The Breath in Your Lungs {Pika}

[Morgana]

Azian Rover

Release the gate of beautiful, I am staying down to hide in rooms away.

I can't forget your face. How could I, when I see it every time I look into the mirror? I am so sick of this, you know. Sick of the way they look at me and wonder and silently swear that I'm not good enough. They wonder where they went wrong, but the truth is this: nothing was wrong. You and I just liked to play our games and they didn't understand. They'll never understand. I see the way they look at me. The way they wonder if I'll be the same as you, my story ending the same way. But they're wrong. I won't follow you to that end. But I know the truth of why you did it. I'm sorry. I know you'd hate me, but when I saw the corner of a book sticking out from under your empty, empty mattress, I had to look. I had to read the words you've been writing for nearly a decade. I know the truth. And I hate myself for not seeing it.

It's not the same without you. Of course, you have to know that. You must have known, when you did what you did, that it would affect us and change us in ways you could not imagine. I know you hated what it would do to me the most. The rest of them, you couldn't have cared so much about. It was me you loved and cared about the most. I was the reason you held out so long. You didn't want to leave me alone. But you did. In the end, you had to leave me. I don't blame you. I'll never blame you, just like I'll never hate you. But it's going to take me a while to learn how to live without you.

I brush my fingers through my hair as I stare at our reflection in the mirror. The crack going down the center distorts the shape of our nose, making it look almost like a double image, but more like it's just too broad. When I move to the side, the crack goes through my eye, making a trail down our face and neck and on to the chest, cracking our heart in two. I press my palms against the cool glass and lean in close, closing my eyes tight. I can feel my breath fogging up our your my reflection. When I am certain of my ability to breathe again, I push away. My feet drift to the table beside your bed, and my fingers touch the soft gold chain, around which hangs a golden heart. If the gold was real, it would mean it was a once-in-a-lifetime gift. But it isn't. It;s just a gift that's four years old and tarnished now from your fingers rubbing it, as you often did. After I secure it around my neck, I slip grandpa's pocket knife into my jeans. These are the relics I do not leave this room without. I cannot face the day without them, without my last two small connections to you. If you were here, you'd laugh at me and tell me to move on, but I'd see the deep pain in your eyes, and the regret, and I'd tell you that I was sorry I didn't see. And you'd tell me you never regretted a thing.

The rope. I see the rope again, hear the soft sound of a body slumping to the floor, released from its chains, finally free. I taste the tears, but those are very real. They are not a memory. I keep my hands pressed to my eyes until they stop, because the rest of them can't know. They have to believe I'm okay, that there is no reason to hate me even more. They would hate me for being weak. Just to prove to myself that I am still strong, I flip open the pocket knife and presspresspress against my tender wrists, fist tight over the wound as I creep to the bathroom and let water stream slowly over it. Would it have been easier for you this way? To just open yourself up and watch as the life left, circling down the drain, then gone forever? Or would it have taken too long, been too much agony? Why the rope? The rope the rope the rope.

Pulling my arm out of the water, I wrap a thin bandage around it, hiding the white corners under the long sleeves of my shirt. The rest of them can't know. What would they do? What would they think? We swore we didn't care, but it always mattered quite a bit, I think. We always needed them to think we were at least a little strange, and that we didn't fit with them. We were a league of our own, and what they told us didn't matter. We decided for ourselves. But that wasn't the truth. We hid the truth beneath our dreams and fantasies. I was the architect of the lies, and you chose to live in them. I went along for the ride. Try as I might, I can't hate you for rejecting reality. Reality is a terrible place.

Because I can't stand to see their stares and hear their whispers, I head out the door. Force my feet to move forward to who knows and who cares where. It is away, and that's all I want. I could be anywhere now. I could be walking down the grand hall of a crystal palace, on my way to meet the king. I could be strolling along in an apple orchard, picking a piece of fruit whenever I was hungry. I could be anywhere except with you. I will never be with you again.

[pika]

The cries still ring in my head as I stare blankly around my room, the light inside slowly growing stronger as the morning ages. They still echo, still bounce around, as if they had just been uttered yesterday. It’s as if I can almost taste the agony that birthed them, it’s so close, so real. Sounds like those have never been uttered in my house since then. I’m not sure which I prefer more, though: the lack of sadness inside of my home, or the silence that has since pursued after it. Sometimes, the silence is louder than the screams were. Ever since Adal died, nobody has spoken much.

Adal was gone as quickly as he came. Here too fast, gone too soon, I like to say. He died in my mother’s arms, his last breath wasted on one last futile cry. My mother named him Adal, because of an old story that had been passed down within her family. Adal meant “noble,” or so it did in another language, long ago, before the Capitol and the Districts and the Games. Adal was a strong, admirable warrior, and he died bravely in battle. My mother had wished to have a son, just like him. Even though I was the first born child, and her first son, I am not as strong and admirable as she hoped I’d turn out. I am not so much a man as I am a boy.

When she had gotten pregnant once more, she had prayed every night to any higher being up above that He would give her another son, another child that might turn out as she wanted him to. A month earlier than his expected due date, Adal was born. His premature status made him a sure case for death, because we did not have the resources needed to make sure he was safe. His body was not quite ready to embrace life, and left us shortly after his birth. But not quick enough before my mom could name him; she had desperately hoped that he would maintain the image of the name we had given him. Turns out he did the exact opposite. I don’t blame him, though; if I could have had the choice to stay in this world or leave it, I would have chosen the latter.

When it had been accepted that Adal was officially gone, noises began to emanate from our mouths. My sister sat in the corner, no longer able to keep herself upright, wailing silently with her mouth silently wide open. My father sat in the chair beside the bed, sobbing into his palms, legs shaking and hair quivering as his body wracked with tears. My mother, covered with blood-stained sheets, stared blankly into her arms, at the frail little boy that she would never speak to, never raise, never have. There was no expression on her face, just a blank, cold stare. And then suddenly, out of the dark, a shrill, heart-shattering scream protruded from her throat. All of the agony in the room collected into one huge ball, and then exploded suddenly into a million, tiny pieces, spreading pervasively into every inch, corner, and crack of our house. I do not hate Adal for leaving us; rather, I envy him, because he was blessed to have left this life so quickly.

I roll myself out of bed unwillingly, and I tell myself that this is an accomplishment in itself. Articles of clothing find themselves on my body, although I don’t know how they got there. I finger my digits through my hair, long but not too long where it becomes matted and mangled. I don’t bother to brush it or fix it in any way, because the wind will surely find a way to destroy it in some way. I look at my face in the dusty, chipped mirror, somber and darkened with age. I am young, but I look twice my age. Dark circles ring my blue eyes, which used to be clear and bright but are now nothing but dull and tired. My skin is pale and drained of any colour, and all in all I look as if I’ve been revived from death.

I wonder if this is what Adal would look like if he was brought back.

At this thought, I turn away from the mirror sharply, no longer able to handle my face. All I can think of when I see it now is not a boy named Lukas, but a boy named Adal. I slip on some shoes and close the front door behind me quietly; I don’t want the house to know I’ve gone out so early in the morning.

I amble down the hardly-paved road, snow surrounding the world, blanketing it in white. The sun is beginning to poke out now, and it glitters on top of the snow. My breath floats around me easily every time I exhale, and I breathe occasionally into my hands to keep them from freezing. I’m so preoccupied with the beauty of the early morning and the act of keeping myself warm, that I find myself suddenly reeling to my left.

Someone else spins to the other direction, to my right, and I sturdy myself and look at them. He is my age, perhaps a bit younger, and he looks just as sad and desolate as I appear to myself in the mirror.

“Sorry,” I mumble quietly. I am not really in the mood to converse with someone else at the moment; I would rather just give away our apologies quickly and be on our ways. I don’t really think he wants to, either. “My fault.”

[Morgana]

Azian Rover

These tears they build me up a house,
then they pour on down and wash the house away.

It isn't long before the chill of the morning cuts through to my skin, and I realize that nothing protects me from the air except my worn flannel shirt. It's warm, but not enough to keep me from freezing after a while. You would laugh at my forgetfulness, then wrap your arms around me with promises to keep me warm. We'd sit next to a building on the opposite side of the wind, and you'd blow hot air on my fingers as I made up another story for you. You'd lean your head back against the brick wall, a small smile on your face, dreams in your eyes as you listened. You'd beg me for more once it was over, and I'd wrack my brain for something to impress you. I wouldn't have to try so hard, though, because you loved every story I told, even the ones whispered across the room with the moon pouring through the window, left unfinished as I dropped off to sleep. I always fell asleep before you did, and the next morning, you'd remind me of the story's details and I'd finish it up for you. I don't think you ever forgot a single story I told.

Someone bumps into me, breaking me out of my thoughts. I look up, startled, and see the boy there. His eyes match mine, not in color, but in emotion. Half-awake eyes, trying to pull something back that's gone. He mutters an apology, wanting to get on his way. I start to apologize too, but then I see it. A line of blood trickling from beneath the bandage around my wrist. "Shit," I say, trying to pull my sleeve down to cover it up. This is an old shirt, though. The sleeves barely fit where they're supposed to as it is, and tugging them down further does absolutely nothing. You'd shake your head at the line of crimson, your eyes full of a deep sorrow. But your stomach would be roiling. You'd be trying hard to keep it together, because it would remind you too much of the last time you saw me bleed. My back in tatters, clothes stained with blood.

I don't remember it that well. I remember the pain of the whip cutting into my back, and I remember the fire and numbness. The black that crept into the edges of my vision. I remember waking up on my stomach in bed, in absolute agony, but not knowing for certain why. You took care of me, carefully administering medicines and laying strips of fabric across my back to catch the blood. You tried to take the blame over and over, the guilt on your face. But I told you just as often that it was my fault. Even though it was you that told me to steal that apple, I was the one that actually did it. You had no way of knowing what was going to happen to me.

As I healed, I realized how much our family was changing. Our siblings didn't look our way, didn't meet our eyes. When mother spoke to us, it was in clipped tones. Sometimes I'd catch her looking at us with tears in her eyes, wondering where she'd gone wrong. In their eyes, we'd done something terrible and unforgivable. We'd brought shame to a family that was once well-liked and respected among the District. It hurt, having them act like this. So we turned our backs on them and promised we'd never need anyone but each other. We would take care of each other forever. Never again would we feel unwanted or unloved.

Then you were gone. And then...then. Then your dead eyes. Your skin turned cold. I begged you to come back, but I knew it was selfish. It wouldn't work, and I knew that too. They dressed you up in white and painted your skin pretty. It wasn't you in that coffin. It couldn't be, because you never dressed like that, never looked like that. It couldn't be you, but I knew it was. Just like I'd known in the very same heartbeat when I knocked on the door and you didn't answer. After the funeral, mother begged me to see your grave. She said it was such a pretty tombstone, and if I just went there and laid down some flowers for you, I'd feel better. I don't know if the place you were laid to rest is beautiful, because I won't go there. That isn't where you died. I can't mourn you there, and I doubt you can hear me, underneath six feet of dirt and stones.

The blood trickles now from my wrist down to my hand. It shouldn't still be bleeding. I didn't cut deep enough, it should be okay. I want to rip the bandage off now just to check, just to assure myself that it's alright, that I'm healing. Maybe the blood is just a trick of the mind, and I'm fine. Maybe the knife never touched my skin to begin with. I touch the blood with a finger, and the wetness convinces me that it's real. Shit. I don't know what to do. I could go home, clean myself up. They'd ask what I'm doing back so soon, and that would delay me. They might notice the blood, and then there would be too many questions. I can't go back. I have to fix this first.

I don't want to ask him for help. He has no reason to give it to me. He might even ask more questions than I'll get back home. But it doesn't matter. I'll never see him again after today. How do I ask for help? For a long time, I haven't asked for it from anyone but you. I never needed it from anyone else. With you, I didn't even have to ask most of the time. You just knew from the look in my eyes. That won't work here. So I look up into the mirrors that are this stranger's eyes, and I utter a single word. "Help."

[pika]

The teeth of the cold sink into my flesh, ripping and tearing at my exposed skin. Not even the sunlight of the morning can heat me up, and I find myself shivering uncontrollably. Arms crossed across my chest to keep the heat confined, I watch intently as the stranger watches in some type of horror as the white of his skin turns from a pale peach-like hue to a crimson red. It trickles slowly, one small trail of vermilion peeking out from the sleeve of his jacket, trying to make an escape from the vein that it used to call home. His eyes focus on the red, not sure what to make of it. He breathes raggedly, in fear almost, as he watches it continue to stain his skin, making its way down to his fingers.

The bloodstained sheets pop back into my mind, the blood that never truly left our minds, even though the sheets had long since been washed and scrubbed clean. The beautiful baby boy, without a chance to make his mark on the world, and the broken family he left behind. Just to make it easier on myself, I convince myself that he wouldn’t have made it far anyways. He would have been reaped and slaughtered in the Games, or maybe he just would have had enough of the dismal, dank life in the Ninth District, and took his own life. Thinking those things, no matter how morbid, somehow helps me wake up in the morning. Maybe with those thoughts in mind, I can finally accept the fact that it was better he died when he did. At least that way, he didn’t have to experience anything bad. I suck in air, desperate to leave this scene but anxious to see what happens next.

The stranger utters a single word, and it pierces my heart. So full of exhaustion and sadness, it is eerie to hear how it reflects my own voice at times. “Help.” I look at this stranger, who is so animated now with his eyes, pools of horror and complete despair, that I can’t help but feel a little connected to him at this point. Normally I would just walk away, because I’m really just not the best person to have with you in this sort of situation. But the way that he so simply cried out for help was remarkable; there was no way that I could have done the same if I was in his shoes.

I look up to avert my gaze from this scene for a moment, watching the sun glimmer brightly against the morning sky. Clouds puff across the sky like little trains, taking their time as they crawl by. My breath puffs along with them, in, out, in, out, like a mirror image. As I take in the beauty and expansiveness of the sky, I think of the different options I have under my belt. I could walk away quickly and quietly, and never speak to this boy again. Or, I perhaps could give him a few moments of my time and help him out, because either way I’m probably never going to see him again, and I might as well patch him up whilst I am here.

Breathing in quietly, I swiftly pull off my jacket, balancing it on my neck so that I do not have to place it on the ground and have it dampened by the spring snow. It’s a good thing I wore an old, ratty shirt today, one that I do not care about; I’m not sure if I would do this if it were one of my nicer articles of clothing. I take the bottom of my shirt, worn and faded, and rip off a strip about an inch thick from the bottom of the entire shirt; the strip is about two or three feet in length, perfect for a makeshift bandage or something to soak up the blood. I hand it over to him, placing it in his palm, and I see the streaks and slices that scour his forearms. Tinged with red, and light pinks that create borders around the wounds, it is a grotesque sight; even though I have only seen them for a moment, it will be forever painted in my mind, crystal clear and bright as day.

[Morgana]

Hope. That's what keeps people going, isn't it? But there must be a point when hope stops being enough. Or when it gets so smothered by other things like despair that it can't be seen anymore. There must be, because otherwise, you'd still be here, wouldn't you? You'd still be by my side. I'd still be whispering stories in your ear.

Remember the last story I told you? The last fantastic, faraway world I made up? I wanted to make you happy again. I wanted to see you smile. So I spoke of a world where the sky was green and the grass was blue, and horses and cows shimmered in the evening light. A place where birds laid thousand-colored eggs, and had wings made of glass. You rolled over in bed and told me to shut up. I said I was sorry, and waited for you to echo me, but you never did. You don't know how much that hurt me.

I watch as the boy before me rips the hem off his shirt. I'm sorry, I tell him with my eyes. I didn't mean for him to ruin his shirt because of me. His mother will be angry with him, I'm sure. Mom was always mad at us when we came home grass-stained, with holes in our jeans. Knees bloody, but smiles on our faces. We were happy together, weren't we? Or was there more I was never seeing? Were there secrets you kept, not only from me, but from your own journal? If so, where are those secrets now? Do they still belong to you, even though you're - No. I won't even think the word, because that's too hard. It threatens to bring back the tears that lurk so near these days. You took the sunlight when you left. Did you know that? You had to know. You had to know what you were doing. So why? Why did you do this? You've left me with too many questions. You've left us all.

I take the makeshift bandage, bundle it in my palm as I roll up my sleeve. I have to take the other bandage off to put this one on, don't I? And yes, the middle of the street is not the ideal place to do so. But I might still need help. Much as I hate to admit that, it's true. I draw in a ragged breath as I pull the blood-soaked cloth away from my skin. What did I do wrong? Why is it still bleeding? For a moment, I think I'm dying. But then I remember. There's usually more blood involved. At least my eyes are right. Eyes of the dead, though I expect they've taken on a note of panic. I wince at the sight of other, half-healed scars, pink, raised skin, and the ugly expanses of old white lines. When I've unraveled the bandage fully, I wince again. It's a mess. Red blood and pale skin. Not deep, but wide. Because I remember now. It wasn't one quick slice. It was three, in rapid succession. One right next to the other, almost on top of each other. Shredded skin. I hurry to cover it up with the new bandage, binding it tightly to cut off the blood flow.

Now that I know what lurks beneath the cloth, it has begun to sting. It roars at me with fire, demanding to be set free. I can't let it out. Just letting this one person see was too much. It hits me, then. I've let someone see. I made a stupid mistake. I don't want to see the look on his face. I don't want to know what he thinks. I just want to run, to get away. But I can't, can I? I have to stand here and take care of this. "Don't-" I start, but the words get stuck in my throat, in my chest. They don't want to come out, but I force them, because I have to say this. I've done a stupid thing, and the least I can do to make up for it is struggle through an awkward sentence. "Don't tell anyone." But who would he tell? He doesn't know who I am, doesn't know my family. He doesn't even know me. So what reason do I have for saying the words? None, really. They just seem like the standard in this situation. Not that I would know.

[pika]

The bundled up shirt slips from between my fingers as he takes it from me, the whiteness soon fading to an evil, horrendous dark red. The white transforms in front of my eyes, like an ocean wave lapping at the sandy edge of the beach. Of course, I've never seen this; District Four has only been graced with the marvelous beauty of the ocean. My shirt is soon impregnated with blood, with red, the colour of anger and death and rage and hurt and pain and death and death. White shirts, turned to red. White sheets, turned to red. The sight of blood on my shirt was a slap to the face, a kick backwards into the past, back into that dark, dingy, salty-smelling room. Back to the place where everything ended, yet everything began. Two lives ended that day.

As the boy lifts away the shirt from his arm, just for a second, I see the cuts again, the raging attacks of a razor against his delicate, peach-coloured skin. It's an unfair fight, a razor against skin, a cruel and vicious war that never ends. The bleeding stops eventually, finally, and I let out a breath of relief. Leaning closer to him, I hear the remnants of a whisper on the boy's lips. "Dont tell anyone..." His voice is sad, afraid, and full of worry. It shook on his lips, as if the words themselves were doing their best to keep themselves inside and in his throat. His eyes mirror his words, but full of exhaustion and rampant, wild thoughts. I look at him deeply, wondering why I had decided to get myself involved in this in the first place. It would have been easier to just pretend that I hadn't seen him, to walk away right past him, to let him deal with it on his own. Maybe he would have been better off, too.

"No, I won't tell," The promise slips off my lips, quick and confident. The exact opposite of what I really am at the moment.

But now that my shirt is shorter than it should be, the cold wind bites at me with a fiery urgency, and my exposed chest is turning slightly red. I take his hand in mine, jerking him away from the depths of his thoughts and pulling him back to reality. "Look, I'd love to stay and chit chat with you, but it's freezing out here. Why don't we get somewhere where we can get ourselves warm and patch up those cuts of yours?" The morning will not improve in any way significant, and as far as I'm concerned cold weather never helped an injured guy anyways. "I'm Lukas, by the way..." I trail off, a tad confused at myself now. I never really talk to people much, and even something as simple as providing someone my name or age is like telling them my life story. But I haven't really been myself as of late, so I might as well throw my name out there into the mix. He looks at me, his eyes reflecting my own, and for the first time in a long while, I smile. I must look insane, with a huge grin on my face at this particular moment. But the situation is just so absurd, just as my life is, that there's really not much I can do. But again, I've never been one to do well in awkward or intense situations.

Maybe that's why I avoid people in the first place.