my brain's not reading, my heart's still beating // D8 train

[Deleted]

l o r r a i n e

---

So step one is over with, I haven't cried yet. 

That's a good sign, I think. I still feel confident, like I haven't made a bad decision yet. Personally, I think I'm pretty self-aware, I'm a rational person, this is just extreme measures. It isn't cross and bones casket level yet, I'm not dead -- just working on that part. Big work in progress there, but I have the funeral in mind. I want to be rich and famous when I'm dead, so there's a lot to catch up on, I guess. 

One train ride until it's interview after interview, and I get to be a celebrity. I get to be Lorraine, the one I've had in my head since I was a six year old girl watching Shelby Leviane kill three people on her last day. There's a girl that lives on that television that hasn't been seen in ages, and maybe that's why I'm so sure of myself boarding the train. The escort holds my hand and I hoist myself up in my good heels, Kane behind me -- "come on lover boy, we've got history to make!" 

Like a laugh that hallows in the mind, the air feels so much more dense inside the train. Windows beyond windows and it's like I'm staring at district eight in higher definition, eye sight better than my own as I take in every face and every thought. People who lost no one, "do you have family out there, Kane? Not to be depressing," because I feel like I've got no one. Perhaps that's a good thing, nothing gained nothing lost. 

Low risk, high reward. 

My life's a good gamble at this point, this feels... right. Like I'm finally killing every shit memory and feeling left in eight, and I don't belong there- I haven't in a long ass time! Maybe the Capitol will treat me better. 

They'll at least give me a mercy killing. Makes things a little easier. 

[heather - d2 [mylee]]

K  A  N  E

Do you have family out there, Kane? she asks me.

I think of just hours ago, my brother throwing open the heavy oak doors of the justice building, too much light entering the dull room all at once. He didn’t take the time for a breath or a moment’s pause, instantly throwing his body against my own and holding tight. You have to come back, he’d said, the end of his plea inflecting up, child-like and desperate. I hadn’t been able to form any sort of verbal response, occupied instead with the picture of my hands wrapped firmly around his neck, his windpipe collapsing as my knuckles turned white. He was already so close to limp in my arms from grief—I don’t think the weight of the dead would differ much.

When he finally pulled away, he stretched the soft cotton of his shirt to catch the tear that had snaked to his jawline, the pale green blotched and darkening. I need you to know that I love you. That dad loves you, even if he doesn’t show it. I put more distance between us then, backing myself into the corner of the room, my shoulder blades caught by the drywall. None of you will understand, I’d choked out, my voice just barely above a whisper.

And his tears stopped, a look of confusion overtaking every feature of his face. Understand what? he’d asked, the four syllables drawing out as he racked his mind for any possible transgression, anything he’d find unforgivable in the span of a few seconds’ thought. I hadn’t answered, just stared blankly at him, sinking down to the floor and tucking my head between my knees.

He walked up and closed the space between us, kneeling on the ground in front of me so that he was just below eye level. He rested his hand on my shoulder and asked me to meet his gaze, if only for a moment, so I did. You’re my brother, he’d said, as if that explained anything. I’d gently closed my fingers around his wrist and removed his hand from my shoulder. As I dropped my eyes back to the carpet below, I thought of asking for preemptive forgiveness, but knew it would not be sincere, instead saying softly, I think it’s time that you go now, Abel.

--

Her gaze is expectant, as if I’ve clearly taken too long to answer the question, and now she’s no longer interested in my answer. I shake the thought of my brother’s trembling hands clasped together, his elbows digging into the flesh of his thighs as he knelt in front of me, waited for me to beg him to stay. No, I say, no, I’ve got no real family out there—no one that’ll miss me when it's all said and done, anyway.

Perhaps this is something of a lie now, but I cannot see it remaining as such for long.

[ table: pogue ]

[heather - d2 [mylee]]

S  H  E  L  B  Y

It’s been a rough morning, but those of departure always are.

I had meant to pack the last of my things the night before, but I had instead wandered into unconsciousness with my head in Mekhi’s lap, his fingers mechanically untangling the knots that had gathered in the ends of my hair. The house felt strange without my mother roaming about it, her presence in the form of a vase stashed under the bed an inadequate substitute, and stagnant.

The morning that followed was one of routine, handing bags and boxes to men who handled them just gently enough, but one took it upon himself to remove the vase, and I could not help myself from screaming frantically about nothing, an incoherent rambling I cannot now recall.

It wasn’t that I missed her, and my first glimpse of the train’s metal frame reminds me of just this.

A games or two ago I had come home in the small slant of time between the reaping and the train’s departure back to the Capitol. My mother, showing interest in what I would only now understand as a gesture of care, had asked me what I thought of them, the two new tributes’ potential and tenacity—those qualities we say will preserve life. I’d shrugged my shoulders, said they’d both be dead before I could memorize their names. She’d sighed, at first some gentle breath, the way she had when Cha and I would track in mud from the yard or forget to clean our shared room. And then, something more violent, a longstanding anger rising hot and fast up the throat, Why can’t you just fucking pretend to care for once?

I didn’t think her serious at first, and so I rolled my eyes, went to brush past her and lock myself on the balcony, watch the stars until I fell asleep in the cold. But she stopped me, planted her hand firmly on my chest. I asked her to drop it, said that now was not the time. And maybe it never was, never will be, but she didn’t let go, didn’t give under the pressure of my clenched jaw, the hardline stare I tried to bore straight through her skull. She kept her elbow locked out, said, You abandon these kids year after year because they’re not Cha. She knew she had struck a nerve, and she did not shy away as she let her arm fall to her side, moved closer and closer until we stood nose-to-nose. These kids might have a chance of coming home if you’d be willing to help them, but you’re too goddamn selfish to try. And we simply stood there, waiting for me to be her daughter, to retort, but I had nothing. The air in my chest stilled, and my mind rung sharp and empty.

She pulled back for a moment, and I thought she was going to let me pass, but before I could take a step toward the staircase her hand curled back, her palm striking hard against my cheek. You’re pathetic, Shelby, and culpable—Cha would be ashamed of the person you've become.

I hadn’t spoken to her since that evening, and just weeks later I was high on the next train home, staring at the lines of a eulogy I knew I could not give.

--

And it’s all routine again, only this time I hold my mother close to my chest the entire walk to the station, Mekhi’s presence close behind my left shoulder. The reaping itself had been nothing to consider strange, a boy who hadn’t the mind to say anything and a girl stepping forward, the two words echoing even now, it’s me, and how my head had cocked to the side just slightly, imperceptibly, trying to place voice and identity and the assumption of self-knowledge.

But I had come up with nothing, and now I reluctantly pass the vase to a man with hands outstretched, as if gently saying, you cannot always carry this with you, and so I let the weight be lifted from me, checking first with Mekhi for his nod of assurance.

I think of last year, how I had wasted no time in screaming at Iris for volunteering, for being desperate and now, dead. She had lasted six days before being by struck down by the eventual victor, a man I have not had the interest to meet. But I didn’t care about Iris, and I keep waiting for the guilt I know should follow. A decade’s passed, and I’ve brought no one home, instead lost in a continuous cycle of burying dead acquaintances and now, a mother.

I am trying to do better, but sometimes, that is simply not enough.

When I step onto the train, I’m met by the sight of a boy with a mop of curly, dark hair and a girl with eyes trained on the landscape beyond. I settle at the table and pour myself a drink rather than asking one of them to do me the favor—they owe me nothing, after all.

One sip after another of amber liquid, and I keep reaching for language that isn’t accusation. I can read nothing on the boy’s face, his stare empty, yet his mind obviously absorbed in a thought that will never reach me. Instead, I shift my attention to the girl, her body nearly vibrating with energy as she watches faces flit past. They’ll all be love with you by the time this is all said and done, I say, it doesn’t matter how you come home.

[ table: pogue ]