how many more warm nights? [Desi One-shot Train]

[grim.]

desi.

    The hum of the train had become so familiar. The way it rustles its way into your skull and just sort of hovers there. After I had finally found a place of peace on this moving metal prison, I sat watching the apple trees turn into nothing but a strip of green. I watch as the sky becomes a blur of blue, but the sun seems to stay as still as it always has. How odd that he never moved along with the rest of the world. Stuck in isolation, the rest of the world basking in his beauty. I feel a drip of cold fluid on my thigh. I look down to see my ice had finally melted, and my spine shutters from the sudden burst of freezing water. 

    I drop the rag and cold water into a near by bin and examine my hand. It was rather purple by the knuckles but it hadn't hurt as much as before, I'm sure it would be fine in a few days. I attempt to bend the wrist and feel a rather sharp pain, it wasn't completely unbearable but it definitely caused me to grit my teeth. I spent hours staring out the window, watched as the whole world just flashed by. Who would have thought so much could be seen in such a short amount of time, but was I really seeing anything at all, or was it all being ignored. It seemed so unrealistic, this entire day so far. And it wasn't until I watched the sun descend over the horizon and watched the moon rise that it all hit at once. 

    I was Desimae Warble, I was district elevens female tribute for the 74th annual Hunger Games. Its crazy how your life can feel like so vividly like a dream, while dreams can feel so horrifically real. I watched the entire moon peak over the edge of the world. There was no way of knowing how many more of these I would live to see. I walk to a near closet and grab a blanket from the top shelf. I then drape the blanket over myself laying on the couch that was off to the side of this particular section of this metal prison. 

    I had never understood the concept of death. Where I might go, what I might face, who I might be reunited with. I used to believe in a place filled with love and golden street, and of a place with fire and misery. I no longer force myself to flutter around such topics. If there was a god he wouldn't allow his people to suffer like us, it just wouldn't happen. I would never let those I loved suffer as I have, as were are. That is how I know he doesn't exist. I stand form the couch the blanket still glued to my shoulders. After a few moments of stumbling about in a few more cabinets I come across a bottle. I take no time reading the label, I would recognize a bottle like this from a mile away. This was the burning liquid that had cleansed my soul of so much hate. And it would continue to do so for as long as breathe still circulated through my lunges. 

    I take a rather profusely large swig of the brown liquid and make my way back to the couch. Was this really going to be the end of Desimae? I look down to the bottle in my hand, and was this going to be the last drink that ever filled my shattered body? Grieving was something we all have had to do at some point, but becoming aware of ones own death seemed to be a flask unworth opening. The starts all merge into one and I pull the bottle to my lips again. The liquid warming my core, giving me a reason to lay my head against the couched arm. Well then I guess this is goodbye. And then out of pure impulse I begin to hum, hum the tune that used to fill the tree tops of my orchard as I plucked the reddest of apples from the trees. And within the melody the world stops and sadness once again seeps from whats left of my soul.