|Brick| By Boring |Brick| [Tom]
May 23, 2013 22:19:33 GMT -5
Post by arx!! on May 23, 2013 22:19:33 GMT -5
Hey girl I’m waiting on ya, I’m waiting on ya
Come on and let me sneak you out
And have a celebration, a celebration
The music up, the windows down
Come on and let me sneak you out
And have a celebration, a celebration
The music up, the windows down
I don't know exactly how I found it, but I did. A few drug deals, a few personal requests from the people I met from work, a few shady alleyways, a few drunken walks through town, a few short conversations, a few questions, and I ended up here. Tempus Opera House. I've walked by it a few times, heard about it from some of the people I get high with, but I never thought anything of it. A bunch of singing teenagers thinking they can somehow make their way by putting on stupid plays or dancing or singing or whatever it is they do. Turns out my sister was there all along. The idea of it intrigues me. My sister? Naveen Anila Casovnik? The shy little girl who talked almost never? I couldn't believe it. But I watched one day while some people left flowers at the door or little cards with their blessings. I asked them what they were doing, who it was all for, and the replied simply by telling me that both the actor and the actress here had died in the Games. I watched for full day once, waiting for something to happen. I picked up the condolence letters and read each of them. You could tell only the rich people actually came here, leaving letters with gold edges and scrawling cursive. And they cared about my sister? I threw out all the flowers and letters in a nearby garbage can when no one was looking. Screw them, they didn't know her.
But that was ages ago. Or at least it seems like ages ago. And now the talk is the Keeni twins and I see no letters or flowers being left at the door. They never really cared or they would be leaving notes and flowers and visiting her grave everyday. I've thought about going inside a few times, just to have a look around, but I have never been able to get past the doors. This place where she lived for two years, this place that she ran away to when she left home, it feels like a place of worship or something. I don't feel like I deserve to step inside. (Especially when I'm stumbling around in the street, drunk or high off my ass.) I feel ... dirty. She was always helping me clean up for dinner when we were younger. She would give me a bath and tell me to stay out of trouble for an hour and I would go and mess up my hair and my clothes and scrape up my knees and she would have to help me get clean all over again for bed. My big sister was more of a mom to me than the whore that lives in my house ever was, that's for sure. So I guess my dirtiness comes from her not making me shower everyday, right? (I lie. I shower twice a day, everyday.) But I still feel like if I walk through the doors I will tarnish the part of her that she wanted to keep hidden from me. The singing, twirling, dress-up side of her.
I suppose I always knew she could sing. She was always humming something, always sang to Jay when he was sick, always sang in her room at night when we were really little. That was probably the first hint that she was gone that morning I woke up and she was gone. I came downstairs and there was no humming. No whistling. (No breakfast ...) Needless to say that day has faded in my mind. Now the more recent ones where we are sometimes playing tag in my dreams or she decides to walk with me through the woods after I smoke a joint are the memories that prick my thoughts, making me smile and then shake my head at the door to Tempus. I sigh then and walk back up the street the way I came. I'd much rather stare at a gravestone than destroy the best two years of her life. I walk along to the outskirts of town, a path that must be hundred times more beaten down now that I visit everyday. I walk among the old stones first, reading over names that have now become familiar to me. I walk until the stones turn from worn and weathered to new and sharp, the letters in the names easy to read out of the etched stone. And then I stop in front of the stone with the most familiar name carved into shiny rock. Naveen Casovnik. And the words beneath a complete insult really. Because this is not what the people who love her remember her as. Tribute of the 62nd Hunger Games. They may as well have added, "Decapitated by Wednesdae Drummond." or "Crazy girl who sewed her lips shut and shouted insanity into empty air."
But that's not why I come here everyday, to scoff at how the Capitol and pretty much everyone here in Six remembers her. Just another tribute. I come here to remember her humming in the kitchen every morning. I come here to remember her jumping from her window because she thought she could fly. I come here to remember her playing tag in the snow with me. I come here to remember her sharing a popsicle with me on a summer day. I come here to remember her for who she really was, not who she became when her name was called. I stand for a moment, just staring, before I lean back against the gravestone and pull a joint from my pocket, flicking my lighter a few times before it catches, and pull a long drag, letting myself drift away into the sunset.
Let’s go crazy, crazy, crazy ’til we see the sun
I know we only met but let’s pretend it’s love
And never, never, never stop for anyone
Tonight let’s get some and live while we’re young
I know we only met but let’s pretend it’s love
And never, never, never stop for anyone
Tonight let’s get some and live while we’re young