Because Madge deserved better.
The flashes that streak my sky are brilliant; coming together in an unrelenting symphony of noise and light. The fire that consumes my ground is mythic, godly, consuming. The cries of my people are haunting and agonizing, a song for me in my dying hour.
Painful shrieks bubble out of my parent's room, as well as the careful whispers of my father's voice. It will be okay, he murmurs. It will be over soon.
I do not know my father as a liar. My fingers stroke at the keys in front of me; ebony and ivory. Coal dust and snow, soot and linens. I tap at the keys, crafting a prayer that only I can whisper, writing my dying melody.
I know what I must do, but the pain does not lesson as I accept my fate. We live as family, so we must die as one too.
Suddenly, the staircase I take my final ascent on becomes a thing of grandeur. Marble becomes other-worldly when put in a new light, the soft stone flickering as the fire rages out from beyond my window. The carpet, threadbare from the test of centuries, soon to be nothing but ash. Persian, I can hear my father's voice whispering. A relic. Beauty springs from everywhere, the vase I hated prior, the satin curtains that Mother detested because she felt they kept her trapped. They too will burn.
Madge? I can hear my father ask. Is that you?
Yes.
We require no further conversation. My parent's room resembles a destroyed hospital, half-empty pill bottles lying around, used bandages thrown about at random. Our maid, Maria, and the gardener, Ulrick, stand hushed over my mother's bedside. What are you doing here? I ask. What about your families?
The two share a look. They will survive, Ulrick answers. With or without us.
I feel a rush of gratitude for these people I have taken for granted. Bringing a hand to my mouth, I run to the bedside of my mother. Mama?
Madge?
Smiling, I blink away tears. Yes, it's me.
What's going on? She asks, delirious with both pain and fear. Her teeth chatter, percussion against the whistle of the wind.
I have no answer for her. Luckily, my father does. The Capitol is fire bombing the district, he explains.
Why?
I can guess, but do not wish to hold my friend accountable. Not even under this torture of the Capitol's design, not even with my dying breath. I don't know.
Oh, is her answer, simple and fluid.
There's not much more to say. Surprisingly, or not so, those condemned to death are remarkably silent. Perhaps to make what comes after easier. You still have a chance to make it out, my father says, glancing at Ulrick, Maria and I.
We live as family, so we must die as one too, I repeat. The extension of my hand afterwards is natural, as I hold onto the hands of my parents.
The crack of the fire becomes more pronounced, sforzando in my symphony. Soon the room becomes almost unbearably warm, and I realize vaguely our house must have caught fire. My thoughts turn to my beautiful piano, the strings expanding and snapping, the keys melting into congealed puddles. Maybe I can take it with me when I move on.
It's Maria's idea, what comes next. I don't want to die in pain, she whispers.
I don't want to die, I think.
We can take the painkillers, she continues, holding up the half-empty containers, and then we'd feel nothing.
Feeling nothing sounds beautiful, especially when the hiss and swell of the fire draws near. Let's do it, I agree, nodding.
Are you out of your minds? My mother rages. You don't know what they do to you... do you want to die with no feelings at all?
Yes, is the resounding answer. It takes some coaxing on our parts to get her to agree to swallow our cocktail of pills, but she relents on the grounds that we all take them together. We agree, simply because we owe her that one last request.
1, my father says as the vents hiss with pressure.
2, my mother whispers, watching the fire dance outside our window.
3, I shout, and the pills are knocked back with such force they have no choice but to go down.
We wait, joining our hands in a tangle of family, as our reality becomes ripped and teared at the seams. Even as our thoughts grow fuzzy, the bond of our family- Ulrick, Maria, Mother, Father and I- can not be broken.
My vision is a sea of colour, bright oranges, lemon yellows, and bold blues. The hiss and roar of metal expanding with pops and bangs assaults my ears. I smell something burning, but am too delirious to determine what. An amalgamation of senses.
The last gift I am given is a symphony, the hisses, the roars, the pops. Every noise, every blessed sound, comes together to play me one last song before I choke on the fumes. Ash coats my hair, the blackest of blacks against the whitest of blonds. My life ends with a final note that rolls off my tongue, a simple but fluid, oh.
The symphony is over; the composer is dead.
Because she didn't have to die.
-Pursuit