at least we look at the same moon — c&s
Jun 8, 2025 9:15:13 GMT -5
Post by Cait on Jun 8, 2025 9:15:13 GMT -5
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You don’t hear much about the Games in Six. People trying to forget, think of anything other than the two little girls that died most recently. That misplaced faith that I created when I tore up my suicide note, made it back home. Always ends up feeling like my fault. Easiest to forget their names. Everyone else already seems to have.
Granted, you don’t hear much about anything in Six, really. Streets aren’t bristling with activity the way they do in the Capitol. You get the rebellions brewing in the underbelly of the moment, but I’ve been avoiding Flynn. Couldn’t tell you what he’s been up to. Tried to get me involved in the Hospital landscape, make something useful of my new life, but there’s too much bad blood waiting to be dredged up back there.
It’s strange, seeing it in the daylight. Crumbling white walls and respirators on the brink of failing. Dead lungs, decay in the empty spaces where oxygen used to flow. Always felt like I had to stay well away from that place as soon as the sun rose – like my carbon footprint would illuminate in the dawn. Demons of the past stay sleeping as long as you keep moving past them.
Guess the same goes for the Orphanage.
You know, I gave away most of my money to the mansion on the hill, but I don’t know if it’s done much good. Anonymous donation that nobody questioned, but I think by now everyone knows who ghostwrote that cheque. I thought that would be enough to sever the ties, stop people from digging beneath the surface of literary tragedy. Turns out Jupiter was right. There’s no privacy in this world. The world gets too close, learns that it’s always been a horror film. Piles of decapitated corpses and decomposing limbs.
I don’t visit often. Don’t like to be miserable more than I need to be. Don’t believe in omens, either. But sometimes there’s a ghost of a girl with untamed hair and olive skin that passes me in the streets, and the chill of my blood turning to ice is enough for me to seek out a familiar, fated warmth. Even if it kinda feels like getting a hug from your second aunt. Uncomfortable and awkward, but you go through with it anyway, for some kind of greater good. Money in the will, maybe. I think I’m just trying to put my insomnia to rest for another week or month.
Always looks the same, until it doesn’t. There’s more people than there should be. Cameras, too. Did I do that. Brought even more attention to the sideshow of freaks just trying to beat the odds and make something normal of their life. Flickering shutter. Wide-blown pupils. An idiot with purple hair running around with a powder puff in her hand. Why is it always my fault.
And:
Why do I always make it about me when it never, ever has been.
