where I felt confident about the study at hand. Everywhere else, I stumbled, trying to survive amid the waves of students who simply understood the material better than I did. Astronomy was easy to understand, intriguing and wonderful. I could hear my mother's warm tones in each star, happily calling out their names for me to recall. Sirius! Aquarii! Canopus!

"There's something cruel about that though, pretending to be there after you're already gone. Shouldn't the star just leave completely then? Instead of making us feel like it's still there? It's not really, fair." And now I know that she's not talking about stars, for this long-winded allegory cannot possibly be about stars. Astronomy doesn't call for fairness or not - it's just what happens. Perhaps it's about Aesop, or about herself, but I know that the feelings must be the same regardless of what she truly means. I was never one to be able to analyze words to find the ones not spoken - I was only able to understand the feelings that resonated from pages of prose. And perhaps the feelings that Calliope is disguising amid logical conversation consists of pain and hopelessness. But Callie can't think like that - she has so much ahead of her that if she can just look at what lies over the horizon, she'd be able to see that there are so many possibilities just around the corner.

And I know that I shouldn't be thinking like this - she just lost her brother, for goodness sakes. But I know that she's got it good. Or at least, she has it better than others do. She has a future. Calliope Bloom can become the greatest scientist there ever was, and there's nothing but herself in the way. Her background doesn't matter, nor does her home life. All that does matter is that she has the talent to get ahead - I've heard teachers discussing their students, and Callie's name has been shuffled to the top of the list (my name, on the other hand, is spoken of with snickers and empathy). If she could just see that, then just perhaps she would be able to stay strong. Of course, I'm not going to tell her this right now or anything - that wouldn't be right, to reprimand her for showing her feelings during this tumultuous era. So rather, I pull out the box.

The designs on the box speak of an older age, for the floral patterns painted on the ceramic are faded, and the material itself is chipped and weathered. But when you look inside of it, it's filled with the gems that speak of the glory days. Sometimes I wonder if my mother was like that in her last days; tired, sick, but underneath the disease, her shining rays of hope and intelligence shone through. As I open the box, I almost feel like she's returned from her eight year absence, and is sitting right next to Callie and me, her scarlet hair blowing in the breeze and her eyes shining like platinum. And as I pass Callie the box so she can pick her poison (candy after all, does unspeakable things to your teeth), I feel that mother's looking upon us with a smile in her eyes. And that smile transfers from her to me.