midday memories. — [hermes/hellion]

[Deleted]

you do what you can to survive

The middle of the day was the perfect time for this. Yes, it may seem like one of the worst time as everyone is actually bustling around, but that's why it works. His parents would be working at the time, but it was far enough away from any meals that he didn't have to worry about making sure Laverna was taken care of food wise so she wouldn't question why he was leaving. Of course he didn't want his family to know about this, why would he? They would get suspicious. There were plenty of reasons to be suspicious of Hermes, though this time he wasn't doing anything illegal. Hell, he wasn't doing anything even in a legal gray area. He was doing something that implied he was considering an idea that once again straddled the thin line between brave and stupid. What was this thing he was doing? Knocking at the door of Hellion Mo. 

Hellion "died" during the 80th Hunger Games. Though, luckily for her, this one had a twist. Revival. She was revived. She still fucking lost, but she was alive. That was more than could be said for the hundreds of people who went before her. And she didn't do too bad, she was 12th place. Of course normally 12th place meant you were dead. Forever. That's what Hermes wanted to avoid. If he was ever in the Hunger Games it would help his family. They could live a normal life. Hell he could use some of that money to try to help the rest of the district too. But for that he had to make sure he lived. There usually weren't second chances in these games.

Honestly he had no clue how he was going to convince her to talk to him. He was pretty sure he wasn't of reaping age when she was in the games, but maybe he could just lie about his age? After all a ton of sixteen and seventeen year olds looked thirty in Panem, maybe a twenty-something year old could look sixteen. He doubted she remembered everyone in the Games. But then he remembered that she would probably remember the other person from district 12. No one ever accused Hermes of being smart.

So with that plan in the trash he knocked a bit louder and decided to go with his usual plan: winging it. He was really good at winging it. In fact, that's what he did in most situations. Winging it didn't always work, and he has many scars to prove that. But in his mind the pros of winging it were greater than the cons. Plus most victors, even careers, seemed to wing it for the most part in his opinion. So wing it he would.

hermes beck
district 12
age 16

by sixsmith.

[thompson harvard - d2b - arc]

It's been a few years since I died.

When I died I didn't realize the value of life. That people do care, because I was named to be a joke. Someone to point and laugh at when I tell them that I'm named after the place that bad people went to when they die. If that was the truth, I'd be named District 12. It must be true, too. Because Heaven isn't here.

Ever since becoming a nurse, I got to see what remorse feels like. What it feels like to be the ones grieving and to be grieved. Not that I was the one dying, but it made me feel like that maybe somewhere someone was as upset over my death. For it to then be for nothing. For a show.

I've seen mothers weep and fathers darken in sadness. Young daughters asking to hear their brother, their sister, their mother, their grandmother, their grandfather speak once more. I've seen the last breath of a grandmother whose roots hold a family like a grand oak tree holds the ground. I know that I should feel sadness for the men and women grieving, I don't. In those moments, I find myself shoving thoughts between my lowered head and clasped palms to turn my knuckles white. Black coffee. Dark chocolate that sits on your tongue for hours upon hours no matter how much water you try and drown yourself in to escape the flavor.

I'm angry when they die, because I wish I had people that missed me. I wished that I had that herd that felt sadness for my death. Times that I wished that, like a herd of elephants, people mourned me. Gently touching the body of the fallen - holding their hand and feeling the unique palm one last time before it had gone cold. Staying with the body for days at a time to mourn as a herd.

I haven't spoken to my parents in years. I left their house as soon as I could, and now that my brother has permanently left all of our lives, I hope they continue to burn in hell with me.

Well, my hell. I died after all, so this is where I must have gone. Must suck to be stuck with the kid they hated.

I've been living with my girlfriend for a few years now. We live a rather quiet life, my medical craft and her various textiles. She likes taking patches of her leftover fabric and turning them into another eye patch, even though it's the same four depressing colors of gray, black, brown (khaki) and "light yellow" (bleached khaki). I love her for it though. She makes me feel like I have a herd to cry with. I liked the bleached khaki color the most, though she refuses to acknowledge that it's anything other than a light/faded yellow. I still try to wear her eye patches though. It gives having one eye "style", or at least as much style one eye can have in District 12.

If you're wondering, today I'm sporting the purple one she made for my birthday. It matches the bandana around our cat's neck.

Elizabeth (or "Izzy") was at the market today trying to sell a few of the garments she's made in hopes of making money. She tends to rotate between that and her various attempts at unique sweets or candles that she can make. I was spending the day at home because I didn't feel like hearing another day of families mourning or young boys coming in after getting their shit kicked to then ask why I have one eye.

Don't ask before I give Izzy an eye patch market in the district. She needs the revenue.

I expected to have the day to myself for the most part. Nobody typically bothers to knock on our door unless it's Annie or Carter making a casual stop for some ungodly reason. Which even the latter is rare.

However, a knock at the door said otherwise. I didn't get up at first, figuring it might be someone trying to track me down to help them treat something. The second louder knock was enough to cause me to rise from the creaky old chair in our central room to see who was knocking. Our home is nothing large, but enough for us to be happy.

I open the door to see a boy standing out in front of it. I give him a quick glance.

"You don't look hurt."

Was I supposed to recognize him? I don't know who this boy is.

"Do you need something?"

[Deleted]

you do what you can to survive

Hermes took a second to decide the best approach here. There was two ways he could go about doing this and he wasn't sure which she would be more responsive towards. Right now, he needed her to agree to have a chat with him. Preferably inside her home so they could have privacy (especially if his sister was running around in the district somewhere). However, he could understand not wanting to invite some kid in. For all she knew he could be some sort of thief or troublemaker. Good thing Hermes would never do anything like that.

Of course, he knew stealing was a stupid idea. He wanted help from this person and if he ever got hurt in the future she'd probably be one of the people to help him out. And he got hurt a lot. That's what happens when you often times mistake bravery and stupidity. You cross that line too far, you push your luck, and you get hurt. He's gotten hurt far too many times because of that. And that's why he wanted her help. He wanted a neutral party to see if his thoughts were stupid or brave or both. His sister insisted it was just plain stupid - and she almost never insulted him. But, she was also scared for him. Scared he would bite off more than he could chew like when he tried to pickpocket that escort from the capitol a few years ago. Suffice it to say the results were Not Good.

Usually Hermes shrugged it off when things went wrong. But here if things went wrong. If he decided to actually want to go into the Games and either got reaped or volunteered, the consequences of messing up wouldn't be something he could shrug off. He'd be dead. Maybe it would be better if he died. His parents would have one less mouth to feed. Before his sister was born things were easier because of one less person to provide for. Without him they could all afford better clothes and more food and maybe eventually afford to move out of the Seam. But, that was a scenerio he wanted to avoid. Maybe he'd get lucky and never get reaped. And maybe after this she could show him why volunteering is a shit idea.

But before any of that could happen he would have to convince her to talk to him. And he had to come up with a plan. The first plan was to tone down his personality a bit. Coming in all laughs to such a serious discussion might come off as condescending or mocking her struggles rather than light hearted. On the other hand, it usually helped people warm up to him. He had to decide which was more likely to work. He decided in the end to keep it toned down. He was still going to be himself but a little less excitable, a little less jokey, and a whole let less mischievous. At least for now that is.

But, he can't totally stop being himself. That would just be dishonest. So with a little chuckle and a smile he held out a hand to introduce himself, "Correction, I'm not hurt yet. You'd be surprised with how often I end up hurt. Trying to go for a new record of most broken bones caused by doing dumb yet hilarious bullshit. Anyway, my name is Hermes Beck. I was hoping we could talk for a little bit, if you aren't too busy, ma'am."

He wasn't sure if the ma'am was too much. He definitely respects her and understands that she's been through a lot, dying and all. And he wanted to use ma'am to show that respect. But he also knows some younger women don't like it because of the connotations it has as far as it being used for older women. He decided to use it once and sort of test the waters. He didn't want to accidentally upset her by trying to be nice. He's done similar things a few times or taken a joke a little too far. And it always makes him feel like shit after.

hermes beck
district 12
age 16

by sixsmith.

[thompson harvard - d2b - arc]

I didn't know why he was here. I didn't exactly care, either, but I figured slamming the door in his face this early on might be considered rude. Besides, what was he going to do to me, end me? If he did, I hope he feeds the closes the door afterward, so our cat doesn't get out. Izzy would be devastated to hear that the cat was gone. Also that I'd be dead, but the cat would've been her last memory of me besides the casual eye patches we have around the house. Maybe he was here to tell me about church and that I should go. No, he didn't look like he cared enough about this to be doing that. He also didn't have a bible.

Not that people approach me about church anymore, but it's still a possibility.

The slightly taller boy chuckled and then let out a smile. The light dots sprinkled on his face like a painter dotting a starry sky flexed with his smile. Why was he laughing? Was this a joke to him? Is there going to be a gang of ratty teenagers with their faces just as dirty as the boots of the coal miners? I briefly imagined that was the case. He was one of the boys that likes to throw shit at people just because it was fun. Hopefully they don't throw any bricks. Glass shards are a bitch to clean up.

He speaks. "Correction, I'm not hurt yet. You'd be surprised with how often I end up hurt. Trying to go for a new record of most broken bones caused by doing dumb yet hilarious bullshit." Okay... what does this have to do with me? Am I supposed to break his leg? Take his kneecaps? That would be an interesting way to still get some revenue. But he doesn't look like the kind of person that'd pay for any service. I don't think the cat can do it. Anyway, my name is Hermes Beck. I was hoping we could talk for a little bit, if you aren't too busy, ma'am."

Oh my god, did it finally happen? Mom and dad finally got their house burned down? Are they dead? Do I get to say I both died and outlived my bullshit parents? Please tell me that's the case. I hope their house burned. Or maybe that stupid fucking plant that Heaven died to got mailed to their house and decided it liked the taste of our blood. Maybe those ratty teens threw some gasoline into their house and lit it up. I hope something happened to them. Something bad. They deserve it. If you heard anything about any of the above though, it wasn't me. I promise. Not yet at least.

Is he here to tell me that my house was being investigated? That our good old cat Salem was a father to too many cats? What did he need to talk to me about? And when did I turn into a ma'am? Am I that old now?

"Okay, well, I'm Hellion I guess?" I didn't know if my name was needed. He was clearly searching for me if he was at my doorstep. "What exactly did you need to talk about?" I was no expert on life, so hopefully he wasn't coming here for therapy or life advice. I barely knew how to live my life correctly the first time. We all don't know because there's typically not a first time that you live in one body. I guess that's why he needs me then.

[Deleted]

you do what you can to survive

For a second he considered lying. Hermes was no stranger to lying. What, did you really expect a no-good pickpocket to be honest? He was just a thief after all. But, right now, lying felt wrong. If the only way he got Hellion to talk about something that was likely traumatic was through lying, then he didn't want to hear her talk about it. Plain and simple. Yeah he wanted answers, but not that way. He didn't want to rely on tricks or lies for this. Even he knows the difference between right and wrong. Stealing to survive is one thing. This situation would be something else entirely. Instead, he decided to be honest. Honest about his intentions and what he wanted from her.

He still wasn't sure how to phrase the truth. He was pretty good at crafting lies. Not so good at actual conversation. He didn't even know where to start in explaining what he wanted because there was so much on his mind. The Hunger Games, life, death, the district system, and a million other things. That's when he got a plan. Perhaps the most brilliant plan he's thought of yet - which is kind of like being the tallest dwarf. He could just blurt out whatever came to his mind. Normally that would be a bad idea, but this way it was honest and authentic. He just had to be careful not to say too much. Last thing he needed was some snitch overhearing a known criminal spew anticapitol rhetoric.

"The Hunger Games... I know it sounds weird going to you instead of a victor but the Peacekeepers wouldn't let me anywhere near houses that nice. Plus we all know victors are just puppets of the big guys. But I want to know everything, well everything you're willing to tell me. Recently I've been thinking about how if I won how much I could help my family and the whole district. And even if I lost my family would have one less mouth to feed. I've also been thinking about this bullshit district system as well. Of course, if you're willing to talk to me, we probably shouldn't do it where people can hear."


Maybe he was a bit paranoid but he was already on thin ice. He was on thin ice ever since he tried to pickpocket someone from the capitol. If he was heard talking negatively about the government some asshole could easily try to connect him already "lashing out" against the capitol through theft and now his anger. The last thing he needed was to  be turned into an Avox or something when he wasn't even a rebel. He just wanted to help his family and those around him. Even if the means weren't super "ethical".

hermes beck
district 12
age 16

by sixsmith.

[thompson harvard - d2b - arc]

I didn't expect the newest article for District 12's latest magazine to feature me. Mostly because we don't have a magazine in the district, but also because I'm probably the bottom of the totem pole when it comes to Hunger Games survivors. I'm not that interesting compared to the rest of them. Yes, my brother also died in the Games, but it wasn't like he's important to me. I don't care for my family. That was the good thing about Izzy and Salem. They're my family now, because according to my own parents, I was the devil herself. They didn't need my sinful partner inside their walls, and we didn't want to be.

Anyway, the interview. Or "interview".

"The Hunger Games." Oh, but of course. Because I (someone who didn't even live) am the person to be talking to about the Games. "I know it sounds weird going to you instead of a victor but the Peacekeepers wouldn't let me anywhere near houses that nice. Plus we all know victors are just puppets of the big guys." Buddy, I didn't open my door to discuss conspiracy theories. Take that to a radio or something. Complain to them. I don't care what the victors do because it's not my ass on the line. "But I want to know everything," He continues on his response. I feel like I'm supposed to start pulling out maps and thumb tacks and a corkboard, so we can connect the dots of why the sky is blue or some stupid shit. What's everything? Am I now God? "Well, everything you're willing to tell me."

Is this a therapy session?

"Recently I've been thinking about how if I won how much I could help my family and the whole district. And even if I lost my family would have one less mouth to feed." So I'm talking to the District 12 Messiah? Why does he think I'm anything special to his desire to cure district-wide hunger? I died. "I've also been thinking about this bullshit district system as well. Of course, if you're willing to talk to me, we probably shouldn't do it where people can hear." Oh, so now we need to go into a confined space to talk about the issues of the district? Am I being recorded? Is this dude some sort of capitol spy?

No, he wasn't. He could be, but I'd be able to see the remains of a neon hair color if he was.

"Okay, well." I let out a sigh. A long one. I don't really talk about the Games often, mostly because they remind me of how I failed, but I figured this dude's pent-up anxiety about them is worth trying to help. "If you want advice from someone who lost the games, then sure." I stepped back to allow him into our home. "Don't expect a treasure chest of gold. We didn't get anything besides our injuries fixed." I don't need to be losing stuff because this dude decided I was the Games Therapy Appointment. Which I still need, honestly.

For a few years after my exit from the Games, my experience with Annie was my trauma. I didn't trust anyone. I didn't trust myself to love anyone. Even though we both lived, we both lived and I loved in an arena that was designed to have me dead in any other world. I didn't want myself to love anyone and face heartbreak like I did during then. My love was useless then.

It was useless now. Annie wanted me so she could live.

But I still love her. I grit my teeth every time I get flashbacks to all of it. I was stupid and dying, and I thought that my life had hidden behind this curtain of a life that I never fully embraced. I never held my homosexuality up like a prize for the world to see, because to me, I had no world that needed to see it. And in the face of that death I felt that I had to understand what love was like. What it was to look at someone and have daydreams of a future or get the warm feeling. I get that now with Izzy, but it almost feels faded, because I'm more alive than I was before I died. But she's my family along with Salem, things that show me unconditional love and I'm still too scared to show it myself and fall back into the psychological trap of feeling love.

"Most of them, at least. The ones you can see." I point at the eye patch. "Just because we look fixed, it doesn't mean that we are. That goes for anyone who knows what it's like to be in there."

[Deleted]

you do what you can to survive

Hermes was grateful yet surprised when she opened the door so he could step inside. He stepped in the door and quietly shut it behind him. He then waited for her to speak, listening closely to her words. See, here's the thing about Hermes. He notices a lot about the way that people speak. A lot of people choose their words carefully, especially when they want to hide stuff. So that's what he paid attention to in conversations. The subtext of the words that they spoke. Of course that was among other indicators such as body language, demeanor, and tone of voice.

When she mentioned injuries, especially the ones you can't see, that piqued his interest. He may be stupid, but he wasn't an idiot. He could definitely see any survivor - victor or not - being left with a significant amount of trauma after the Hunger Games. Being forced to murder other children before you even turn nineteen just for the entertainment of the wealthy. Coming from a place like district 12 where you struggle to even get the smallest bit of food and then having to fight to the death for those that oppress you. The idea sickened him.

He normally hated serious conversations like this. It was the tension. The tension reminded him of his situation. It reminded him he was in district 12. It reminded him that at any moment his family was on the verge of starving to death. It reminded him there was really no escape. That's part of the reason he used humor so much. It was a coping mechanism. When he told a joke or played a prank, it made everything around him feel less serious. It made him forget all of the shitty parts and just laugh.

Laughter. That was something that seemed almost as scarce as food these days. He understood why people didn't feel like laughing or telling jokes, what he didn't get is how those people stayed sane. He felt trapped. How did people who have been stuck here for decades cope? How did they survive without trying to make things feel better, even for a second? Some people saw his humor in dark times as inappropriate. For Hermes it was making the best of a bad situation. But that's what the entire district had to do. Just try to make the best of the shit circumstances they were born into.

That's when he decided to try to lighten the mood, at least a little bit. He wanted to see if he could at least get her to smile. That was his goal. He wanted to learn more about the Hunger Games, of course, but he also wanted to make her smile. Maybe laughing would hep those wounds that she had mentioned, even if it was the tiniest bit. He didn't see why adults always had to be so serious.

"If it makes you feel any better the eyepatch makes you look like a pirate and pirates are pretty badass. Who wouldn't want to be a kickass pirate?"


Just in case that didn't work he decided to add on one more line at the very end after a brief pause, "What would your pirate name be? Quick! Don't think just answer!"

hermes beck
district 12
age 16

by sixsmith.

[thompson harvard - d2b - arc]

I think it's hard for me to realize that people care about what I say. I've always been a pawn, a toy in a game for anyone to pick up and move around until they get bored with me and move on. I was that for my parents. They would pull me out of their toy box at just the right time to become the big scary dinosaur that'd terrorize the town. I think we're all just a toy to someone's crate in life. We all get used when it feels appropriate. We get dressed up in the image they want to see us as, and they take us on adventures. Where we lay in our closed trunk and get to see them when they're sad or when they're happy. Hear their cries of sorrow and moments of joy through the cracks of the cedar chest (or, if recently played with, from the floor). I was the toy for the Capitol for a short moment. They dressed me up in their beautiful gowns and had me put on a show for them. The Capitol spoke for me, obviously, because no doll can speak for itself. But I died in their game. I became useless in their world that they created, where killing children for public display is okay. And now I'm here; in their garbage can of a toy box of District 12 and waiting for when they decide I'm needed again.

The tension was thick. Thicker than the fog of a gloomy morning. Thicker than the wool of a sheep in the winter. Most of that could be contributed to myself. I'm not particularly played with anymore. I was a bit sterile. Blow some air onto my body and dust would come off - poof - like I was something uncovered from a museum. The boy, Hermes, perks up again. We both have names that come off of spiritual beings. Hermes was a god of luck. Maybe I'll get lucky and get to leave this damned place.

Where to? I don't know. Anyway, the dude talks.

"If it makes you feel any better, the eye-patch makes you look like a pirate and pirates are pretty badass. Who wouldn't want to be a kickass pirate?" He says this as if that wasn't the reason I wanted to keep the eye-patch. They offered to replace my eye with a prosthetic. But as a little girl I spent a lot of time wishing that I was a pirate or some sort of thief. Someone who'd traverse the seas and cause havoc amongst the ships that we would pass. I wanted to become the hell of the seas. Releasing a huff of laughter about the memory, I listened into him continuing. "What would your pirate name be? Quick! Don't think just answer!"

Well, that was easy. I had that name planned as a little girl.

"Well, originally it was just gonna be 'Mo'. Simple, quick." I thought that as a girl my legacy on the sea would be something the world would know. "One-Eyed Mo would also be cool, but still requires a bit too much talking. Besides, hearing people scream 'Holy Moly' might have a new meaning to it." I always wondered what it would be like to flee this disgusting country. Where to? I wasn't sure. I just thought that this idea of a group of misfits taking upon the sea in our boat would be such an amazing experience. Of course, we'd come back to port in District 4 in order to restock on goods. But I think it'd be nice to escape. To be in my own little world where I would become the toddler drowning in toy dolls and figures that I never was. Though we all know that escape is impossible. It's death. It's never being heard about from your family again. Having no legacy. I'd be a pretty sad pirate if I had no legacy.

"You can thank Izzy for the funky eyepatch though. She likes to make them for me so having one eye can be 'fashionable' in District 12." I give another light laugh, this one out of love rather than joy. I love her and her eyepatches and her cute ties for Salem. I love how she makes me feel like I matter.

"What would yours be?" Maybe he wants to become a pirate too. Become the captain of his own ship and steer it to his manifested destiny of victory and gold.