What if it Happens Someday? [Puppy]

[Morgana]

What if the sword kills the pen
What if the god kills the man
And if he does it with love
Well then it's death from above
And death from above is still a death

Grandma is still asleep in her chair by the window when I get up. The quilt has slipped off her lap, and as I pass by, I straighten it, tucking it around her body. The window leaks, letting cold air seep into the house. Grandma still insists on sitting there, despite the chill in the air. One of these days, I’m going to fix that window. Grandma’s going to catch her death of cold, and if she goes, there’s no telling how Kenna will react. I get some rags and stuff them against the windowsill in a poor attempt to catch the cold. I have to get caught up on the things in the shop, and then I can worry about fixing the window.

I leave her behind and head to the kitchen, where I slather some butter on a slice of bread and choke it down. I’m not hungry, but I eat anyways, because Kenna would worry if I didn’t. Besides, if I starved myself and died, this family would be screwed. Things might be tough around here, but I’m not desperate enough to wish for death. I have a responsibility to this family.

As soon as I’m done with my breakfast, I grab the packet of cigarettes off the table and stuff it in my pocket. My shoes are waiting by the door; I pull them on and lace them up, pausing for a moment to stare out the window at the sky. It’s a frozen, inky shade of blue, the white tendrils of tree branches a stark contrast to the early morning light. It snowed last night. There will be an inch of new, white snow over my running path, the slippery flakes threatening to undermine my steps. For a moment, I consider abandoning my morning run. But it’s a tradition; I’ve gone running every morning for three years, rain or shine. When Dad was still alive, he tried to get me to stay home once when there was a bad windstorm, but I want running anyway. The wind was so strong it was hard to walk, let alone run, but I’d be damned if I was going to let the weather have its way.

Before I leave the house, I pull on Dad’s old jacket. It’s still too big for me, but it’s warm, and that’s the only thing that matters. I lock the door behind me, slipping the worn key into my pocket. After a quick round of stretches, a take a deep breath and start jogging down the snow-encrusted sidewalk. The chill in the air freezes my face and almost makes me wish I’d grabbed one of Grandma’s scarves. But I tell myself that my run will warm me up, so I keep going, stretching one leg out in front of the other, knowing that this exercise is doomed.

I’m going to be just like my dad. Desperately trying to keep running while dooming myself with cigarette smoking – a habit that’s veering dangerously near to a pack-a-day territory. It’s not like I can afford the fucking cigarettes anyway, so why do I keep smoking? I don’t know. Maybe because I’m trying too hard to be like Dad, to fill the shoes he left behind. I’m too small. I don’t know how to be big like he was. I don’t know how to take care of this family while still taking care of myself. If it weren’t for Grandma and Kenna, I would have left District Three after Dad died. There’s nothing left for me here. But beyond the district, who knows what there is to see, to explore? When I was younger, I used to dream that if I ran long enough, I could reach the edges of the District and just keep running until I was out of here, off on a new adventure. But I don’t have time for such foolish daydreams anymore.

My usual route takes me on a loop around the neighborhood. A few blocks from home, I stop off at the edges of a park. On a day like today, with a chill in the air, there aren’t many people around, but that might have as much to do with the early hour as the temperature. There’s a bench just a few steps away from the sidewalk, and after giving myself a few seconds to cool down, I sit. The wooden bench is cold, sunk deep with the bones of winter. I pull a cigarette from my pocket and light it, wishing the tiny flare from my lighter was larger, enough to chase the edge of frost off my fingers. I lean back in my seat as I inhale smoke – I’ve never liked how cigarette smoke tastes, but that’s beside the point. I’m not doing it because I like it. I’m addicted, and that’s the sorry truth. I only started smoking as a way to be close to Dad. Just another way I’ve tried to fill his shoes. He’d be disappointed in me, I know, but I don’t care. He’s dead now, and I have to do what I can to keep what’s left of my family alive. I suck in cigarette smoke, letting it drift lazily off my breath to mingle with the cold air. Smoking is a small comfort, and it’s one of the few things that keeps me together. I don’t think anyone could deny me that.

[pup]

Toyota Soul

You sit on the steps and watch as the sun rises through the clouded smoke of district three. It is a rare occurrence to even see the sun in the smoke clouded district. The factories send one mighty puff of smoke into the clouds again and it is gone. Like Kia. The bloodshed started then he was gone. Like that spark of sunlight. You remember how you weren't the closet sibling to Kia. How you favored Porsche and hid behind her when he came near. Then you remember all those times he was there for you. When he leaned over your shoulder while you were working on an engine, and fixed a bolt that was screwed to tight.

You remember how he taught you all you know about electronics. You remember how he was always there by your side when you needed him most.

You cry. Right there in the middle of the district square. Most people aren't near you. They recognize you as the sibling of Kia Soul. Tribute of the 68th Annual Hunger Games. Everyone thinks it is bad luck to be next to someone's who sibling died in the games. There is one girl sitting near you on a bench. She was exhaling smoke. You remember how Kia had told you how smoking was bad for you and never to do it.

Maybe you could keep his memory lasting for just a bit longer. You get up and walk over to the older girl and say to her, "Smoking is bad for you, you know." As you wipe some tears that were glistening in your eyes away.

[Morgana]

So what if nothing is safe
So what if no one is saved
No matter how sweet
No matter how brave
What if each to his own lonely grave

I shouldn’t linger here. I have too much to do in the shop, and Kenna will worry if I’m not there to send her off to school with a kiss on the cheek, like Dad always used to. Near the end, when Dad’s hands were getting bad, I started staying home from school to help him. Just with the little things, the delicate pieces that his shaking fingers couldn’t quite handle. Sometimes he forced me to go to school anyway, but upon returning, I always found that he’d done only a fraction of the work he otherwise might have. It was a relief when he finally set aside his pride and admitted he couldn’t do it alone. So I quit school, and started working full-time at Dad’s shop, with his instructions and cigarette smoke constantly wafting towards me.

I have no illusions. Smoking isn’t going to bring Dad back; it isn’t going to make me any closer to him. But the smell of the smoke tricks me into thinking he’s near, and I need that, especially when I’m in the shop, trying to solve a riddle of a machine that I have no answer to. As long as cigarette smoke hangs in the air, I can trick myself into believing that Dad is still around, and I can ask him for help if I really need to. But I’m stubborn, and independent, and I don’t need anyone’s help. Someday, I’ll have to teach Kenna how to do all of this, but hopefully it’ll be after she’s finished school. I started working because I had to, and I don’t want her to suffer the same fate.

That’s the goddamned problem, isn’t it? Too many of us are asked to grow up too fast, and because we don’t know any better, we just jump into it eagerly. If Mom hadn’t died, maybe things would have been different. Maybe I would have been able to grow up as a normal child, and I wouldn’t have had to be a mother to my little sister, a friend to my father, a caretaker to my grandmother. But it didn’t turn out that way. I’d been forced to grow up too fast, to assume the role of family caretaker, and do everything my dad was too busy for. I remember holding Kenna’s hands when she took her first steps. I taught her the alphabet so kids wouldn’t make fun of her for not knowing when she started school. I had to hold her as she was crying over Dad’s death, holding all my own tears inside, building up walls to make myself look strong. I wanted her to believe I was capable enough to fill the shoes Dad had left behind.

A young girl sits down next to me on the bench as I puff away on my cigarette, wasting time I can’t afford. She’s Kenna’s age, maybe – certainly younger than me, and she looks like she’s been crying. Whatever. It’s not my problem. I look away from her, staring off at the trees on the other side of the street. The jog home from here isn’t long, and I’ve got two machines that have to be fixed by the end of the week. But then the girl next to me says, “Smoking is bad for you, you know.” I can’t help it – I blow a cloud of smoke in her face. I’m tired of people telling me smoking is bad, that I’m too young for it, I should quit, it’s gonna kill me someday . . . Like I don’t know? Smoking is what killed my father. If I was that concerned, I would have quite by now. I narrow my eyes at the girl. “Yeah, that’s what I’ve heard.” I turn away again, leaning my head against the back of the bench. My cigarette is almost spent, and when it’s gone, I’ll have to go, no more excuses. I contemplate getting another out, but I know I can’t delay even I wanted to – there’s work to be done, and I’m the only one who can do it.