speeds we can { r u n } at // Rook

[Stare]

[th][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=width,500,true][atrb=style, background-color: 000000; border-right:10px solid 41243D; border-left:10px solid 41243D; border-top:0px solid 41243D; border-bottom:0px solid 41243D;] everything and nothing always haunts me i know you’re trying, i know you’re trying waiting for your moment to fall on me i saw you trying, i saw you trying I . N E E D .Rubik. It isn’t a longing or a conscious thought, but a simple fact that hangs suspended in the stale air as I wander through the empty rooms of my house, searching for someone who isn’t there. Once upon a time I believed that I wasn’t so selfish that I would cling to people who didn’t have the time for me, but I thought Rubik was different and it hurts deep in my chest when I wonder if maybe he’s not. (And sometimes I hate her for throwing herself into the Games because Rubik needed her just like I need him and she might realize that the Games are fake but he doesn’t, and that’s not okay. Doesn’t she realize that?) His pain was a tangible thing in my living room when she caught on fire, stabbing through my lightning fast despite the fact that he was in his own house, in his own private torture chamber. We are two individuals locked inside of our heads but I felt him as if he had wandered right out of his head to find me, across dusty roads and through wooden walls until I was bent over crying with the burden of his pain. There is no escape for me. I watch the Games and can only feel the loss of Hope as if she were truly dead. She's with Will and Pan now, I keep trying to tell myself, but then another voice echoes from my past. Is that any better than them being dead? Rubik asked me that after Pan's Games. At the time, I'd been so sure. Of course it was better. It was always better. Now my certainty wavers, however, in a horribly selfish way. For those of us left behind, it really is no better. Hope is alive, but he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t understand. And that means that no matter how fake everything on that television screen is, his pain is real. And, consequently, so is mine. On the day she “died”, I tried to see him. I went to his house and knocked on the door, but there was no answer, so I stood there in the cold for a long time and then left feeling more empty and alone than I should have. Rubik wants to be alone but he shouldn’t be, I just know he shouldn’t, because when he’s alone all the dark thoughts will come and consume him until there is nothing but a shell, a ghost, and I’m afraid I won’t be able to bring him back again. I’d still stand by him, though. I’d no sooner leave a broken Rubik than I would a whole one, and I’d keep trying to fix him until his scars transferred to my hands, because in the end I’m the one who deserves to hold their weight, not him. Eventually, the pacing becomes too much. The lights spin around my head very similarly to the way thoughts spin within it, a carousel of uncertainty and a buzzing need for human contact. It’s cold outside, but I barely notice, slipping on a flimsy coat and the same hat I wore when we went to the valley in the snow. It would be arrogant of me to think that I'm going because he needs me and selfish for me to think that I'm going because I need him, so I try not to think at all as I follow the invisible cord of pain driving through both of our chests and pulling taut, footsteps falling on the frozen ground until I’ve reached his home. People have left flowers, but they’ve been roughly pushed away from the door to wilt and die. I kneel down and pick up one of the roses, running a thumb over one of the petals. It nearly falls off. Still, the color is almost vibrant, and it doesn’t disintegrate at my touch as some of the others look like they might. I can hardly blame him for not accepting them. I look at them and all I can think of is Hope. Someone removed the thorns from the stem, but I wish they hadn't. I wish that my hand would bleed holding onto it, because that is how life is. Holding onto things that are beautiful hurts but we do it anyway because we are drawn toward the light. That is how I stand for a long time, clutching that dying flower and wondering if we two things are really so different. And suddenly, there on his front porch, everything feels too real. The lights swoop and dance around me comfortingly, trying to offer me company, but I still feel bitterly alone. I stare at the door for a long time, memorizing the patterns of the splintering wood, before finally gathering up the courage to knock. It's so quiet that I have to add my voice in order to ensure he hears me. "Rubik. It's me. I..." Be honest. I'm despicably selfish. "I need you. Can we talk? Please?" hurts so bad, i don’t know what you want from me you know i’m trying, you know i’m trying and now we’re hanging on by a heartbeat you know i’m trying, i was always trying
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[th][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=width,500,true][atrb=style, background-image: url(http://i44.tinypic.com/2pota4l.png); background-repeat: no;] . .

[rook]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,500,true][atrb=style,background:url(http://i55.servimg.com/u/f55/12/78/18/24/oie_2910.jpg)] He's gotten worse since this morning. Half-formed sentences over breakfast were the best I could force out of him. I didn't make a lot of sense out of it, but the usual grief struck waffle about Pandora and Hope kept cropping up. He was screaming in his sleep last night, but I avoid bringing that topic up. I talked to him, told him how brave Hope was, and what she had done had saved the life of that poor Konstantine girl. For a few minutes he almost seemed happy, listening to me talk. Of course he then went back to his chair and watched the continuation of the sixty-fifth hunger games. I swear he doesn't even pay attention to what is going on. It's like he's looking straight through the screen, at the wall. He is so very lost, and I wish I could find him again. He was the perfect sibling. You know, the one who always worries and thinks things through. The brother who will always look after you and clean up the mess you're bound to make. He'll be the brother you call irritating, but without him you'd be clueless. All that is gone, like someone's taken it away and left him a hollow shell. He's lost everything. His mother, his twin brother, his father and now his sister. They all died. All four of them. Now it's his homeless bastard brother that has to look after him. For too long did Rubik Woodards push me away from this family. He always used to threaten me and tell me to stay away. I was a bad influence on Hope, a distraction. Rubik would always be so polite, but Pandora never was. He hated me too, and he didn't hold back telling me. Bastard. Reject. Low-life. Everyone around here makes out that Pandora was a hero and a good guy, but he was a nasty piece of work. I got in one too many fights with him before he was reaped. Drunken bar fights and alleyway scraps. Pan' and I exchanged blows like passing glances. I was almost glad the day his name was called. One less hater, right? I'm not a bad person. I've just had a lot of bad things happen to me. When Pandora got blown to bits by that explosive crab, people gave every penny they had to Rubik and Hope. They live in poverty, worse off than most. Of course, Rubik was too devastated to watch all this money, and so I took their compensation. I took it all because I am a Woodards. I may be a broken, bastard of a Woodards, but I still uphold the name. I did the right thing with that money. I used it to keep Rubik and Hope alive. Of course, Rubik later accused me of stealing it. That's the thanks I get: Accusations and threats. Then there's Dracena. The girl who claims she gave birth to Pandora's child. Since Hope was reaped, she has become less persistent in nagging me for money. That could be respect, or it could be fear. I've been in a fragile mood since Hope went up in flames. Dracena knows I've got a fiery temper, so she wouldn't get on the wrong side of me, not whilst Hope's death is fresh in my memory. I can't be sure, but I've always had my doubts over the legitimacy of her claims. The last thing Rubik or I need is to be made responsible Uncles. I haven't seen her in weeks though, so that can only be a good thing, right? Rubik's wandered off to see the mayor. He has to arrange Hope's coffin and tombstone. I'd do it myself, but he insisted that he knows the mayor from when Pandora died, and it'd be better for him to speak to the man. That's a good thing though. He's up and about and speaking to people. That has to be a good thing. I'm left to my own devices, for a change. Hope's death hit me hard, so hard that I'm left looking after Rubik and the house (If you can call it a house). The roof is still leaking and the boiler is broken. My feet are damp and cold, which isn't a good thing. If I wasn't wearing good boots, I'd have trenchfoot. I'm not good at maintenance, and we can't afford to hire someone. Back before I moved in with Rubik, our father used to keep this place pretty held together. He killed himself and now the house is dying too. It'd be good for us to move out and find someplace new. A change in environment would be good for Rubik. A part of me knows that will never happen, though. He'd never leave their graves. I'm busy scrubbing at copper dishes in lukewarm suds when I hear a sharp knocking at the door. Who the hell is visiting? If it's Dracena, I'm going to kick-off big time. Talk about inconsiderate, seeing as Hope died barely a week ago. I grunt, throwing the plate into the sink and roughly drying my hands with a soggy towel. As I walk to the door, I hear her voice. "Rubik. It's me. I..."

[/i] She pauses, and so do I, hand frozen on the doorknob. The voice is not one I recognize, but how many girls does Rubik know? Only Senalia. I take a deep breath. It has to be the nutcase from up the hill. Rubik told me about how she thinks the Games are fake, and that no one really dies. She sounds exactly like the person I never want to meet.
"I need you. Can we talk? Please?"
Looks like I have no choice.

I open the door quickly, drinking up her image with my curious eyes. Small, delicate... Afraid? I narrow my eyes as I hold the door open with my right arm. With my left hand I push my large-framed spectacles up my nose, so the focus on her is more clear. She's definitely a looker. The sort of girl Pandora would be interested in. I never knew Rubik had the pull-factor to land a girl like this, but then he does share Pandora's good looks. Just a shame about the lack of personality...

Senalia wants Rubik, but she stands staring at me instead. I am not what she was expecting. Good. Since Hope died, Rubik hasn't mentioned her name. I doubt he's even given her a passing thought. He certainly wouldn't want to see her, even if he was here.

After a moments silence, I break it.
"Rubik told me that he doesn't want to see you..." I say, leaning on the sturdy oak door and folding my arms across my chest, "What are you doing here? We're grieving for our little sister, show some respect!" I snarl with a frown cast over my face.
"Or have you come to tell him that she's magically still alive, in some safe place in the Capitol?" I force a laugh, "Yeah, he told me all about that, Senalia Livery..."

People like you make people like me want to scream.

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[Stare]

[th][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=width,500,true][atrb=style, background-color: 000000; border-right:10px solid 41243D; border-left:10px solid 41243D; border-top:0px solid 41243D; border-bottom:0px solid 41243D;] i got an ancient pain i lost my wings and fell to earth and then i wouldn't stay in my golden cage so i gave up everything I T . B U R N S .in my coat pocket. It was raining when I wrote it. Rubik never liked the rain, and I feared the thunder it brought, so it felt appropriate at the time. The sheet of paper was too perfectly blank, and for some reason my hands were shaking. On the table was a mug of tea. I haven't used the one that I gave to Rubik that day. It remains safely tucked away in my cabinet, forevermore labeled as his and only his. A fire was crackling in the hearth, casting a warm glow across the room as I drew on my hands until I found the right words. Dear Will Pan Hope, We need you. Please come home. Sincerely, . . . . . . . . . . . Would she remember me? I was nothing to her but a friend of her brother's, so I doubt it. But I wrote the letter anyway, because it was something that needed to be done. Something that needed to be said. I wonder, sometimes, if the three of them ever wonder about what they left behind. Do they realize how much we break in the wake of their "deaths"? Do they understand how hard it is to live with the negative space that they once filled in our hearts minds lives? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Either way, I didn't send the letter. I don't know if I could stand having it returned to me. So instead I hold it close, everywhere, always, a burden of my own to carry. I've gone too long without one. I eye Hitchcock carefully, uncertainly, before offering him a hesitant smile. "Mr. Woodards," I greet, nodding my head in acknowledgement. The lights swarm around him for a few moments, always so curious, before drawing back to me. A single green one remains, bobbing just near his elbow. My smile widens a little. "It likes you." But something about the expression on his face warns me that he won't understand, so I slowly reach forward and urge it back toward me. The light comes reluctantly and then spins in frantic circles by my side, expressing its discontent. "Sorry about that. They get a little overenthusiastic sometimes. They're so used to seeing Rubik here." Rubik doesn't want to see you, Senalia. It aches somewhere between my lungs, a quiet hurt that begs for a different kind of oxygen, but I choose to ignore it. He never made any promises. He never said he wouldn't eventually become like the others. (It's just... I'd hoped he'd be different. I'd hoped he'd be the one who would stay.) Why does it hurt so much? Rubik isn't dead, and he hasn't gone to the Capitol, so why do I still feel so upset about not seeing him? I was never this confused when I couldn't see will. I close my eyes and all I can think about is how much he must be hurting and the promise I made to myself, all those months ago, that I would heal him and the darkness I knew to be consuming him. I want to see him. I want to help him. I don't know why, but I do. The abysmal divide that has been abruptly carved between us makes that impossible, and I worry it will never again be crossed. (Doesn't he know that the world needs someone like him? That I need someone like him?) I miss the time when things weren't so complicated in our lives. When we could talk and the words all came out right and we didn't feel such a heavy weight on our shoulders. I dream about snowflakes thunderstorms and rain. I see his hesitant smile every time I pass by the valley where we mapped the stars. It would be so much easier to just forget him, to let go, because as much as I need him, he is the one inspiring all these strange, dark feelings within me. And yet, I am willing to bend until I snap just to make sure that he stays whole. Some people are worth breaking for. The lights buzz anxiously, sensing the pain, but I hush them quietly. No need to cause more of a fuss. After Rubik and I became friends, they started to disappear for longer periods of time. To my shame, I didn't find myself missing them too horribly. After Hope, though, they came back, and now they rarely leave my side. It is both a comfort and a bother, and sometimes they only make it hurt worse because the lights aren't Rubik and that's who I need right now. Returning my attention to Hitchcock, I tilt my head slightly, inspecting him. "You have Pandora's hair," I inform him. "And Rubik's eyes." Just like Rubik told me. I never knew his father, so I can't confirm that he has the nose, but I'm sure it's true. I want to tell him more because maybe it'll distract me from how little I know about my own self right now, but I don't know anything else. His face is hard to read. His expression is somewhat similar to that of the boys who used to play the pushing game. Instead I glance over at the dead flowers on the porch. They've lost their color, their beauty, their light. Remind you of anyone? I sigh. "Mr. Woodards, I am truly sorry for your loss." He won't believe you. "I didn't mean to intrude. It's just..." Just what? I frown in frustration, batting a light away when it comes too close to my face. "It's just... people don't die in the Games. I know you think that's a lie, but it's true. But when Hope lost, I felt it, because I knew Rubik felt it, and I don't understand why. I thought he might be able to explain it. But you feel it, too, don't you? So maybe you can tell me why it hurts." A beat of silence, and then I remember the flower in my hand and thrust it forward abruptly. "I almost forgot. This is for you." i got a broken brain the doctor's saying that i'm overpaid i'm seeking someone to take the blame like that would solve anything
[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,500,true][atrb=style, background-color: 000000; border-right:0px solid 41243D; border-left:10px solid 41243D; border-top:0px solid 41243D;] template: penny	[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,500,true][atrb=style, background-color: 000000; border-right:0px solid 41243D; border-left:0px solid 41243D; border-top:0px solid 41243D;] graphics: stare	[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,500,true][atrb=style, background-color: 000000; border-right:0px solid 41243D; border-left:0px solid 41243D; border-top:0px solid 41243D;] song: 108, sky ferreira	[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,500,true][atrb=style, background-color: 000000; border-right:10px solid 41243D; border-left:0px solid 41243D; border-top:0px solid 41243D;] word count: 1009
[th][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=width,500,true][atrb=style, background-image: url(http://i44.tinypic.com/2pota4l.png); background-repeat: no;] . .

[rook]

why do stars fall at night?
well are you here?
why do you hold on so tight?
what do you fear?

She's mad. She's utterly off the chain if she thinks she can show up here and start spouting this crap. Rubik's explained to me that she can "lights" or whatever, and I don't care if she talks about that sort of thing with him, that's fine - but to come up to me, a person she's never met before, and try to pull me into her fantasies... I'm not having it. I don't want to be involved in her stupid little world. I'd rather take the harsh reality than a fake alternative, any day.

It's not just that - It's that she has the audacity to then tell me that Hope is alive, and living in the Capitol. Rubik said that when he met her, he was filled with an insane urge to strangle her, because she told him that Pandora was alive and well. I can now see why he wanted to throttle her so much. She ought to be careful, because I'm not as patient a person as Rubik is. My jaw clenches as I listen to her words and try to understand them. Is she really asking me to explain my grief to her? To explain to her why losing a sister hurts?

She then hands me a flower. Part of me wants to tear it up and throw it back in her face, but I suppose she only means well. It's a nice gesture, despite her intensely irritating demeanor. I take the flower and walk over to the side of the house, where hundreds of bouquets decorate the wall in fading oranges and pinks. Some have wilted, whilst others are so vibrant and fresh that they must have been put there this morning, and I'm seeing them for the first time. The dying flowers are sad to see. I really should set about removing them and leaving the fresher ones. Hope used to water the flowers around our house, to make it look that little bit nicer, but I can never bring myself to do it.

"Thank you." I say, standing back and looking at the display that litters the side of our tiny, wooden house. The flowers have intertwined with the ivy that creeps in amongst the wood, becoming something beautifully haunting. Above the tangle of brown-reds and fading yellows, a picture of Hope is framed. We didn't put it there, and we don't really have an idea as to who did, but it's a nice picture. This is far more of a response than Pandora got when he died. I suppose it's more desolate when a family loses a younger person, and even more so when it's the second loss. I'd complain about the odds, and how it was one in a million that both Pandora and Hope be taken from us, but what would be the point? You can't change history, as much as we'd like to.

I slip my hands into my pocket and look at the display again. Senalia's flower is dwarfed by the others, but it is far more vibrant that those around it, so it is more impressionable. I don't have time for Senalia's games, but at least she is considerate in some ways. Rubik told me that he has to bite his tongue a lot of the time when he talks to her, and I can see why. I should probably be polite and grateful, for him.

"I can't tell you why it hurts, Senalia," I say, without looking at her, "Those who understand need no explanation, and those who need an explanation will never understand."
Hope said that to me once, and that breaks my heart.
"Until they eventually do lose someone, and then they understand, I suppose." I laugh, but it is hollow and cold.

i wouldn't have gone to dinner
if knew that you'd agree with everything i say
i left a message last night
you haven't called back i've been calling you for days