Falling to pieces <//3 [Cici]

[kiah]

I'm still alive but I'm barely breathing
Just praying to a God that I don't believe in
'cause I got time while she got freedom
'cause when a heart breaks no it don't break even

SASKIA CORBY

Once again tears feel her eyes, but they refuse to fall. Her face looks pained. The girl, herself, looks defeated. She stumbles through the deserted street, her eyes down, the life leaving her more and more as minutes pass. She can’t keep up. Her whole body starts to sag as her feet skim aimlessly over the ground. I f you stared into the girls eyes, they lacked the light, lacked the life that used to be there. Used to be there before the reaping. Before the capitol herded her sister to her death. The girl replayed the moment her sisters name was called out to the whole of district 8. Chole looked relived as though she hadn’t heard what was said. But then realisation head hit her and she had looked straight at Jerrome. His face reflected the girls. The girl couldn’t hold in the screech that had escaped her as she had fell to the ground. Her sister was gone. Gone forever.

The girl fell defeated to the ground. her body refused to move. Refused to believe that Chole was gone, and that she would have to watch her death, that the whole capitol were going to see her die. all of the bastards were going to cheer for her death, happy that some action was happening. Happy that an innocent girl had just been murdered for their entertainment. An unusual anger boiled up in the girl. She felt a hatred so strong so fierce that the girl couldn’t hold back the snarl that escaped from her lips. Her face was screwed up in hatred. She stood up, pounding the air with her fist, but finding no comport. Nothing could make the pain, the anger, the longing disappear. She stormed to a tree a little way off the road her fist meet the bark, and searing pain screamed up her arms, she didn’t flinch, she didn’t make a sound, she let the pain surge through her, taking away the anger, she smashed her fist into the tree again. Again, pain so strong surged through her fingers, up her arm stopping at her shoulder. she felt her earlier anger start to slip away.

Then she broke down. The tears fell freely now, tears from grief, anger. Pain, all muddled into one, streamed constantly from her eyes. Her legs began to shake, and finally she sit on the ground her head between her legs, her body raking with silent sobs. Her eyes closed, trying to cut herself away from the world, trying to escape to where she could be by herself. Where she could be with her family. as soon as her eyes closed memories of the reaping flew into her mind, Chole face as she was dragged away from the girl, her face as she accepted her death, her face when she called out the girls name. everything about that day… all of it flew at her now, stabbing at her whilst her guard was down.

The girl kept her eyes closed, not caring, not anymore, one memory of the girl she loved was better than none at all. The girl grasped at the images, trying to remember everything about the girl that was leaving her. As she remember one of the only people who understood her. As she remembered her sister.

Saskia slowly slipped further and further away from sanity. From life its self.

[/blockquote][/blockquote][/size]

And what am I gonna do when the best part of me was always you
And what am I supposed to say when I'm all choked up that you're ok
I'm falling to pieces yeah
I'm falling to pieces

[Deleted]

Rix McKinney

______________________________________________________________

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If given the option, they all say they’d rather live my life than a tribute’s. They are all fools, for they have yet to understand how daunting time can be. Wouldn’t you rather die fighting than waiting? I have time before my death, although in such a narrow frame. The girl and the boy that get picked from the crowd at random once a year—they don’t have time. Yet, they have hope.

There’s a one-in-twenty-four chance they may survive. Their deaths are so quick, with a sword through the stomach or a tear across the neck. Some, of course, are not fortunate enough to have such a painless death, yet some still are. It seems daunting, to be pitted against twenty-three others in a fight to the death.

Still, the idea that one child will always make it out safely strikes me with an immense amount of envy. I’d rather die with hope than with nothing.

I am empty, now mere fragments of a torn page, a boy ripped to pieces by life’s unbalanced, hazardous behavior. I am only waiting for death, waiting for it to enwrap me in relief and take me away from this dreadful feeling.

Knowing that you have nothing left--it seems so much worse than being able to hold onto that last breath of hope. The only thing that separates me from death is time: so little time. When I watch the children dying on television, I see the drive and the determination sparkling in their eyes.

I wish I knew how to want something that badly. Yet, I don’t. The emptiness that fills me is real; I can’t want anything, for once I do, my life’s end will have already caught up.

Sure, I may be overdramatizing this all; I don’t actually know when I will die, but the doctor who came to our house other day says my deformities are becoming more severe. Severe enough to end my life? Maybe. Yet, that doesn’t give me any more hope than the doctor straight-out saying, “You’re going to die tomorrow.” My future doesn’t exist. And it isn’t even a battle of life vs. death. Instead, it’s all a battle between dependency and self-sufficiency.

The fact that I am basically glued to this wheelchair beneath me only goes to show how little of an impact I will ever have on this world we live in. There’s nothing I can do that will ever change who I am, or even moreover, change the people around me. I’m just Rix McKinney, and it will be a relief when the world finally rids itself of my existence.

I couldn’t help myself this morning. Even though I really shouldn’t be out on my own, I am. My parents are both asleep and Sadie—well, let’s just say that pulling her out of bed before three is going to be a challenge. Saturday is the one day of the week when I finally allow myself to be free for a few minutes, as risky as that thought may be.

I grip the sides of my wheelchair, rolling it just a bit further. I have to work hard to get it to move, for my arms are too frail to handle such a task. Pain fills the bones in my arms, yet I push a little harder. I don’t want to fracture anything, but what’s life without a bit of risk? Especially when you know your death is approaching anyways? Especially when every happy moment you have left is worth a century of smiles? Careful is a word long-erased from my vocabulary, for I am much too desperate to grasp all of the life that I never had the chance to experience. #YOLO

I’ve covered up the mirror in my room with a thick layer of cloth. I’m too afraid of what I’ll see when I look into those hollow eyes, so devoid of life. Sometimes, I think of what those eyes could have been—full, happy, successful. I think of how tall I could’ve risen, with my chin up in the air, my confident stride leading me down the path to happiness.

Yet, nearly everyone towers above me, looking down at my infinitely deteriorating state. They all have a future ahead of them: a future that I could have possessed too. Maybe they’ll find a job in the district, fall in love, or even raise a family. But me…I know I’ll never get that far, no matter how long I live.

I push myself only a bit further, until I’ve reached the park at the end of the block. I should be allowed this much independence, shouldn’t I? When I arrive, it isn’t empty like it usually is on early Saturday mornings. Rather, a small cry fills the air. I don’t hear it at first, for my reception of sound isn’t the greatest—but when I do, my eyes scan the trees until I finally spot the girl. Black hair, darker skin, short in stature: she looks young as she pounds her fist against the tree. I can’t see much, but I can tell that she is only doing herself harm. I inch forwards in my wheelchair, ignoring the unsteadiness in my arms.

She drops to the ground, her eyes closed as she sobs against the tree. Again, I inch forward, my heart beating faster. Maybe it would be better to merely walk away, get home again. Yet, my naturally good instincts are compelling, pulling me towards this distressed young girl.

Still, I don’t want her to see me; I don’t want her to see the frail deformed boy in the wheelchair, so useless and helpless in every way possible. Modesty pulls me back, but empathy pushes me forwards. The stalemate I’ve put myself in is finally broken when I arrive close enough to see the girl’s hands. The blood that seeps from them is an effect of the bark’s rough texture, and my protective instincts quickly kick in.

I wish I could bend over, help this girl up, and tell her to stop crying; but my physical contact with people is so limited. Everything about me is limited. Why can’t I just be like all of the other boys, tall and protective, ready for anything to come their way? Why can’t I even give someone a proper hug without fracturing something in my spine? Oh, yeah, because I’m unlucky. Whoever decided to hand out luck sure decided I didn’t deserve half as much as everyone else.

Those are the people I am most envious of: the lucky ones.

“Are you okay?” I finally manage to let out, only a few feet away from the girl by now. I doubt she noticed my presence. “Your hands...” I say with pity, yet I don’t know what else to add. I’ve never been good at cheering people up. I have so much empathy for people, but so little communication with them.

I immediately feel intimidated by this young girl. Although I am years ahead of her in age, she is most likely years ahead of me in ability and independence. Nevertheless, I try not to let it get to me as I move my wheelchair an inch closer, self-consciously.

Suddenly, I see the resemblance and the puzzle seems to fit together much too perfectly. Chole. This girl. Same skin tone, similar eyes, similar hair. Sisters? I feel guilty for not knowing everyone in the district. It isn’t that big of a place to be quite honest, but when you’re stuck inside all of the time, I guess that’s what you get.

“…You’re Chole’s sister,” I say timidly, trying my words. Again, I’m at a loss for speech. My throat is dry and I don’t know what to say. Maybe she can see it in my eyes—the empathy, the pity, the lost feelings. Maybe I don't have to say anything. But I do. “I’m sorry,” I manage to murmur. I really am.

I want to help her off the ground, but I can’t.

I guess that’s what you get for being unlucky.

Useless.[/blockquote][/size][/color][/justify]

[kiah]

The best days will be some of my worst,
She finally met a man who's gonna put her first
While I'm wide awake she's no trouble sleeping
'cause when a heart breaks no it don't break even, even

SASKIA CORBY

How could she live on? When all that mattered to her was gone? Your wrong Saskia, not all is gone. You have not lost all. You have Jerrome. But yet at each passing day, since her sister’s death, he has been slipping away as well. Like when mother died… but will he come out of it this time? Or has this loss pushed him too far? The girl didn’t move, her body just heaved as she breathed in air, the sir that would keep her alive- But did she want that? Did she want to keep breathing, whilst her sister, her mother, had not had the chance? The girl thought of the many ways that she could let herself slip away now, just let her life slide from her hands. All of them would be a quick death, a death that would just let her slip further and further away from her breathing body, living body. a body that she had decided was too much for her to keep. The girl wanders what it would be like just to drift away, have no worries, just to be there. Just to be happy . Something this young girl has never had the chance. Just to be happy for one day…

She thinks of how she had saw her sisters body. it was covered in blood, as she had tried desperately to crawl away from all the tributes wo wanted her blood. There had been one boy. He had tried to help her, but in the end he had ditched as well. Where had been the other girl? the pregnant one? Had she been planning Chole death? Had she wanted Chole to die like that, be killed by people who wanted nothing more than to see mercy on her face, the knowing glint in her eye, knowing she was about to die… At least that boy had tried to help, he had come back… buyt it was to late. She was already gone. even if she hadlived through that battle, how much longer would she have? She was practically dead, no matter what she might have done, she would not have made it back to the girl. she would not have made it back to Saskia.

Finally the girl was brought back to the surface, brought back to this body that felt, that lived. A voice, so shy, so small, and the mention of the name encouraged the girl to look up, to see where the noise had come from. The voice had come from a boy. But he was o average boy, he was smaller. He sat in a grubby wheelchair; it looked old, and very well worn. Saskia let her eyes travel to his face, it lacked life. It lacked hope... He looks like he has already given up on life. But why? ]

“I’m sorry..” his voice dies away as he finishes, these words are so strong. They carry so much emotion, but why was he sorry? The girl couldn’t understand. It wasn’t his fault that her sister was dead in the sand of a forest, bleeding, dying, alone. He should not be sorry, it wasn’t his fault, she was alone. That everyone had ditched her, not given her the chance. But it also wasn’t the fault of the people that are killing in the arena… if it wasn’t for the capitol, Chole would still be here, she would be here now, not dead. Not gone forever. Will she ever rest in peace will she? Or will she be trapped where she was killed, be a trapped soul. Will she ever be able to escape the clutches of the capitol, even after her death?

The girl let her eyes search the boys, I’s not your fault, don’t be sorry. I just miss her, I want her back. Not her body. But her. I want her, breathing, living… I want the girl I loved back, the girl that understood me … The girl I loved. Saskia eyes sparkled as she thought each words, as she let her eyes speak what she was thinking. Her eyes were her way of communication, the way she sent unspoken messages. But it was up to this boy to understand her, understand what she was trying to tell him. Her eyes were her words. Slowly her eyes began to fill with a fresh lot of salty water. The water forms salty drops as they fall from her eyes, and slowly slide down her check, leaving a salty trail, that shines slightly in the light. Her eyes slowly drop from the boys, keeping her thoughts to herself. Trying to keep all of the memories she has of Chole to herself. Because that’s all she had now. That’s all the capitol allowed her to have.

[Deleted]

Rix McKinney

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There’s something about seeing children that brings a confused mix of emotions to my heart. It’s almost bittersweet, if you dig deep enough to feel it.

When I look at a child, such as this girl, I see hope. At such youth, there’s a whole life ahead of these children, just waiting for them. They have so much time to figure out where they’re going in life and find their own happiness. At the same time, I can’t help but feel envious. So subtly does envy creep up on me, eating me away piece by piece. Although it’s much too difficult to admit it, seeing such hope only makes me recall the fact that I have no hope left. I can only grasp the hope that people might remember me when I’m gone: that my useless self may have done some good on this world: at least some.

However, this girl is definitely not in a situation too different from mine. When I look back into her eyes, I see eyes that look too much like my own and immediately realize she’s losing hope, maybe as fast as I am, maybe faster.

The girl stands up to face me and I quickly move my gaze to the ground. I immediately feel self-conscious once again. By nature, I am an ugly site: deformed to the point where it looks scary. Yet, the girl seems to pay little attention to my appearance. She is too distressed.

Her eyes move to the ground just as I look back up again. Like in many situations, I am at a loss for what to do. I immediately feel as though I can read her mind; her thoughts seem so obvious, so similar to some of the thoughts that had clouded my head in the past. But she has time. She still has a life ahead of her; and her sister’s death shouldn’t be what causes her to give up.

When I look down at the girl’s hands again, cut and bleeding from the rough bark of the tree beside us, I suddenly realize how dangerous this situation is. The self-inflicted pain is only an early sign of suicidal behavior. I know I can’t let it get any further. Somehow, I can read this girl’s thoughts: I know that somewhere deep in her mind she is considering ending her own life. Although I understand the girl is young and fragile, it would be a ridiculous act to let this event lead to her own downfall. She probably still has people out there who love her and care for her; and if she doesn’t, I know that I do. Even if she is a stranger to me, a girl whose name I still do not know, it would be cruel not to help her.

Besides, I know what loss is like. True, I never did lose a family member or a friend, but I did lose a piece of myself, and I still am. I lose pieces of my character everyday as I weaken with time. I have so little left; and the last thing I want is for this girl to end up like me.

I wheel myself a few more centimeters forward. For a moment, I decide to be brave. I lift my arm, so weak and frail, taking the girl’s hand in an act of comfort.

To even converse with this girl is an act of bravery in my eyes. Too often do I hide away, merely waiting for time to give up on me. Even more often do I start to guess when that time may be. I already know how I’m going to die. The doctor has already told me that my bones could collapse. The deformities will become so severe that my ribs will end up crushing my lungs, and my breathing will become so difficult that at one point my body will just give up.

That’s how I’m going to die: by giving up. The thought isn’t reassuring at all, but at least my breathing hasn’t gotten difficult yet. According to the doctor, I’m okay for the time being. He also told me that what a lot of people with my condition—Osteogenesis Imperfecta—live almost as long as a normal human being. But I’m smart enough to understand the chances are slim for me.

My adoptive-father keeps telling me to stop being so pessimistic. Continually, he lectures me that as long as I don’t hurt myself enough to create bone deformities by making rash decisions, I can live possibly as long as everyone else. Then why is it so difficult for me to accept that fact? Maybe I want death. Maybe death would be much more fun than having to live my life in extreme fear that my next action could fracture a bone. Honestly, I’m tired of it.

And yet I’m trying to tell this girl not to give up. What kind of hypocrite am I?

For a moment, I try to empathize with her. How would I feel if I lost Sadie? Because I honestly have no one else who I can truly talk to besides Sadie, I would probably be in this same situation.

Keeping her hand in my own, I open my mouth, hoping that the words that slip out are of at least some substance. “It’s hard,” I say. I think of my adoptive-father and his support of the Capitol. Being that he was wealthy and of high class, he often tried to ignore the effects of the games and focus on the advantages that Panem’s society had on his own well-being. “It’s wrong too,” I say, almost regretting the words. Had my father heard me talking against the games, I know he wouldn’t be happy. Anything I said against the Capitol, however minor it was, could hurt his job.

I realize that those few words are enough. Quite truthfully, I have nothing more to say. Sympathy isn’t something you can easily express through speech. So, instead, I take my other hand, unsteadily, and bring it towards the girl’s cheek. With extreme care, I wipe away the girl’s tears as they fall before bringing my hand back down. The fact that it is more than okay to cry makes me wonder whether I should be here. I immediately feel like I am not giving this girl much personal space, yet a question still lingers on my lips.

“What’s your name?”

If I do end up walking away—or rather, wheeling away, I want to know the girl’s name. And I want to remember it. So that I know that I’m not the only one who feels lost.[/blockquote][/size][/color][/justify]