I've No One To Say Goodbye To [Reaction]
Jul 14, 2012 13:14:04 GMT -5
Post by cyrus on Jul 14, 2012 13:14:04 GMT -5
Naif Malloc
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But tell me now, where was my fault
In loving you with my whole heart
Oh, tell me now, where was my fault
In loving you with my whole heart
:::::
When we left the justice building, I couldn’t feel anything. I just walked along behind my father and mother, hands in my pockets. We didn’t speak. We didn’t look back at the cold stone building behind us. My father had to help steady my mother as she walked along, her dress blowing in the wind. She was already weak from her sickness, but Cyrus volunteering had taken something different out of her. She tried her hardest to hide it while we were in the room with him, but I could see the tear stains on my dad’s shoulder. She was hurting, hurting because my stupid f—king brother had decided to go into the games. Because he thought that he was going to win and make it out and magically, everything would be okay again. He was always naïve like that, thinking the best about things, like stuff was just going to happen to work out for him.
I think the hardest part was coming home to an empty room. When we got inside, my parents disappeared into their bedroom, wanting to hide their f—king tears. That’s all we ever did in this family. We never talked about anything. We never said, I miss him, I really miss him, I wish he didn’t do that.[/color] No, instead we went into our own little shells so we didn’t have to show anyone how much it hurt. Because it hurt so badly—it hurt so badly that I wanted to break everything that had ever been his… I wanted to smash his stupid little piggybank, rip apart his one eyed teddy bear, and squish all of his little plastic army men that he kept under his bed. I wanted to rip up all the shitty pieces of ‘art’ he’d made since he was a kid that our mom had put on the walls. And then, then I’d tear off the sheets from his bed and leave it bear. Because there wasn’t any way that I could hurt him like he’d hurt me.[/color] I had to do something,
I slammed the door behind me and got to work. His little pink penny jar was easy enough to smash on the ground. All the pennies we’d saved, all the bills that we’d made from chores or from those odd jobs we’d done for the little old ladies of our neighborhood, they scattered out onto the floor. It felt good to see the thing crumble into a million little pieces.[/color] I scrambled underneath his bed to get the box of army men, their green and twisted little bodies now peering out at me as I took handful after handful. I started to twist and bend them so that the little green bases turned white at the parts where the plastic began to separate. Snap.[/color] For the time that we pretended to be around during the great war.Snap[/color] For when you told me that you wanted to be a peacekeeper, and that you’d always protect me because
I was heaving now, my breath hurried and my face flushed as I threw down the rest of his stupid f—king toys and grabbed the teddy bear on his bed. I wanted to rip its head off, to twist it until the thing snapped and popped off. And then I would yank out the stuffing, pull out the white soul that lay within until there was nothing left. Do you remember, do you remember when you got so scared, and used to shake? And when this was the only thing that kept you safe? Except there were times, there were moment when you couldn’t hold it together. When even the power of this mystical little bear wouldn’t assuage your worries. I throw the thing down on the ground, ready to tear the sheets off your bed so it could be as barren and lonely as it was supposed to be. No, you’d sit and rock there late at night, and I could hear the f—king springs on your mattress groan. And so I would get up out of my bed, and I would crawl into yours. I’d wrap my arms around you, my bigger brother, and whisper into your ears as you cried out. I would whisper and tell you that I loved you so much[/color], that it was okay, because no one could hurt you here. And we’d rock back and forth together, and you’d whisper and mumble. And then you’d get real quiet, and we’d lay there, my arms around you, you against me. My eyes would get real heavy, and we’d fall asleep that way. And so I fell to my knees, crumpling onto the side of your bed. I climbed on top, reaching over to where you should’ve been but weren’t, crying all the while, wondering if I’d ever hold you here again.[/color]
I watched every waking moment of the games that I could. I was allowed to stay out of school—it didn’t matter if they had told me no anyway—just so that I could get the chance to see my brother. My stupid, idiotic, good-for-nothing brother. I marveled at his relative calm during the opening ceremonies, when he was wheeled out on a chariot, looking wide-eyed and only slightly uneasy next to his fellow tributes. They’d done him up in silver and rhinestones, and he looked absolutely bonkers—though the girls here swooned for him like I’d never seen. Because before they’d never seen him at all[/color]. And there were whispers of how far that the both of them would make it, Fawn and Cyrus. Kids in school would say things about how they thought Cyrus would die early, and Fawn would last for a while before getting picked off. They would say it in front of me, as though I was already supposed to know that Cyrus was just another casualty in the slog toward a victor.
I thought that they would be stronger. I thought my parents would get through this, that they would keep their spirits up because Cyrus needed us to. My father disappeared into his work. He would get up early, before I’d gotten out of bed, and run out before anyone could see him. And he’d come home, late, late at night. He’d quietly turn on the light, the soft yellow one in the living room, and sip on the whiskey he had for himself. He’d sip on the whiskey for himself and he’d look at a picture of Cyrus, and then he’d let out this sigh like I’ve never heard. He’d get real still, hunched over on the couch and close his eyes. I saw it a few times, when I would get out of bed to see what he was doing—until he caught me.
He was thick in his whiskey haze and hunched over in his chair. I opened my door a bit more than usual, and poked my head out to watch him. And I stood there for a good while, trying to figure out what I wanted to say. He cocked his head up and smiled at me—he saw me through it all, and I froze—as he started to get up out of his chair. “Cyrus… cyrus…” His voice was hoarse, and his breath stunk of alcohol. I guess I should’ve gone away then, but it was the first time I’d seen him say anything about Cyrus since he’d been taken away. And so I walked toward him, wanting to comfort him. But instead of wrapping him in a hug, he grabbed me by the wrists and pulled them up over my head. And then he started to shake me, screaming like a hell hound, about all the things that were buried deep inside. “I’m going to make you hurt for what you did to her… to me… to us… you stupid boy… stupid… dumb as s—t boy… going away… going away from us. F—king leaving us in this s—t…”
And he brought his arm across my face and I screamed out. I screamed out for him to stop[/color] that I wasn’t Cyrus and that ”You are drunk daddy, you don’t mean it, you don’t mean it…”[/color]. But he kept hitting me, again and again, saying how much he hated Cyrus. How much he wished he hadn’t been born. That he was a mistake, that he was never supposed to turn out this way. When he finally let me go, my nose was bleeding and my back was against the wall. I was crying and he was crying, and the both of us couldn’t look at one another. He because he’d crumpled to the floor, weeping about imaginary visions of Cyrus. And me because my eyes had clouded up in pain and with regret that this was my life now.
My mother didn’t break so much as fade away. She started off so strong in the justice building; I was amazed at her quiet calm when Cyrus left. But it was all a lie. Because when we got home, the first thing she did was go to her pills. She said it was her old pains acting up again, the side effects from having worked as a chemist for so long. But then she would lose spans of time, like things she would say one day and forget the next. She would walk around in her nightgown, and she’d get real quiet when she got to our doorway. She’d sigh and stare at your bed, like you were still there, and she’d smile a crooked little smile before putting a hand up to her mouth. And then she’d let out this little sob and turn away, back toward her bedroom. Then she’d take more pills, and sleep for hours in her bed. I don’t think she was awake for more than few every day.[/color]
We all dressed up for the interviews and went to the viewings looking as haggard and worn as ever. I watched all of them carefully, so that I could know each and every person that he was up against. Stark Harper the killer. Jae Moreno the bully. Destiny, the witch. Dante, the womanizer. Mahlah, the child. Klaus. Fitz. Penelope, the dreamer. Eternity. Haff. Then finally there was Fawn, who was combative and strong, though I figured it was mostly an act due to her 6 in training. When the crowd settled, Cyrus was next out on stage, dressed in a glimmering tux. He stood stupidly at the edge of the stage, looking like he didn’t understand where he was supposed to go—so typical of you[/color]—before finding a seat in front of Caesar. I expected it to be a disaster, really. Cyrus was no good at talking to anyone. You were always so afraid of it[/color]. But there was something different then as he spoke of his training score and his raised odds. He gave himself away as the child he was, of course, by waving to the camera to say hello to us. When the lights dimmed, and the next tribute came on, I drifted away from the pictures on the scream. I just wanted to watch Cyrus’ interview over and over, to dissect every moment and know every feeling he was feeling. To know that you were okay. That you were strong. That you weren’t afraid of death because
I was early to the first viewing. I grabbed a seat toward the front, ignoring the pleas of some of my school friends to sit further back so that we could whisper and critique the tributes for their missteps. I was numb then, sitting in that dry room with a hard wooden floors and high windows. They had opened up a gymnasium to let all of us watch the bloodbath together. It was still half-an-hour til the start when I began to shake. I could feel it run up my legs and grab my chest, and then flow out of my arms. I had to grab the cold plastic sides of my chair to steady myself and settle down. A woman next to me tried to ask if I was okay, but I just closed my eyes and tried to push it all out of me. I didn’t open them again until the anthem started to boom, and they announced they were just moments away from the start.
The pounding of the clock had me looking up at the screen as they focused on the different tributes. A camera panned to Mahlah looking terrified. Stark’s face, appearing overjoyed at the opportunity. Elon sad and waiting. And Cyrus—what could you have been feeling —with utterly no emotion on his face at all. Only a furrowed brow and his knees bent, ready to rush into the fray. And as the numbers clicked down I could feel my chest tense.
60.
You weren’t made for this.
50.
They will tear you limb from limb.
40.
Please just run.
30.
I can’t watch you die here.
20.
You’re better than all of this.[/color]
10.
I want you to come home…
Boom.
The bloodbath was a frenzy of movement. As they darted off their pedestals, it was clear that alliances had formed during training. A few girls dropped quickly to the sand, while others struggled over supplies. In the haze, Cyrus dashed past the boy from eight, shoving him down for a harpoon. In another instant, he’d whipped around to slice into his flesh. I was startled by his bravery—wouldn’t someone stab you in the back, weren’t you afraid—but you kept thrusting your harpoon, and as the boy ran off you gathered yourself again. The gamemakers seemed disinterested in you—I’d say we were all surprised to see you dash out of the cornucopia and towards the palm forest—as they panned toward another poor girl getting sliced into pieces.
I couldn’t stop myself from watching every waking moment. I ate, slept, and breathed your movements on screen. And I saw that you were brave—that Cyrus Malloc wasn’t a scared little boy after all. You nursed your fellow tributes back to health. You organized them into a team. You became a—could this really be you —leader. You took watch in the dark of night, protecting them from all that could threaten you. There were whispers of your odds growing with the passing of each day. That Cyrus Malloc had the qualities of a champion. A few at first, then the voices grew louder, until we all started to believe the foolish notion.
But luck didn’t favor you or your allies. Each day the numbers grew smaller, with Fawn going first—a deep blow to our morale losing a tribute so early—and then Nonnie. I could see you breaking each time, wondering why you cared so much for these girls you barely knew. Why you, the one who hated talking to anyone so much, suddenly wanted to know the life story of Pandora Woodards. But that moment on the beach, when the two of you talked… that moment when all that mattered was that these two were friends in a sick and twisted game… it made me want to hold you as you slept that night, to tell you how proud I was. When Cyrus lost him so soon after, I knew he would snap. There just wasn’t anything left in his heart to give—no more love, no more hope, no more believing.
The waves crashed on the shoreline, and when you made your choice, I was breathless. This was it. You had choosen to die. It was an unsettling feeling. Small at first, in the pit of my stomach. But it worked its way up to my throat, making it impossible to speak. And then I could feel it take hold, twisting and turning as I tried to rasp out a few words. Jana was in the waves in front of him, slashing at the monstrous beast. He swung wide and was thwacked by the thing, sending him spiraling in the waves. And yet he didn’t quit—why didn’t you run—but went back for more punishment. And so the waves became a mixture of red, your blood, its blood, Jana’s blood. I stood from my chair, hands by my sides, shaking. The rest of the world disappeared from existence as I watched you stab toward its body, trying desperately to slay something that was impossible.
You were heavy in the water. You moved more slowly, your arms weaker, your strikes less frenzied. The camera zoomed into your eyes, now heavy, your cheeks gashed, blood dripping everywhere from you. And then as it hit you one more time, you fell backwards into the water, your rapier leaving your hands, your soul drowning in the water with you. And so I fell to my knees, breath ragged, watching as you—my brother, my precious older brother—slipped beneath the waves. The cannon shot could barely be heard above my crying. My body shook violently as I lay there in a heap on the ground.[/color]
There were the voices saying that he had been brave. That he could have been District Six’s first champion in some time. That it was a shame about his death, he had been such a good tribute. He never killed anyone—granted, he had hurt some, but never killed—and died as he was, choosing to face the most dangerous muttation ever created rather than going into the hornet’s nest. A few of my friends paid a visit to my house to call—but I turned them away. They wished my parents well, saying that it was such a shame for them to lose a son. That they should never have to bury one of their own. That I needed to be extra careful and extra nice around them because of how much they should hurt. That last line… that last little f—king line stabbed at me like no other. Because through it all, they only saw the grief that my mother and father must’ve had—as if it could be measured as infinitely more than my own.[/i] I didn’t want anyone to see me, or my family as we were. I didn’t want to listen to their apologies and their half-baked condolences. Maybe, maybe if you had ever reached out to him, he wouldn’t have felt like he had to leave this place. Maybe, maybe if all of you ever really mattered, he would’ve felt a part—he wouldn’t have felt like an outcast. He wouldn’t have felt like he needed to leave us.
The day faded into night as I lay in my bed. I looked over to his, perfectly made, ready and waiting for him to come home. Ready for you to lay there again, snuggled with your teddy bear, without a care in the world. Ready for you to lay your army men out in strategic formations, muttering about the great war and giving them funny voices. Ready for me to curl up next to you, and laugh you to sleep to calm your nerves about some terror that had happened in school. But there would be only emptiness here. A suffocating emptiness that made me get up from my bed and wander out to the living room and then the front porch. I stared out at the darkness of the night, looking up at the sky, wondering if all those tales mom used to say were true. That you were looking down at me, that you were safe and warm somewhere far off, and that you felt no pain.
The next day was the service for him. As was custom in District Six—at least, to my kin—memorial services were always held the day after a death. We’d never had anyone in the games, I suppose, because usually there was supposed to be a body on display, but they would make do with whatever half-assed, half-sober attempt my father would make at putting together something for Cyrus. He’d been plotting this for some time in the weeks that Cyrus had left—there was a deep mistrust that he would ever return. He’d spent the whole night before drinking himself into a stupor, passed out on the floor of the bathroom of the local tavern, trying to forget as much as he could. My mother locked herself into her room, quiet as a mouse, and stayed there. Just two souls grieving about their lost son—but did they ever ask me, the only stable one, how I felt?
Drizzle fell from the sky outside, signaling yet another gray day for district six. I finally managed to gather them together—yelling at my father to put on his best suit and wash away the stink of the previous evening. My mother doddered about, not saying anything, looking white as a ghost. I found her a dress and brushed her hair for her. In front of the mirror she seemed so fragile, eyes wide, unsure of what was going on around her. With a gentle pat on the back, she knew it was time to stand, but knew not what she was standing for. I had to hold her hand as we walked to the service, to steady her as we marched along the uneven pavement. The rain pattered off of my umbrella, and I looked back to see my father trudging along, face red and eyes downcast, already broken. Someone would have to find strength for us. Someone would have to hold us together.[/color]
The chairs were lined up in rows—not too many—enough for about thirty. Their white metal backs sat underneath a white tent, with a small lectern positioned at the front row of the chairs. A large photograph of Cyrus sat, clear as day, on top of an easel. It was an old photo, one taken when he’d just turned sixteen. No smile, as was customary for Cyrus. A man hired to say a few words about the capitol and to give a district blessing stood behind the lectern, awaiting the mourners. He was an older fellow, with gray hair and a beard that came down from his sideburns and across his chin. He paced back and forth, looking to my mother and father as though they would know when it would be time to start this shenanigan of a funeral.
The rain and wind buffeted the tent. Drops of water splashed down onto the empty chairs, and the creek of metal filled the air. My mother and father sat patiently at the front, unreachable, unmoving, and unknowing. The man with the funny beard moved back and forth, stopping every so often to check his watch. Surely, there had to be a few friends come to mourn Cyrus? Even if it were just a few admirers or distant relatives?
But the chairs remained empty.
No, you made the choice to leave us because you never had anyone. You never had someone to tell you—you are wonderful. You are brilliant. You are a boy that we love and cherish. Instead, your life was as these chairs—empty, cold, unfeeling—because you could never reach them, and they could never reach you. Your funeral was empty, devoid of any love, of any life, of even the smallest admirer to wish your family hope for a brighter tomorrow. For you were no hero. You were a failure—coming in ninth in the 61st hunger games—nothing more than a passing fancy for most. A glimmer that faded so quickly, it was worthless. And so your life faded into oblivion, into nothingness. Into a void that would be sown up with a few simple words and the nod of a head as though it were as simple as that.
And what of us? What of us in our embarrassment and grief? What had been wrong with us, that we could never see that your life was so hopeless and empty, that not even one person could come to your funeral to speak well of you? Not a friend from school, not a cousin from down the way—no one to speak of your virtues or even of your failings. No, your life was empty here. Empty and misunderstood—how could we have ever—and now we would never have the chance. However would we march forward and press past this emptiness—an emptiness that would haunt us forever? Would we too not share the same fate? Empty chairs, without the love and affection of anyone. Our deaths just another that would go unnoticed. For if someone so pure and good could collect no one, what hope was there for any of us?
I don’t remember what he said about you. It was meaningless drivel about the value of sacrifice. About having to give more of yourself than expected, and to be satisfied with the results. But you didn’t give, did you? You took. You took from mother. You took from father. You took from me. You left us with nothing. You left us with a broken home, a place that would fall apart like a stack of unsteady cards. And all because you wanted to escape. Because you were selfish. Because you didn’t think of how much it would hurt us if you were lost. If you disappeared and I never go to see you ever again. I got up from my seat as soon as he finished, and began walking back toward the house.
I let the rain soak into my suit and splash into my hair. I let it hide the tears that were streaking down my face now. I wanted so much for the rain to swallow me up, for me to drown in the puddles that lined the street. I wanted for all of it to end. My mind drifted back to the image of you—of Cyrus, with his stupid grin—of him smiling as he sank below the waves. As though you were happy to die. But why didn’t you say, why didn’t you tell me that you loved me? In those last moments, why couldn’t he have said it? Why couldn’t he have cried out for me, for anything—why did he just give in? It wasn’t fair. Did I matter so little to him, after all of that? Did I matter so little to all of them, despite all that I had been through?
I lay down on the porch with my back against the wall. I watched for some time as the rain came down. I had no energy left for anything. I just wanted to fade away, to dissolve into a puddle on the hard stone underneath me. I didn’t watch as my father stumbled by, holding my mother, quietly shutting the door behind them. What did I care? What did I have to say to either of them? They never so much as asked me how I felt about any of it. They were so consumed with themselves—it was their fault you were gone. They had never loved you enough. It wasn’t my fault.
I don’t know how long I lay there. It could’ve been a few hours. It might have been a few moments. I only watched the rains as they came down, splashing into puddles and dribbling down the gutters that lined our house and the house next door. I lay back against the wall, my whole body heavy. I blinked, feeling the tears as they streaked down my face again. How foolish was I, weeping for someone that didn’t even matter? To weep for someone that had been so stupid that he didn’t stop to think about the aftermath? I just was so tired of it all, I wanted to crawl into my bed and never wake up. It was my only motivation, then—to stumble to my feet and force my way to my bedroom for an endless sleep. I managed to grasp onto the wall and push myself upward, standing at last. I moved toward the door, turning the knob slowly as I entered.
There was an eerie quiet in the house—I’ll always remember how the only sound I could hear was the rain—and I forced myself to step into the darkness. My footsteps echoed with each step against the hardwood floors, and I looked to find the doorway to my parent’s room open. At first I stepped slowly toward it, then a bit faster, until I was running. I could hear my heart up in my eardrums as I reached for the door. There was a pull—a thrust even—to go inside. I could hear the rain in my parent’s room too, and as I pressed the door open further, felt the air come out of my lungs.
The windows were all open, and the white curtains fluttered in the breeze. Two thick legs swayed back and forth in front of me as I watched the lifeless form of my father spiral around, caught in the noose that so craftily had been fitted into the clasps that were supposed to hold the hanging lamp. His mouth was open, and bits of blood slid down from his nose—his eyes wide as though he was terrified of his own choice. The wind caused him to sway back and forth slowly, with the blood slowly dripping down onto the carpet. And in front of him lay a body, wrapped up in sheets of white atop the bed. A singular pale hand, clutching onto a bottle of pills—her only relief through it all— revealed what had led to her own ruin. There they were—two warriors, given up on a life of failure—as though nothing else had mattered to them.
All of you abandoned me, so why couldn’t I just leave you, and never look back?[/i]
It was the only choice. It was all that I could do then as I backed away from their forms—their lifeless, soulless shells—and back into the living room. Numb. It was all numb now as I raced back into my room. I would leave here—I would get away from all of this. Because I wasn’t strong enough—I wasn’t strong enough for any of it. I was not you, Cyrus. I was not you that wanted to be free from all of this. I loved all of it the way it was. I loved how we would be together, and how they were happy—as happy as they could have been. But it could never—it would never go back to how it was. And my mind left me then, shattered from this vision of death. How could I explain the shaking of my hands, the vomiting onto the floor as I stumbled back into my room? Of not imagining what I was shoving into my bag, but knowing only that I wanted to leave. My mind broke from my body as I gathered myself. I knew I wanted to leave and never come back. That I would forget you—I would forget them—I would forget everyone, because that was the only way to be free of all of you.
And so I ran—into the rain and out of District Six—forever.
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