Flicker
He thinks of death in the hiss of a smoking match, its flame extinguished, a means to an end, fires are things of use not of beauty, although they can be beautiful.
The questions that hover around him in the quiet, the thoughts that linger to make sure he can never forget them, are vast like the forests of 12, they consume his thoughts, each question leads a different path, something uncharted that will never come to pass, a reality that—
There's the rub. Riddle me this, Rory Hawthorne, which is worse, the reality of seeing buttercup yellow hair flicker like a flame, blue eyes melting, flower wilting, or merely imagining it, like a hazy dream, the particulars would make you scream so you can't—or don't—focus on those, but her glittering eyes soak him in every time and she reaches for him, he does not know death any other way death is not a soft natural thing but man-made and unwavering like steel merciless in what it crushes and protects.
He started to play the piano after he found sheet music amongst Gale's few possessions he left behind in a faded box underneath the raggedy bed in their shack in District 12. He pretends not to notice the soft, looping handwriting in the margins and the gentle lines soothe him and give him what he needs to teach himself how to play; when he goes to District 2 on occasion, he notices the grand piano in Gale's foyer but only lets his fingers caress the keys, the white and the black are too stark and polished, the beauty outshines the use, he prefers faded eggshell and tarnished grey, things that are used and loved.
Must you be alone, his mother asks, her mouth pinched, the lines around her mouth were started by laughter and deepened with pain, and he thinks must to be a rather strong word, forceful, decisive, like Gale, and he has never been anything like that, he loved soft things, yes, the only thing he and Gale ever had in common was that they both loved girls on fire, the country's most well-known, worst-kept secret, but only Rory knows that they were both blondes.
He only lives when he dreams and in the quiet he sees her unravel her braid and sit by the fire with him. She ages with him, he traces her curved silhouette like a treble clef, trembling, he is not alone when he is with her but he is not whole either, and must is not a choice it is the path he got lost in the forest consumed the others, all he wanted to do was make it to the lake and soak her in it, a cleansing, a baptism, a time for new things they never had.
One day he is older and the path in the forest becomes clearer, the branches dip low as he passes, a wreath of needles, they feel like cotton and at the edge he sees her fire, it envelopes her like a veil, he reaches for her the hands clasp and intertwined, the flames flicker up his arms and envelope him
And he smiles.