Rites of Passage // [Colgate/Open - Party]

[Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]]

______________________

I'll turn into a monster for you, If you pay me enough
None of this counts, a few dreams, plowed up

The hands that pull me away from the fight are relentless, but soon, after there's blocks of distance between me and the man who insulted me straight to my face, the crowd begins to thin and the hands release me.

(But their eyes don’t.)

There’s a group of about five or six people – some men, some women – staring at me incredulously, having dropped me on the sidewalk like a sack of potatoes. Silence fills the air for a good ten seconds, but I just kinda sit there and look up at all of them, wondering if that guy back there was their buddy and now I’m gonna be beaten to hell and back for trying to kill him. Wouldn’t that be something else? Being beaten to death in my own District, when four years ago I was afraid I was gonna die away from home under the cruel sky of the Arena.

(Ah, let them try to kill me.)

I decide not to move or run anywhere, and instead I’m just staring up at them like a fool, my lip kinda bloody, I guess because somebody’s hand smacked it to keep me from struggling. They’re circled around me like dogs, waiting for me to answer for what I’ve done. But the silence is stretching on and it’s getting a little bit awkward, and finally a man speaks up, stepping forward with his eyebrows raised.

”What the hell do you think you were doing, kid?”

That’s when I feel the need to stand up, ‘cause I don’t like the look of this guy or how he’s standing over me. I push myself up from the dirt and the dust off of my pants, holding my chin up like I’ve learned to do, and now I’m standing above him. And I don’t say anything at all as I turn and push out of the crowd, striding quickly away as the group yells after me.

I kinda wander around for awhile after that, heading in the opposite direction because I don’t know where else to go. It’s still early - odds are all those people were heading off to work – and my family probably isn’t even awake yet, because they’ve taken the day off to celebrate with me even though I asked them not to. That’s the thing though – I don’t have anywhere else to go or anyone else to see, so I wander home and sit down on the doorstep, staring out at the ever-changing sunrise.

My heart’s still pounding from the adrenaline of it all, and I remember more things. Not concrete things, just.. the mindset of it all. Like the feeling of an axe beneath my fingers, or the deep ache that accompanies the loss of an ally. More than anything, I remember what it was like to feel anything at all, whether it be sad or angry or even just the primal instinct to survive. Those were meaningful experiences – terrible, but meaningful – and I forgot how it was to be anything but indifferent.

Indifferent is safe.

Indifferent doesn’t have to think about the losses of the past, or the prospect of the future, or everything that’s wrong with the world. Indifferent doesn’t have to worry about how it affects other people, or if it’s going to take responsibility for its actions, or if it’s going to be able to care for other people. Indifferent doesn’t feel pleasant, and it pretends it doesn’t feel any pain.

I like indifferent, but right now.. Right now, I feel the cracks beginning to spread.

That’s why I throw myself up and rush into the house; the morning air feels too crisp on my skin, and I’ve got to do something to take my mind away from whatever the hell it’s doing. I end up wandering into the kitchen, and my mom’s sitting there with a cup of coffee nestled in her palms. Her presence takes me by surprise, but I can’t look at her. My chest’s starting to get all tight and there’s a lump in my throat that won’t go away, so I turn away and put my hands on the counter, trying to breath.

Got to do something. Something other than talking.

”Are you alright, Col?” she asks, not moving from her seat at the counter.

”Fine,” I say, opening up the cupboard to pick out an apple. I take a bite of it and keep my face away from her, ‘cause one look from someone that worries about me could make me fall apart, and I don’t want this to be happening right now. ”I think I’m going to go sleep for a while longer – I woke up early.”

Without staying to hear what she has to say in return, I walk up the stairs with careful, quiet steps, pressing the door to my room open and closed.

Indifferent is messy, too. There’s stuff thrown around everywhere – dirty shirts, old apple cores, a few empty mugs that once held hot chocolate, but sit there waiting to be taken to the sink. I ignore it all and curl up into a ball under the covers, pressing my face into the pillow and falling back into nothingness.


I’m woken up a few hours later by my mother, who looks worried.

”Are you sick?” she asks, pressing a hand to my forehead. More than anything, she looks a little pissed off. ”It’s almost dark. We were wondering if you might want to do something.”

Like anyone who wakes up after a long nap, it takes me a minute to realize that it’s not another day and I’m not waking up to a new, lonely morning – this is still my birthday, and my family has likely been waiting hours for me to wake up in order to celebrate, if only with a cake.

I sit up, wiping the sleep out of my eyes. ”I didn’t have anything planned,” I mumble, looking down at my hands. I should have thought of something, because I know this day is important to my family, but what was I supposed to do, throw a party?

For some reason, my mother looks smug.

”Good. Because we’ve planned something for you.”

”What?”

”A party.”

The word party surprises me, and I feel more awake than I did. Who the hell is she gonna invite? I’ve got all of 0 close friends besides my family, and if she thinks that eating a piece of cake while sitting at the kitchen table counts as a party, she’s wrong.

”What do you mean?”

”We figured you could get out of the house. Talk to other people. Have a drink.”

If she’s planned something, I don’t want to defend myself and hurt her feelings, so I roll out of bed – hair sticking up in a hundred different directions – and look at myself in the mirror. I was sleeping for so long that my face still has the outline of my pillow pressed into it, and before I can even ask what I should wear, Mom’s opening the closet and picking out a suit.

”Are you serious?” I ask, raising my eyebrows up. ”If we’re going to a bar, I can’t look like that. People will think I’m.. “

”A victor?”

”An asshole.”

She quiets down at that, but she hands me the suit anyways and crosses her arms. ”We’re not going to a bar. You are. With your brothers and sisters.”

I suppose that counts as a party, seeing as there’s so many of us, but I don’t say anything. I just nod and agree, and she strides out of the room.

Despite the fact that I look like a total mess after having napped for most of the day, I tame my hair a little and wash my face before putting on the suit, which is neatly ironed and altogether too clean and too nice for District Nine – especially for one of the only run-down, dimly lit bars we have. A few minutes later, I walk down the stairs and my entire family’s there, trying not to smirk, but I can tell that they look nice too, all clean and ready to go.

”You look handsome,” Mom says, patting my cheek.

I nod – not in agreement, but to move on from this conversation because I feel horribly awkward – and we head out the door. The center of the District’s only a short walk away, and we’re there sooner than I’d like to be. I’ve never been in this bar, but when we walk in the smell of alcohol is unmistakable. It’s a warmer place than I expected, I guess because all of the Capitol bars are sleek and air-conditioned, and it looks friendlier than I thought. There’s even a little stage in the back, if people wanna stand up and play a song for everyone to hear. It’s actually packed with people who seem to be waiting around, and after a few seconds I hear a few people cheer and throw their arms in the air – never letting go of their drinks - yelling “Happy birthday!” at different times, running to pat me on the back. A beardy old man walks up and offers to buy me a drink, and a minute later he presses a tall glass of something into my hand.

I smell it before I drink it, and the man laughs. ”Cider!” he says. ”You’d think for a victor you’d drink more than you do.”

I hesitate for a second and take a sip, but the man just throws his head back in laughter and tips my glass forward so I’m forced to drink even more.

(And then, a few minutes later, I go up to the bar and order another.)

[Kire]

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S C O P E  O 'L E A R Y
Z i n g  L e e r

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Says, Thinks

Of course he would sleep most of the day away. It was a good thing our mother had only planned an evening and not a whole day because my lazy birthday-boy brother only came down half-an-hour late for his own party. Mother had put him in a suit - he was the best dressed of all of us, though we were all a lot better dressed than normal - and now he stood there all gawky and awkward and incredibly like himself. It made me feel a little bit better.

Over the years since he had won, he had showed little signs of being the same person he was before he left. This was a moment like that, but it was gone as my mother opened her mouth. We were ushered off soon after, guided to the door of the place like children - which I suppose some of us still were - and then cast off into the mix. Plenty of people had turned up for Colgate's day - I'm almost surprised it hasn't been declared a holiday - and everyone had drinks already. We didn't, but soon enough I was clasped on the shoulder and had a drink shoved into my hand. Whiskey. Of course they'd start me with something strong.

I was the brother of the victor, the closest to him, so they would all treat me like they treat him. They do that to our whole family, really. We were a nobody family, just existing with what few people we knew, until Colgate was reaped. While he was in the arena we were a family of worriers, our faces of concern pasted all over everything - along with the faces of Magenta's family. When he won, when he was pulled from that arena to be treated and healed by the Capitol, we then became the family of the only living victor in District nine. Everyone knew us, even though we could never know everyone. It's died down a bit now, sombered by the notion that we had lost six more children since my brother was crowned.

Some people blamed him - I knew it and I hated it - claiming he didn't do enough. To them he should have been all powerful. I know my brother, though, and even seeing only some of what he had experienced in the Games was more than enough to tell me that he had no power there. I could never blame him for their deaths. I could never blame him for anything.

I down the whiskey in a gulp and ask for another.

The memories of when he was in the arena are hard for me, mostly because they bring back too many emotions and I just kinda have to shut down. system error...overflow of emotion...reboot required

I barely taste the whiskey this time.

When I ask for another I don't get one. Instead of another shot, I'm handed a beer. "Slow down, mate. There's time enough to get in all your shots." I have to remember that I'm here to celebrate, not drown the past. I take my drink and find my brother. It's not that hard because he towers over pretty much everyone. I'm not exactly short but compared to him it means nothing. "To you," I tip my beer at him, trying to give him my usual grin. It just doesn't feel right, though. I think I'd need another few shots first. "If that doesn't do it for you, then drink to me almost being done with that damned reaping." I take a deep gulp of the beer and nearly choke. Somehow I make everything work again with only a little splutter and a small gasp. "Just one more year."

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[Mylies43]

"Damn today's been boring, Ive been walking around all day and nothing has happened." I mumbled to myself as I walked around the district. I'd come in hoping that something would happen, but no, nothing. As I walked around I began kicking a rock around, 'this is a nice rock,' I thought. So I countuined to kick it. As I kicked the rock I realized that I was completely lost.'Well shit, this sucks, but at least its something.' While I was weighing my opinions I grabbed the rock and put it securely in my pocket before setting off to get my bearings. Picking the direction I had come I walked down it thinking that eventually it's gotta bring me somewhere I recognize, right?

After it started getting dark I finally found my way to the city center, it seemed fairly empty to me. Everything was still open, there must be a gathering or something. After walking around some more I noticed that the bar seemed to have a good amount of people in it,'So is that where everyone is?.....I wonder if they would assume I'm with them and give me a beer.' Shrugging I decided it was worth a shot and walked in ordering a beer, acting like I was supposed to be there. To my surprise I got one, 'Now what?'

I looked at the beer quizzically before a man spoke up,"To you", he proclaimed looking another man. 'I guess it's his party then.' The man spoke back up"If that doesn't do it for you then drink to me being almost done with the dammed reaping" His enthusiastic statement was followed by a rather wimpy "Just one more year." Everyone took a drink of their beer and not wanting to look out of place I took a swing of mine, before quickly coughing it out.'Oh god thats horrible'I thought. I countuined coughing as I turned around and tried to push to the back of the room.'Oh god I thought this would be better'.

[Knuckles]

Rolf Parks

Nothing matters anymore. Not family. Not friends. Nothing. It seems everyone who cared moved on. Forgot him like I swore up and down they would, yet nobody would ever listen to someone like me. Someone who ruined the life of a brother. Someone who made sure their own life was perfect not caring what happened to a sibling. Chaske loved me. He cared for me. He never turned against me, but I broke him down. I told him he was worthless. He was weak. He wouldn't ever amount to anything, and I watched him fall on the games. Blood covered the snow as he battled the future victor. I hate Katelyn Persimmon. I hate those who returned home because they're seen as heroes. Colgate O'Leary didn't bring home Chaske or Mystic or anyone who died after his return. He's a failure, and with all the hope inside of me, I pray that Katelyn fails to. That she never brings home a victor. That she suffers from a life of pain and misery because that's what she did to me. She took away the only person in the world who put up with me. She killed him.

It hurts. Breathing. Thinking. Every little movement tears life from my body. Sorrow eats away at the soul trapped in the midst of my body. Nothing takes it away. All the drinking in the world. All the tears. Nothing, and nobody understands. Drinking numbs the pain for only a moment. It slowly makes me happy, yet the moment it retreats from my system, the aftermath is much worse. The memories. The tears. The words I said to him before he left. The words he took with him to the grave. He fought to prove me wrong, and he did, and I wish I could tell him face to face, but he's gone. He's dead, and she's alive. She survived. Colgate survived. District four and five. And all those places survived. He fought hard and strong, and it appeared he had her, but it wasn't enough. It's never enough. Not when the entire world is cheering against you. Not when a brother tells his own brother he deserves to die. Chaske didn't deserve to die. Mystic didn't deserve to die. Nobody who's ever been in the games. Nobody. Nobody at all.

"Another one." My voice quiet as the bartender slowly moves away before carrying back another mug full of beer. And I see him walk in. A hero for the district. A man I once looked up to. A man I hate with my entire life, yet at the same time I feel sorry for him, but it's all wiped away in a split second. This man, victor, never asked for this to happen. He never asked to become a hero, someone everyone would either love or hate. The hatred I feel for him grows stronger with every passing second. Maybe if he tried harder. Maybe if he talked to more people. Maybe if he did something else Chaske would've returned home. Not the ignorant little girl from eleven. She doesn't deserve to be alive. Chaske does. My brother. Call me selfish, but I can't help it. I miss him more and more every passing day. There's a void growing larger inside of me and nothing fills it. Nothing. Not even temporary happiness.

Memories sweep through my veins as another beer slides down the back of my throat. Washing the pain away. Taking it away for only a moment, so I can function. So I can live a life without having to think about his death. About the torture I brought to him. If he could hear me, I would hug his neck, and I would apologize over and over until he understood that deep inside I loved him. He was my brother, and I should've saved him. Protected him. Something, but he was gone. He was gone before I could. Never himself. Never the old Chaske I knew. Anger. Hatred. Tears slide down the corner of my eyes as I slam the glass back down on the table. The horrible stench of alcohol floods my nose as I use my sleeve as a napkin wiping it off. The floor moves under my eyes, and it takes all I have to remain standing. And it's the voices talking about the reaping. Just one more year.

My heart explodes inside my chest. Shards fly every direction as I move towards them. Barely capable of standing on my feet, I swipe another glass of beer from the nearest table. Holding it in my hands, I place the biggest, fake smile on my face. He survived. He's stronger than me. He's deadly, yet all I want to do is punch him straight in the face. To kill him right here, but it wouldn't get me anywhere. Blinking a couple of times, I hold the beer into the air as everyone else does. "To Colgate and family." And I chug it. Every single ounce of it before smashing the glass on the ground. It felt good for once. Breaking something without having anyone to blame it on. To make myself seem as worthless as I made my own brother feel. To destroy the tiny hand that once wrapped around mine as we played in the woods together. Or ran through the polluted streets. To Chaske. My brother. My friend.

My enemy.

[ghosty]

A party mood was something that Bailey wanted to avoid for the whole of hi life, without a single doubt. Not to be surrounded by drunk old guys, with the slurred words rolling into one, completely foreign mess of a language. But this party, was different. It was the celebration of a victor. But to Bailey, even with a completely sober mind, which, to be quite honest, wasn't him at this precise moment, celebrating a glorified murderer was something that should never be done, even if it's his birthday. But he and his family didn't mind whoever entered their Tankard, if they paid, and didn't cause a fight that'll make the peacekeepers to drag a couple of drunkards out, kicking and screaming. And publicity of that sort isn't good for the company, at all.

But here Bailey was, stuck in the middle of a drunk group, and a victor standing above everyone else by a good 3 inches is the centre of attention, the tide maker of every single person inside the packed hall. And, despite his hatred of parties, he was starting to enjoy himself, trying to clear up after each and every round of the party. And without anyone looking, the swigs of alcohol was warming him up nicely. And without any warning, a screaming tinkle of breaking glass rings out in the room, and Bailey's happy evening was coming to end. Muttering to himself, 'Damn drunk fools,' he makes his way slowly over towards it. And getting towards the sparkling glass shards, the boy standing over it looked strangely familiar than Bailey was expecting. Calming his face down, Bailey opens his mouth. 'Careful with the glasses, y'hear? Someone has to pay for them, you know?'

Holding his apron out like a plate, he sweeps the fragments onto it, and stood up carefully. Walking towards the nearest bin, Bailey shakes his head; tonight was going to be a long night.

[Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]]

______________________

The night kept coming
Really nothing I could do

I feel all great.

Like, not in a happy kinda way, but I feel really.. alive. Y’know, awake, ‘cept I’m bumping into people a lot and moving slow and I keep having to apologize. I guess it’s because I’m so tall, or else people are tryin’ to get really close to me because I’m a victor, or this place is just really packed.

Someone hands me a shot of something, and it burns like fire in my chest on the way down. I like how it feels, the warmth in my chest, and I like how the world seems a lot nicer than it did when I walked in. Softer. More kind. I fucking love this, people keep patting me on the back or kissing me on the cheek or handing me shots of Ripred-only-knows-what, and in the back of my mind I think ‘bout how easy it would be for someone to poison a glass and hand it to me, but I don’t care. After all, I haven’t really had much to drink before tonight - except..

Nope.

The thought drifts away like a bubble in my state of disorientation, and I think that’s why I love this so much. It’s like being half asleep and wide awake at the same time, with dulled senses and a vast feeling of wholeness exploding in my chest, and I actually smile, big and wide, with fancy straight teeth that were fixed by the Capitol when they patched the rest of me up. Someone hands me a beer - seriously, how can anyone afford to drink like this? - and I shout out a thank you.

A second later, Scope saunters up, and I’m so thankful for his presence that I start laughing like an idiot, wrapping one arm around his shoulder, beer still wrapped tight in my free hand.

”To you,” he says, holding his glass towards me.

”To me!” I say loudly, clumsily throwing my arm in the air and holding my glass up high. A slew of people around me follow in turn, and a chorus of people saying “To Colgate!” reverberates around the bar as the people in the periphery finally catch on.

"If that doesn't do it for you, then drink to me almost being done with that damned reaping." Scope takes a drink, and I follow along. I don’t even taste the alcohol anymore, just keep pushing along, but my smile wavers a little bit at the mention of the reaping. It’s just another reminder that I’ll have to leave for that godawful lonely place again, and there’s always a chance that someone in my family could be taken from me. I mean, I’ve been trying to teach my brothers and sisters how to hunt, y’know, like people used to do in District Nine, but that isn’t guaranteed to save them if the Capitol ever takes them away.

But he’s alive now - hell, they’re all alive now - and that’s a reason to celebrate.

”Fuck the reaping!” I yell a little too loudly, arm still around his neck. And then, a little quieter: ”This is my birthday - I don’t wanna hear ‘bout the Games or anything like that, alright? Tell me good stuff, y’know? Things that’ll make me feel happy. ‘Cause I’m - ”

A few feet away, a glass breaks on the floor, and I almost topple over from surprise, still leaning on my brother. ”What the hell was that?” I ask Scope, regaining my footing.

[Cait]

olete bene

Yesterday, our origami cottage withered.

With each face to pass through our front doors comes an untamable breeze that grows stronger each day. It rocks the foundation of our once-brick home, like how these dinner-table tragedies threaten to strip away the remnants of hope Mum and Dad once believed in.

It happened again yesterday. It will happen again tomorrow.

Mum always insisted we were safer in stability and familiarity, where nothing ever changed and we never ventured too far from the tangled thickets of our paper house. Naturally, I’ve eluded her rules, always on the move beneath a starless sky, a waning moon. Never in the same place for too long, and it did not take long to realise the demons she warned me about were only hallucinations in her tired mind. It's a troubling thought.

Pulling my coat closer to my face, I push through the cold as doors swing shut behind me, leaving the demons to crawl beneath the dirt once more.

A throng of people greets me at the entrance to the bar, but my eyes search for only one face – familiar, yet foreign still. I’ve nothing but a grainy photograph stolen from Mum’s filing cabinet to navigate the swarm. I find him alone, already guzzling a drink at the bar, and slowly wander into the vacant seat beside this hulking stranger of a man. He feels my presence. He sees me. He smiles widely.

‘D’you want a drink, sweetheart?’ he calls out heartily and much too loudly for my comfort and the incredulous distance between our faces. I give a small shake of my head, flashing a tiny smile as stiletto fingernails drum a meaningless rhythm against a bench. He shrugs, turning his back on me to clasp another drink from a murmuring bartender, before settling back into a rickety bar stool. Uneasy silence fogs our minds as cries of celebration continue through the night – ‘to you!’ ‘to Colgate and family!’ – but there are bigger stakes to claim than the noise of fanfare droning on around us.

Rummaging through my purse, I pull a small leaf of folded paper from the depths and slide it across the table.

‘I hope you find what you’re looking for.’

It’s quick. It’s simple. It’s one, two, three, four paces across the room, immersion in a filthy crowd, and I’m invisible. Invisible, but not yet gone. Stolen words from the mouth of a despairing mother come to life as his shaking hands unravel the thin creases of thirty years’ burdens. Through the walls from their office, Mum and Dad had let that fragile woman’s words swim through the air, and I was there to catch every drop. With them, stories of orphanages and doorstep babies and unconfessed love and too many years spent alone, too many years living with guilt. Because she loved him, and he never knew – now, he does.

And he’s a mama’s boy: soft as a marshmallow beneath the tortoise shell exterior. Plodding away on stubby feet with his tail between his legs, the fluttering parchment clutched to his chest, he doesn’t even look back. Satisfaction comes free to beggars, but they always pay the price. Momentary elation with the prospect of communication – a revival of a dead soul, in their eyes, perhaps – will only lead to madness, hunger for more. Yet when the sun rises and he returns, I shall be tucked beneath the sheets of tightrope safety. Too late.

The tales of yesterday never remain uncaptured for too long in our paper residence.

But we don’t dwell on the past any longer than necessary – heaven only knows it wears us down and some people wear that truth more clearly than others.

So I move on, to be alone, once again. A wallflower devoid of attention, and the voices in the room come through louder now, more perceptible by the edges. And yet perhaps it is simply the notion of conflict that sends the sounds escalating. Either way, I drink the change like the alcohol I cannot stomach.

I’m no hero. Not an extrovert by any means. But the zest of the fight beckons paper hearts, and this was a party. I’d seen the drinks flow and fall and heard the chants sneak into each corner of the darkened room, and despite the free-spirited chattering of tinny voices, the air grows tense all around. The lack of liquor in my bloodstream helps me see with clarity: a victor, and there beside, in his shadow, a nobody; a clueless bystander, out of place and not for the first time; an egregious man with stones in his heart; and a frantic peacemaker too used to rising tempers. Smirking like the taipan I’ve forever been, the weight of the trinkets and forgotten gifts in my purse tie me down to the moment. I feel myself inch ever closer to the foreground of blurred visions and tainted glass shards. Parties were made for presents; presents were my specialty.

Mum and Dad had many philosophies, back when their minds weren’t worn to tatters by age and other people’s burdens. Their goal: to assist, and thus is mine. Leaning against a boy I’ve never met, whose voice reverberates shakily through my lungs – ‘careful with the glasses!’ – the night is not yet over. After all, it was a party, and after all, the Benes would do anything their empathetic hearts gave way to. Anything to be appreciated, in a night just beginning.

Anything for the fools in suit.

[Stare]

w e . a r e . t h e . l o v e d . o n e s

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[googlefont="Allura:400"]kestrel volant

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a . f i n e . b r e e d

I’m late.

No one should be surprised, really, when I burst through the door with only half-brushed hair and wide eyes, violin case in one hand and shoes in the other. In fact, no one is, which is a relief. The place is too alive, swelling with people who’ve had more than plenty to drink, to notice my somewhat wild entrance even as my eyes are drawn to the glasses sloshing around in peoples’ hands. (It calls me. I resist like a good little girl because Mama would kill me if she knew, but then again, there are a lot of things Mama doesn’t know, aren’t there?) I close the door quietly behind me, not that there’s any need. It’s practically a riot. And yet, I have no trouble finding the source of such mayhem - he towers above the rest, his voice loud, words tumbling over themselves. I shrink back a bit, sticking to the wall as I make my way over to the corner where they’ve left a bit of space for me.

I’ve never seen Mr. O’Leary on the streets. Nine’s not small enough for that kind of thing. But I have seen him on the television, just like everyone else in this bar. I don’t know him, though. I don’t think many people do, despite what they think. It’s not my place to say such things - Mama’s lessons don’t usually stick but she’s at least taught me to know where I stand among a crowd, and here I am most certainly at the bottom - so I ignore the where have you been? from the man behind the counter and drop to the slightly greasy floor, tugging off my worn sneakers and replacing them with my dancing shoes.

(“I want you to play.”

I’d nearly dropped the mug of tea I’d been holding, staring at my mother in blatant shock. She’d had her skinny arms crossed over her chest, towering over me with a stern look on her face. Never in my life had I expected to hear my mother utter such words. Her lips had been pursed in the same way they had been when I tore open that box all those years ago and exclaimed at the treasured violin within.

“Word has it that the O’Leary family is throwing a party. I already spoke with the owner of the bar. I want you there, and I want you to play.”

My mouth had opened, then snapped shut just as quickly. I’d paused, considered. And then, slowly, “Why?” I already knew, but I had needed to hear her say it. To feel the sting of the truth.

“Because they have status,” she had said simply, turning on her heel. “I told them you’d be there in a half hour, so you had better get dressed.”)

It was the closest to approval my mother had ever given me. On my way out she’d warned me to play something they like. (“Better yet, just go up and ask them.”) I stand now, case gripped tightly, and gaze across the room at the O’Leary family. The center of the family. She’d said it as if it were simple. I watch them for a while, listen to the shouts, the breaking glass. Take a deep breath. And then I walk straight up to the bartender and order something strong.

Mama wouldn’t approve, but the number of things Mama doesn’t approve of is almost as large as the number of things she doesn’t know.

It takes a glass or two or four before I’ve had enough alcohol to give me some courage. I clutch my violin case tightly to my chest as I make my way through the crowd, lighter on my feet than I should be. The closer I get to them the harder it is to move. People pack together, loud and rowdy, and when one of them falls over when I just barely brush against him I can’t help but laugh. This is a party, after all, and who’s to say the entertainment can’t have fun, too? I’m still laughing when I look up and find myself face to face with the celebrities themselves.

The crowd is still loud because they don’t know and wouldn’t care if they did, but I fall dead silent, feeling the blood drain from my face. It’s enough to sober me, but only for a moment. Then the moment passes and I stumble forward a bit, forcing a smile. “I’m, um - I’m the music.” I hold up the case as evidence even as I frown, knowing that those aren’t quite the right words. “I was… is there something you want? To hear, I mean. Because, um… I’m the music.”

(Mama’s going to kill me.)

What else is new?

brought the wooden cup
to my mouth
and i drank
'til my heart gave out