.:directionless {cici}

[Danny]

oh and i'm feeling
directionless, yes
but that's to be expected
and i know that best
and in creeps the morning

Last night, I had an unusual thought. Although I'm not sure, I think I was eating dinner with my mother and Forla, pushing the lingering grains of rice to the outskirts of the plate. Our conversations were changing from school to work to music to friends, and it was fun to try to go back and see how each topic got to the next. Eventually, my mom got up and turned on the TV. The screen was fuzzy, but I could make out what was being shown; a fight. I didn't care to make out each individual figure, but I felt bad for them. Cringing, I turn away from the TV and ignore the grunts and cries coming from the box. I guess my mom is used to now, but I know I never will be. Forla looks unamused, but her eyes still continue to look at the fuzzy images. More than anything, she looks confused, and I am, too. Maybe not for the same reasons, though.

She probably doesn't exactly know what's going on. She doesn't know why these people are fighting each other (and I hope to keep it that way) and she doesn't know who they are. On my part, I just don't get their motive. Sure, they want to survive, but if they want to survive, why not step down? You might not get the fame and fortune that comes with winning, but at least you can escape the nightmares. If I was in there, I wouldn't fight. I would watch. I would try to stop it, I guess, but I know I could never do such a thing. I would accept the odds and die. I wouldn't try to make a difference because I know I can't. Anyways, that's when the thought came to my mind.

What would it be like to kill someone?

It's obvious what made me think of that, but I startled myself because I really didn't want to ponder on that too long. Honestly, I would think of myself as a pure person. I never purposely hurt someone. Not once have I told a big lie, only fibs that didn't hurt someone in the process. Whenever I watch the games, I never find pleasure in it, I only mourn for those kids and their families, and I thank Ripred that it isn't be in there. On second thought, I can't control what I think. If I'm looking at a girl, and they're mildly attractive, I'll instinctively think They're cute. So it's no surprise that I thought what I did, and it's not a big deal, either. The thought still lingering like the access pieces of rice, I figure I might as well answer it.

Because the idea of killing someone scares me, I think I'd be scared after I kill someone, ya' know? I might run, and I would cry. I would apologize and I wouldn't be able to sleep. It would probably be easier for someone to kill me, less of a burden. Sure it's a bit sad but at least the guilt wouldn't eat me alive. I robotically trudge up to my room - left, right, left, right - and when I get there I fling the door open and a jump onto the cushioning.

My eye catches the backpack in the corner in my room and I don't want to look at it because it glares at me, forcing me to think about all the work in there I have to complete. The sighs add up and eventually it's become a rhythm, if I wanted, I could make a song to this beat. Sigh, onesecondtwosecondthreesecond sigh, onesecondtwosecondthreesecond sigh, and it would be so catchy and easy to learn I'd sing it all day and teach it to everyone. A pair of eyes meet the window right in front of me, and even though I can't see through walls, I know there's a roof right there.

Anyone can probably guess what I did next.

Now, I'm running and my heart is beating and I start to think my heartbeats added to my quickening breaths would make a much more interesting song that my sighs. I stop at a streetlight and just hug it - not really, because it would never hug back - and slide down. My knees slide towards my chest as I try to gain my breath back. Mom will hopefully be asleep and so will Forla. I'll be back soon. I just want to take a break.

[Deleted]

They don't see the price tag, stretched across my forehead, consuming every part of my existence. The dark circles beneath my eyes, the stomach that curves inward, and even the thin, mangled hair that just keeps falling, falling, falling—I come at a cheap price. Back when I was younger, I would formulate a written list of questions full of things that confused me throughout the day, yet most of them were left unanswered. I constantly dreamed of asking Angela, my adoptive parent whom I felt so in debt to, until the day I finally managed enough courage.

“Why do we have to give the food we harvest to the Capitol? Why can't we eat it?”

“Everything has a price.” It was that moment when I realized just how much she'd been paying; her hands were so dry and callused, her face so many years older than her life. “Even freedom isn't free, Khiyyi.” Free from what? It had taken me a year or so before I discovered what it was we were supposed to free ourselves from. And it took me even longer to decide that I would have to pay up, in order to keep Angela from falling into any deeper debt to herself. She payed for my mistakes, and it was about time I took the initiative to take them into my own hands.

There's a price tag on my past, and I can't rip it off until the debt is paid. I look down at the cuts across my forearms; I've never let myself forget that debt, and there's a high guarantee that I never will. Bailey thought it would eat me away; she thought that someday, the personal debt that I've buried myself in would end in a knife driven deeper than just my forearm. But she left. Figures.

I suddenly focus my mind back on the present, increasing my pace as I head towards my night job. My stomach is crying for food; it's realized that grumbling will solve nothing, yet I push the thought away. Still, hunger is like a bouncy ball. Every time I toss it to the ground, it comes back up even stronger. I can't let myself eat, or else I'll have become just as vulnerable as I was twelve years ago when I told those men where I lived, and when they came back with mere ashes. I don't deserve food like my siblings deserve food, and like my adoptive parents deserve food. Taking food from the dinner table has an untold price and I still have so much to pay for.

My steps across the grass are careful and almost silent, as though even walking has a price as I trail through the familiar darkness, yet the silence is interrupted by heavy breathing. I look up from the ground, my eyes flickering to it's source—a boy sitting beneath the streetlamp, hugging it as though holding on for dear life. My primary instinct is to go ask him if he's alright and help him up, yet the pain in my stomach is overwhelming, so overwhelming that I'm not sure how much longer I'll be able to keep myself up. I walk over to the boy with as much stability as I can muster and put my hand gently on his, which is still clutching the lamp post. His hand is cold in comparison to my warm overworked hand. The look in my eyes bleeds empathy as I ask him, “Are you alright?” I hope he doesn't notice the shaking in my knees—the shaking that only gets more severe as hunger takes my mind from me.

Hoping that he thinks I'm doing it for his sake, I sit down on the ground next to the boy and the lamp post, but really, it's only because my knees have given in. I suppose that a few moments of rest wouldn't hurt, nor would a chat with this boy, so I stay there. Good deeds and kindness are always a good way to pay back. Of course, kindness isn't worth much, but considering how much moral debt I've put myself in, being the indirect reason for my parents' deaths, every penny counts.

Maybe someday the pennies will add up and I might actually go down as someone who made a difference in the lives of others. Who ever said there is nothing selfish about being selfless?--because there most definitely is. No one's really selfless, are they? They're all helping people for at least some sort of personal fulfillment. At least, I know I am. If I didn't have a lifetime of mistake following me around, who would I be? Would I still be the girl who works every hour of the day, only to slip her salary into her parents' savings? Would I still be the girl who starves herself for the sake of others? And would I still be the girl who stops to make sure that everything is running smoothly, to make sure that Bailey was okay and that Azalea was okay, and now if this boy is okay? However, I know that the boy will leave. He'll leave and won't come back, just like Bailey and Azalea, because at some point they all tell me that I need to get help, that this isn't normal.

Why can't they see that I'm just trying to help?--I absolutely have to help. Looking at the boy and brushing away the heavy thoughts, I smile slightly. “What are you doing out here? I get that it's nice and quiet, but really, this area gets pretty buggy at night,” I say in my usual light style of voice. “I'm Khiyyi by the way.”

ooc -- Oh hey, look who finally posted. Sorry this is so late and sorry it's like a;orijgoaijfoij

[Danny]

Lend me your hand and we'll conquer them all
But lend me your heart and I'll just let you fall
Lend me your eyes I can change what you see
But your soul you must keep, totally free
Awake my soul, awake my soul

I start perspiring, sweat generating from my hairline and dripping down the edges of my face, coating it with a sticky, salty feeling that leaves behind a pungent smell. My hands attempt to rub away the lingering sweat, but with no success. It only makes it worse, smearing the solution over the rest of my face. The lingering bugs don't help, and I know it's my fault because they're magnetized to light, but I'd wish they leave. I wish I could grab a flyswatter out of my back-pocket and swing at every little mosquito, gnat and fly in my vision. That's a bit sadistic, I suppose, and I know I'm Mr. Environmentalism, but to be completely honest, little insects like that are unnecessary. But then again... someone could say a person like Forla is unnecessary...

My eyes, focused down at my feet and the pavement beneath them, capture a figure moving towards me in my peripheral vision. I shyly swivel my heads to get a better picture of the person approaching me. Now, being able to examine the girl, I can get a clearer picture in my head. Everything about the girl is stick-like. Straggly hair, skinny limbs, bones poking harshly at the skin. Everything about her screams SICK and TIRED but it looks like she keeps going. I can see cuts and bruises which originated from Ripred knows what, but I know the sole purpose of them, because it's pretty obvious why a girl would have cuts lining her wrist.

"Are you alright?" she asks, while simultaneously taking a seat beside me. For some reason, I hesitate more than I should. Physically, I know I'm up-to-par. But then again, I always felt like that at night, like I could run any distance and lift any weight. Like I'm indestructible. Eventually, the euphoria will wear away, leaving me tired and used up, like a flickering light bulb that tries when there's no point to. But mentally... I think I'm okay. Now that I'm getting older, I feel like I missed out on a lot. I've yet to have my first kiss. First love. First heartbreak. And without the presence of my dad, a lot of things went differently than I planned. But, for some reason, I can say for better. I would never want that shallow man in my house; the one that couldn't raise a girl because of her disabilities. So, for now, that question will remained unanswered like so many in this world.

The girl next to me turns her head, and I respectively do the same and mimic her honey-sweet smile. "What are you doing out here? I get that it's nice and quiet, but really, this area gets pretty buggy at night," the girl says softly and sweetly. I look around at the bugs pestering me, sticking to my sweat like glue. I laugh and nod, because I know exactly what she means. "I'm Khiyyi by the way." Again, I smile and face the girl. She sounds exactly how she looks; small, light, gentle. And then I start to wonder if my voice sounds like how I look. For that to be the case, my voice would have to be... what? Dirty like the mud I paint over my body? Fragile, like how my bones look like they have the ability to break at the slightest touch? Ghostly? Similarly to my pale skin?

For now, though, I'm not going to ponder on the thought of what I would have to sound like for my voice to portray my looks; I'll focus on the conversation with this girl. "I don't usually come out so late... I guess I was just restless," I reply with a shrug. My eyes scan down the street until I find my house, tucked in between two similar ranches. No light is being cast through the windows, indicating that No, my mom doesn't know I'm gone. Or maybe she does, but doesn't give two shits... Something tells me it isn't the latter. I begin to dig my finger into the ground beneath it, ripping through the emerald-green grass and revealing a layer of plush, brown soil. Then, I start to scoop out the surrounding dirt until a mediocre hole originated next to me hand, the one further away from Khiyyi.

"Oh, and uh, I'm Axsoa." I suppose my voice does mirror my appearance. Scratchy, vague, thin, brittle. I'm not sure if that's a good thing, but it's soothing to know Khiyyi's not the only one who will have a link back to their old self if their face gets ruined (or vice versa). Out of boredom, I clasp my hands together and start whirling my thumbs around each other. When my thumbs accidentally hit each other too many times, I quit and decide to pick up the dead conversation lingering between the two of us.

"So, enough about me," I say, although that's facetious because I hardly said two words about me. "What're you doing out her so late?" I nudge the girl with my elbow playfully, hoping the break the barrier between us. Not that I'm about to go admit my deepest, darkest secrets to this girl, but I don't want to sit her uncomfortably for a long period of time, wondering what's appropriate or inappropriate to say to her.

[/justify][/blockquote][/blockquote]

[Deleted]

Hunger nips at my stomach like a monster eating me away. This happens too often for me to be concerned, so I brush the feeling away, listening to the boy's words. "I don't usually come out so late... I guess I was just restless."

There's something extremely unfulfilled about hearing that—knowing that some people can be restless, that they can just wander outside and sit down and lose any sense of time. Time is constantly binding me to this dangerous, unhealthy lifestyle I've pulled myself into. I wish I could just stretch time like putty. I wish I could walk across it and even stop it, pause it temporarily. Yet, even I know that this unfulfilled feeling only stems from jealousy, impatience, and possibly contempt. While I'm out here, constantly punishing myself by leaving my bed sheets untouched too often, giving my plate of food over to my siblings, and sweating day and night just so that I don't have to listen to my adoptive mother cry about poor income ever again, I don't see any of those families with food on their tables every night, working anywhere near half as hard as I work.

Every feature in my face screams, “I'm happy,” “Talk to me—I'm listening,” or something along the lines of “I don't judge,” – except for the sinking eyes and the stress, so evident in the lines across my forehead. Yet, I sometimes doubt that loving, innocent Khiyyi that I seem to radiate across the district. Sometimes it's hard not to hate everything, every other part of me seeking to deny that idea.

The guilt in feeling hatred, however, only causes me to hate myself even more. I don't want to be anything but optimism, but when my stomach is too tired to growl and my eyes too tired to remain open for much longer, it's hard to look at the world from an optimistic standpoint. In fact, I find myself drifting off now...

"Oh, and uh, I'm Axsoa,” the boy says, pulling me back to reality. Hunger. I push it away. He's pretty thin himself, covered in dirt and obviously worn down just like everyone else in the district. Trying to keep my eyes open, I start to panic, realizing that I have absolutely no time for this. I don't have time to get to know this boy; I don't have time to get to know anyone for that matter. Do I really know anyone? Does anyone really know me? Sure, I love my family, but what do I know about my adopted siblings' pasts? What do I know about Angela's past? All I know is that she took me in as a foster child before adopting me, and never married. Why hadn't she married? Why had she brought me in? What is this world, that I'm so oblivious to, as I try to conquer something even bigger than myself, trying to erase the past I've been so trapped in?

Where am I going? Who am I? Who are these people? All I'm focused on is my past, my past, my past, but why can't I ever spare a thought for anyone else's? More importantly, why can't I spare a thought for the future? I say I care about others, but do I really? Wouldn't I have substantial, lasting friends if I did? No one wants to be friends with the girl who has a strict schedule with not a second to spare—the girl who falls asleep in the fields, often too weak to even hold the rake right before her. She has issues, that girl.

Questions, so incomplete, fill my head, and I have the sudden urge to understand this boy, my judgments falling to my sides. I can't, though. Time is choking me.

Trying to keep my focus, I take a glance in the direction of the factory. Why had I stopped? I shouldn't have sat down in the first place! I have to get to work! Work, work, work! Refusing to face the consequences of being late, I ponder the idea of getting up, but realize I have absolutely no strength to do it. "So, enough about me. What're you doing out her so late?"  Axsoa asks, and all I'm thinking is “Oh great, what if I don't make it to work on time?” I position the palms of my heads on the ground, ready to push myself to my feet, but the hunger.

“Oh, well, I was actually on my way to my night job,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant although I am quite nearly out of breath and completely devoid of all energy. “I work at the food-processing factory. Should probably...be on my way.” I'm desperately trying to hide the exhaustion and the insecurity in my voice but even I know it isn't working. I push against my hands, managing to get onto my knees. From my knees, I try to stand, but suddenly my vision starts to get blurry and my head starts spinning and I can't...I can't...

I'm back to where I started. I try again, but this time, I don't even get to my knees. I need help, but I don't want it. I need sleep and I need food and I need love, but I don't want any of those things. I just want my parents back, and I don't want to live the rest of my life knowing that the only noteworthy thing I ever did was get them killed.

I don't want...

I can't complete the thought. My head is spinning.

I don't know what I'm doing anymore.

I'm hungry; too hungry, too tired. All I see are black dots, sweeping across my vision of Axsoa, and I don't want his help, yet I find myself reaching for him as I cling to the lamppost beside me. I'm shaking so hard I can't breathe. “Food,” I whisper, finally giving in to my body's pleas, shame filling my insides. I give up. The pain is too much.

My eyes wander to Axsoa as I remain glued to the lamppost, hoping that he might have even a grain of food on him. “Sorry,” I whisper, so silently I wonder if he can hear.

ooc -- ugh, I'm sorry. Such unnecessary ramble D:

[Danny]

Lend me your hand and we'll conquer them all
But lend me your heart and I'll just let you fall
Lend me your eyes I can change what you see
But your soul you must keep, totally free
Awake my soul, awake my soul

"Oh, well, I was actually on my way to my night job," the girl reveals. I can feel her heavy breaths through her weakening voice. I glance over at her puzzlingly. She looks fine, but her body starts to tremble as she attempts to push herself up. "I work at the food-processing factory. Should probably...be on my way." I look over at her again and see her trying to get up, but the heavy breaths she's taking tell me that that isn't happening anytime soon. But, I decided it was nothing. "Oh... Well see you later, I-" Now she's back to step one, except she's tired now. No longer sitting because she wanted to talk to some stranger; sitting because that's her only choice.

I've never been in a situation like this. I can tell she's about to faint, and my heart starts beating extremely fast. Faster than I could play on my guitar. Which each breath she takes, her body rises sharply and barely. I can feel her legs shaking against mine, I can see her arms trembling. "Food," she moans, as if it'll save her life. Truth be told: It will. I can tell by the starving look in her eyes, the same one I can catch in the people wandering the streets.

"Sorry," she mutters. It's so soft I can barely hear it over her shallow breaths. All I can do is sigh and look at her confused. I know what's going on, but I don't know what I can do to help her. "What're you sorry about? Do you want- Here, hop on my back." I decided it all at once. I know I'm not the most physically capable, but in a time like this... well let's just say desperate times call for desperate measures. It's a sacrifice, I suppose. But a sacrifice usually means you're doing it for some higher power or for forgiveness. I'm just doing this because I could stand knowing a life was lost, and I could have stopped it.

I quickly wipe the dirt off of my butt after standing up, and reach down for Khiyyi's hands. I pull her off the ground with a few puffs. Eventually, with my support, she's standing up. I turn around - to make my back face her front - and squat so she can wrap herself around me. Hopefully, she can hold on for a few seconds. I can see my house from here, but it's just a matter of me making it. I start running like I've never done before. It's funny what you can accomplish in a time of need. Every time we pass a street light, I see our shadow. It's funny saying our shadow, like it's something we share. But it truly is. And this is this the first time I shared a shadow with someone. Never held hands with someone while the sun cast its light upon us.

From the starting streetlight, we were nine houses from my house. And every time we pass a house, I count down.

Eight. This isn't too hard.

Seven. Good thing she's so light.

Five. I can do it. Only five houses left.

Four. I don't think I can make it.

Three. Stupid cramps. Stupid skinny legs.

Two. Almost there, almost there, almost there.

One. Okay, I got this.

Finally, we're at my house and I bring her around the back of the house to my room. "Just... Sit down for a few seconds and I'll be right back." I crawl through the window stealthily, making sure not to wake Forla or Mom, and grab a bag of potato chips from my room, along with a water bottle. I run back to my window, well as fast as someone trying to be quiet can be. I hand her the pair of lifesavers and climb out the window to join her. "Here, I know it's not much." I shrug and lean against my house with her.

The moon overlooks my backyard, casting light upon the withering grass. A pair of chairs sit around a wooden table near the sliding door. I think of how perfect this would be if the girl beside me wasn't on the verge of fainting... or worse.


{yes everyone i know i didn't include the sixth house >.>}

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[Deleted]

"What're you sorry about? Do you want- Here, hop on my back." I'm sorry that I'm not strong enough to deal with this on my own. I'm sorry that I'm putting this all in your hands. I'm sorry that I'll never be whoever you hope that I am. But I can't say the words, not without circling back into the black that I've come to know quite too well. I hate having to accept the help of others; I hate seeing their worried eyes as they all say the same thing;“Khiyyi, we need to get you some help.”

In only a matter of moments, I'm on Axsoa's back. I want to tell him that he doesn't have to do this, that I can try to walk on my own, but I've lost any sense of speech at this point. He starts running, and I'm almost surprised that he hasn't dropped me yet. Putting my sole faith in Axsoa, I keep my hands wrapped tightly around his neck. The act reminds me of my father, how I used to wrap my little arms around his neck after a long day as he carried me home. I drop my head onto Axsoa's shoulder, the pain in my stomach transforming into an even worse feeling of longing for my father, and then a shameful emptiness. I shouldn't long for something terminated by the work of my own hands.

Trying to ignore the pain, I tighten my grip, ever so slightly. Axsoa's shirt smells so clean, so fresh. I feel my thoughts falling, my vision slowly diminishing, his scent so reassuring. However, I barely manage to catch myself before I've lost it. My grip begins to loosen, yet Axsoa's distinct scent keeps me alert and hanging on. Finally, he drops me carefully to the ground, and I'm immediately against the wall of the house, clinging to consciousness as I pull my knees tightly to my chest.

I breathe heavily, waiting. Waiting. Waiting. I don't want to wait, but at this point, I have no other choice. "Here, I know it's not much." It's more than anything I could have hoped for. I've already ripped open the bag, consuming the chips. The pain is even greater with actual food in my stomach. It would be so much easier to faint and deal with it later, yet I force myself to endure.

I don't remember the last time I ate chips; I think I was four or five, still living back in that other world that now seemed like such a distant place. I take slow sips of water, and stare at the lifesavers, knowing that they would be too much for my stomach to handle. Even this...even this is more than enough. How am I supposed to pay for this deed? How will I ever be able to give Axsoa everything he just gave to me?

I can just see the price tag, stretching across the street, all the way back to where we started. Then there's the price tag on the chips, on the water, on the lifesavers, on the window. No one can see it; Axsoa most definitely cannot. He probably thinks he's just doing a good deed, and he is; but that means I have to repay it. In my mind, it's all such a literal process. Someone does something nice for you, you're obliged to give back a favor. Goodness, care, love--it's all entirely irrelevant. Yet I don't have time—to get to know this boy, to make friends, to give him any sort of kindness! I'm sick of being kind when really, in the end it barely makes any difference! If I had the energy, I would get up and go to work right now. My insides melt into fear; they're going to fire me! They're definitely going to fire me! I've already been caught dozing off on the job, and now a missed day?

Calm down, I tell myself. I take another sip of water, with such a polar opposite taste to the water I drink at home. The chips, the water—both such luxuries that I've so rarely been able to experience. There's no question that Axsoa and I come from opposite ends of the world—at least, there's no question in my mind; he seems so well off.

He probably deserves it, though. I, on the other hand, am lucky to be where I am in the first place. Then again, what a relief it may have been if I weren't. Oh god, I think. This is so bad. I have to get to work. I don't even want to think of the consequences if I don't. However, my eyes are fighting to stay open, and Axsoa is just beside me, and I still haven't said a word. “Thank you,” I say, yet my gratitude is mixed with drops of shame as I gaze at him--so skinny, much too skinny to have made that carrying at all an easy job. In a moment, I'm at it again. “Sorry, I'm so sorry, you really shouldn't have had to...it's my fault. I really should start eating better and oh god, I'm just...sorry." However, Axsoa's clean scent, of trees and air and home--real home--pulls my head back to his shoulder, and all I want to do is sit there, beside him, and forget.

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[Danny]

Lend me your hand and we'll conquer them all
But lend me your heart and I'll just let you fall
Lend me your eyes I can change what you see
But your soul you must keep, totally free
Awake my soul, awake my soul

I once heard that no one does a good deed for the pure sake of doing a good deed. When I first heard that, it bothered me. Does that mean I'm not a good person? was the only thought rallying through my head for a few days. My life was kind of titled at the point... I mean, I'd still continue to do good deeds for people, and expect nothing in return, but I could never stop wondering if I did something to get something in return. To be honest, I will do something knowing I'll be rewarded, but there are every-day actions I perform, and expect nothing in return. Bonding with Forla. Playing my guitar in the street. Doing the laundry. Cleaning the dishes. I never got an allowance, and I don't plan on getting one now. I never did housework because I knew I would be rewarded; I did it because I wanted to see my mom happy. (And if that's such a sin, shoot me now.)

I look to the girl next to me, and I wonder what I just did that for. Never, not in a million years, would I think that I'd save a girl's life in the middle of the night - and a stranger at that - but here I am, sitting next to her and hearing the distant sound of potato chips crunching in her mouth. Khiyyi takes another sip of her water, and plops another chip in her mouth. "Thank you," she says, and gazes at me lackadaisically. I feel bad, I truly do. She looks so skinny, skinnier than me, but I don't think it's because she doesn't eat any meat to add to her bones, like me. So, really, she shouldn't be thanking me. I did what every good person should do: help a friend. Because here, in District Eleven, where getting passed the age of fifty is a good sign, everyone bands together.

"Sorry, I'm so sorry, you really shouldn't have had to...it's my fault. I really should start eating better and oh god, I'm just...sorry." Before I can reply to her unneeded apology, I feel her head come down on my should and rest there. Never in my life have I had a girl do that to me before. I try to do what I read in a few books, and I put my arm around her, resting it on her shoulder, and play with her obsidian hair in my fingers. "It's okay," I promise her. A lot of people say everything will be fine, but it never is. Right now, I'm making a promise. I'm making a promise to make sure it will be okay.

The thoughts of mine take me to a few moments before, sitting at a street-light, and a girl encounters me. Now, instead of a light, were slumped against the back of my house, but everything feels different, like the air in my backyard holds us together somehow. "I... I think you should go to work," I suggest. It's not a way of kicking her out of my backyard, not at all, because if I could, I would stay here forever, stroking her hair and imagining what had happened to end up here. But she has to get to work. If she can barely afford food now, how would she afford it if she doesn't have a job? "I mean, if you want to."

Now, I'm starting to see it. I'm starting to see that every time someone performs a good deed, they're expecting something in return. I can see it now, the reason I would go to such extremes of practically risking my life for stranger's. Why I'm willing to spare some food and water for her. Why I'm sitting here, with her head on my shoulder and my arm around her. I just want a friend, I realize. I want someone who I can talk to, and not be embarrassed around. I need someone who'll be there for me when I'm faced with a dilemma, and if they're involved in the dilemma; they're stick with me. They won't give up on me when they see the cracks, instead, they'll try to glue them back together.

This girl, albeit a complete stranger now, could be that person. A shoulder to cry in, a hand to hold.

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[Deleted]

"It's okay," Axsoa whispers, running his fingers through my hair, but all I can think of is how clean he is and how dirty I am, because no matter how many times I scrub them, there will still be dirt beneath those fingernails,

[/i]and no matter how many times I wash them, there will forever be calluses along those hands. [/i]And no matter how many times people tell me it's okay, they don't know.[/i] Do they know what it feels like to look in the mirror and see a blinding scar that will never fade? Has Axsoa ever looked at his reflection and realized that he will never ever see anything different – that he will never see with any other eyes than those, hear with any other ears, kiss with any other lips? [/i]When I look at my reflection, I only ever see the eyes of a blind girl, the ears of the deaf, and the lips of a mistake – invisible scars, littered with hurt. [/i]But maybe Axsoa sees something different in his reflection; maybe he sees a valiant hero or a noble warrior or maybe he sees something even stronger than that.

I know I do.[/i]

My own deteriorating scent hits me and I realize my head really shouldn't be on his shoulder – when's the last time I washed my hair? When's the last time I washed my soul? [/i]All I can think, even as the calming night pulls my heart inches out of the cobwebs,[/i] is of the guilt littered across it. I try to lift my head up, but the comfort is much too overwhelming.

"I... I think you should go to work," Axsoa says and I finally manage enough strength to pull my head from his shoulder. He thinks I should go to work? I'm slightly relieved and yet horrified at the same time. Most people usually point out the fact that I'm ill and need to see a doctor and end up walking away,[/i] but no, this is different. Most of them take the circle track I run along and try to form it into their own stubborn square. But Axsoa isn't changing my path; [/i]he isn't telling me to stop – he's just telling me to keep going, and right now, that's all I need,[/i] despite the falling feeling that fills my dizzying head.

"I mean, if you want to."

I count up points,[/i] like I usually do when I calculate how much I owe people[/i] and how much people owe me. There's a fine line between service and gratitude and an even finer line between my head and my heart.[/i] My head tells me to go to work and my heart says to stay here but I listen to neither of these voices because right now I'm not at work and I'm not with Axsoa – I'm editing the spreadsheet that's been plastered to my existence ever since the moment I was born, [/i]the spreadsheet that constantly changes with every good deed and every bad. I add Axsoa to that little spreadsheet in my mind and count up the deeds.

- carried me to his house
- gave water
- gave chips
- put up with me

[/i][/blockquote]

...and then I give them each point values, per usual. 5 + 1 + 1 + 20. [/i]Twenty-eight points from Axsoa Saerio, which means I owe twenty-eight back.[/i]

“You're right,” I say, “I should go,” and unsteadily and certainly all in the same moment, I rise to my feet. “Twenty-eight,” the words pour from my mouth. “Remember that, okay? Remind me.” And even though he has no idea what it is he must remind me of, I take a couple of steps before turning around again.[/i]

“Thank you,” I whisper, continuing to hide my shaking knees and my tired eyes and the physical weakness that I've replaced with a facade of emotional strength. [/i]

“Thank you,” I whisper again, because my head is spinning so immensely that I can't remember if I've already said the two words. [/i]And because gratitude is the best give I can give at the moment, I reduce my debt from twenty-eight to twenty-seven as I walk away from his backyard and back towards the sidewalk that leads to work. But I don't head down that sidewalk, because sidewalks lead us to things we already know and I don't need to relearn the definition of pain over and over,[/i] just like every other day.

Exhaustion eats away at my insides, but the most exhausting thought right now is the loneliness that fills the night. Comfort pulls me back,[/i] weakness pulls me down, and determination pulls me forward. But determination loses this battle[/i] because it only takes a moment before I'm on Axsoa's front porch, ready to sink to the ground and sleep. But somehow my fingers find the handle and I'm opening his front door and there's an empty couch right there and it's soft against my cheek and where is Axsoa? Is he still in the backyard?[/i] And I shouldn't even be here and I try to get up again and I try to make my way to the door because I really shouldn't be here and what if he sees me in his house[/i] and I'm not supposed to be in his house and I like this couch and I should be at work and I'm going to owe more points now and what if the men come back and burn this house down too and where is my bicycle...[/i]

...sleep takes my worries and crafts them into dreams.

ooc -- a color change felt appropriate.[/color][/justify][/size][/blockquote]