A Separate Peace [Open]

[Deleted]

Itzal Usoa

There’s a place in town where the men go to hang their shoulders and sigh at the moon. They say it’s a place where they can forget about the rough life of district five—and to have some time to themselves before heading back to the rigs. It’s a quiet little place, just about on the outskirts of town, with worn shutters and a wavering candlelight. There’s a mournful sound of music, usually a few twangs of strings and a humming, that comes from the screen doorway. It’s a slow and steady beat, usually old crooning songs from a generation past—a group of men and some women that have long passed reaping age and faded headlong into adulthood. Their voices pitch when they hear a song that reminds them of home—most of them wandering travelers, out drilling for oil and gas, never having enough time to settle down to make a life for their own.

I wonder about the times that my father would come home and disappear to this place. Did he want to get away from all of us, because it hurt so much to come home, knowing that he’d be going away again? That’s the reason I always imagined that he would never stay with us, even if he wasn’t going back for some time. He would come home smelling of rotten eggs—a terrible smell that I miss more than anything in the world—and sigh as he patted my brother, sister, and I atop our heads. He’d be a silly sort of sad, thinking about how much it hurt that he was back and that he’d be off again soon. It was unforgiving work, making sure the machines worked well on the rigs and getting what the capitol needed. He’d made three beautiful children that he might never have seen again, each goodbye a bookmark in time. Strange how all of us got used to this madness, that we were conditioned to know that when he came home it was only for a little while.

The winter wind brings darkness with it. We’re burning the last of our coal in the fireplace, and my mother and sister are darning the clothes that need mending. They’re content that another day has passed, with the sun set and all of us together. My brother has come and gone, just like my father, out to the rigs for another fortnight, until he has time to see us again. Will he become one of those souls that visits the edge of town, sighing about the way things could have been? But this is district five, this is our livelihood. We provide for the capitol, for all the districts of panem. We don’t have much say in how things are—we never will—and I scarcely think to talk politics with anyone. Better to keep my mind to myself, and to think of my own future.

When my mother takes her leave of us, my sister looks up from her work with a smile. She makes mention that she’ll be heading to bed as well, but that I shouldn’t stay up too late. I’ve gotten some work in a mechanic shop—one that helps mend things that go out to the rig—and that I’ll need to be awake soon enough. She kisses me on my head, but it feels cold against my skin. I watch the coals burn down, their bodies flickering heat. I think of my father, of how long we have been waiting for him to come home. Missing is not a word that comes to my vocabulary—rather, just a hope that he is still out there, forgotten, working, not disappeared as my sister says. I see his face in a frame of an old picture and it’s enough for me to search for my coat. I put on my boots and head out the door, breaching into the cool night air.

My steps ring out along the gravel path as I make my way toward town. The skies have cleared after a fresh snow, and the world is still. I press my hands into my pockets, shivering in the cool of the evening. I watch the stars above, staring at the silver of the moon. It’s a wonder that any of us don’t just run away, off into the woods, never to be seen again. Maybe it’s the chill in my bones that has my mind thinking strange things, or it’s the time of year—I hunger for something to warm me up and break me from this train of thought. No one’s awake now, the night hovering overhead. I can think of one place where there might be life, and trace my steps toward it.

There’s a soft sound of music as I stand at the screen door. The wood of the porch creaks as I take a step, and I pause for a moment. My mother and sister would tell me that this is no such place for a person like me, with the men and women all tired and sad. But I’m cold and tired, and wanting of relief. There are plenty with untold stories inside, it doesn’t all have to be sad. I’m not brave enough, however, to move myself from the front step. Instead I wait on the outside looking in, wondering whether or not I’ll show my face and move to become one of them.

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[Sydney ^.^]

'Empty,' was the first word I thought of in my head. In the dead of night, it usually was. The only thing I heard were the soft snores of District 5 citizens here and there. The emptiness was peaceful though, and night was an escape from the wretched place I called home. It was a break from the blood shattering screams my mother had throughout the night. The shhhs that my father used to try to calm down my mother. At night, I would always escape. I would throw on my hood, my large cargo pants, but I would never wear any shoes. Even if it was thirty below, I've always hated shoes.

When I came into earshot of the sound of soft music playing in a building nearby, I knew where I was at. That was the only sound that was heard throughout the night. It was the sound of despair, the sound of sadness, and the sound of depression. I knew most oil miners went there in the night. Telling stories of 'what if,' and 'if this would happen.' I never felt pity for them, as I knew once you went in there, you would always come back no matter what the cost. Those men and women had the choice to leave, but they went in because they were tired. I knew what went on in there, because I almost went in there.

But courage stopped me from going in. I knew I could never stoop that low.

I walked a little closer, wondering who there next victim would be. As I walked closer, I saw someone there at the front door. It was a guy just standing there, looking in. I could tell that he has never been in there before. Maybe he was looking for someone. Maybe it was his turn, and he was waiting for the opportunity to enter. I could tell he didn't really know what he was doing by his posture, as he looked weak. I was good at reading people, as that was what got me around in this place.

I stepped a little closer, completely silent with each step and my breath as quiet as can be. I stood about twenty feet from the person at the door now, and stopped. I looked back at my tracks that I left in the light dusting of the snow that was on the ground. Would I be willing to help him? It wasn't really my forte, but I didn't have anything better to do.

I cleared my throat, "You know if you were to enter in there, you would never be able to stop coming back to this place." I said with confidence in my voice. I didn't want to show this person that I was a weak girl. Though they probably wouldn't try anything dumb, I was prepared for anything to happen.
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[Deleted]

Itzal Usoa

There are times when I wonder what I’ll become in the future. My brother turned out just like my father—quiet, strong, and ready for whatever task lay before him. My sister was shaping up like my mother, a quick wit and coquettish around the boys. Pretty and sweet, but she never showed just exactly what she wanted. If my siblings were already reflections of my parents, I don’t know who it is that I’ll become. I’m not like him—I think more about the star and skies, and about things far and away than the task at hand. He would poke fun at me when I was younger, saying that I was too much of a dreamer. I needed to learn how to use my hands if I ever was going to be good—or useful, as it were.

And as I stand in front of the entrance to this little tavern, I can hear the slow rumble of the people inside. They’re reflections of their parents too, and the ones that came before them. Did they see stars in their eyes when they were children, and shrug them off for the life they would come to know? Their faces are long and their eyes tired, they know of the pain of the world and the hard work they face. Theirs an ache in the air—is this all there is here, when we grow old and gray? Perhaps all of them have bought into what the world should be—a sad and mournful tune, like the one that plays inside. Time travels on but it may not get any better, not until we disappear completely from the earth.

My thoughts break with the voice of a girl, and I turn to face her slowly. She mentions that I shouldn’t go inside, that it’s a choice that I would probably regret. But do I really have a choice? Am I not going to end up in there anyway? That’s what it seems. We move along, trying to avoid what we’ll become, but so many of us are just like those that came before. We’re not really all that special, not as much as we like to believe. I may dream and hope, but how much of that is real. I just want to become something different, to have a happier life than the one that I’ve seen. Perhaps… it wasn’t time to give up just then. But it would take more than just a thought to stop the future that I would have to face.

“I don’t know…” I say as I stick my hands in my pockets. “It’s not like they’re so bad in there. They seem to be okay with it, even if it isn’t all that great. Not like they bother anyone, either.” I look through the screen to see the men and women smoking and staring at their half-empty glasses. But it certainly didn’t look as though it was what any of them wanted. “I guess I just thought I’d see what it was, anyway. I couldn’t sleep… I’m Itzal, by the way…”

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[Sydney ^.^]

The cold wind barred against my skin, but the numbness wasn't important. I wondered right now that if I was home, would my mother be screaming? Would she be calm? Would she be missing like she was at times? I wouldn't know because I wasn't there right now. I felt like I should bolt out right now, not wasting my time on another word said. It would be easier that way. What if there was a robber at my house. What if my dad was getting beaten from a gambling debt.

The paranoia was always common for me. It was the only thing keeping me sane, even though it was considered an insane trait. I felt the need that I should be paranoid. My family was the only people I could trust, as they were the only people that actually talked to me. I was always in conflict with myself, as if I was schizophrenic myself. But there was always a good side of me and a bad side. The bad side usually took over, because it was the easiest to come over me.

Right now, as I saw it, two choices lay in front of me. I could rob this man and knock him down, as his posture was unhealthy and weak. It would benefit myself and my family, but would do the opposite for this man and his family. On the other hand, I could give this man advice. I could maybe even help him. I could tell him not to go in there and he might even take a chance at listening. Either way though, I feel as neither of those options are the right choice.

I took a light breath as my face stayed emotionless. "Names aren't important. Especially in this situation," I spoke in a strong voice. My father was always right. Never trust anyone, he always used to say. And he was right. Trusting was a weakness, and weakness was never an option. "What's important is the choice you make. You seem like a smart guy. If you go in there, you'll never come out. But go in there. I dare you. Yeah, stories might be told, and drinks might go down, but if you ever want to stay happy, not going in there would be the right choice."[/size]