i bet on losing dogs [d8]

[heather - d2 [mylee]]

S  H  E  L  B  Y

The envelope I’m holding as I step onto the train is small enough that it could nearly be held in the palm, pulled from one’s sleeve as though it is something to make appear and vanish at a whim. In any other’s hand, black script would slope along the front, a formal invitation to important names that I do not know, but in the thirteen years since I stepped from the arena, probably should.

As I stood on the platform waiting, I had handed the envelope to Mekhi and asked him to break the seal. He held it by the edges, carefully slipping a fingernail under the gold wax until it released its hold on the paper. He held it back toward me expectantly, and I tried my best to replicate the way he held the corners, but it didn’t sit the same way in my hands.

Now, I step onto the train while tucking the envelope into the inside pocket of my blazer, the details obscured from view, a celebration held in honor of the fact that I’ve managed to survive to the age of thirty. I’m just as shocked as the lot of them are, given the fact that everyone I’ve met in the months since my mother’s death has made an offhanded comment about losing track of me every once in a while. I usually respond that sometimes I also worry, that sometimes I think I’ve lost myself for a couple of months at a time, too. And then we both laugh, a hand is placed upon a shoulder, and I don’t mention the nights that I stand at the bottom of the stairs screaming at my reflection in the front window until Mekhi rouses from his sleep and wraps his body around mine, guiding both of us to the floor until my body stops trembling.

When we come into sight of the tributes, he taps me on the wrist and flicks his fingers to the left, letting me know where he’ll be should I need him. I nod quickly and turn my attention back to the two children in front of me, trying to focus on some feature I can use to distinguish them from the pairs before. As I’m searching their faces, they’re searching mine, and I feel the air start to thicken, so I blurt out, You both have long faces.

The second the words leave my mouth I bite my tongue, my mouth firming into a straight line as I watch confusion cross their faces. While I sit down across from the two of them, I think of all the dead children I’ve asked to pass me a bottle, how six years ago I didn’t recognize the girl’s face at her own funeral. Her mother had read me for filth and told me not to bother with showing up graveside.

I went back days later with the intention of paying my respects, but I couldn’t even fucking find her grave.

I’m sorry, I start again. I’m Shelby.

The words sound strange leaving my tongue, and as I sink into the chair I try to recall the last time I’ve spoken my own name out loud. There’s something disconcerting about not having to introduce yourself, as though my tongue has nearly lost its ability to wrap itself around the syllables, tripping over the back of my teeth. I start to sound it out again, if only for practice, but I can’t shake the feeling that the only way my name should be heard is when it’s coupled with apology.

[ table: pogue ]