Disclaimer: The Hunger Games and all the characters in it belong to Suzanne Collins.
-x-
I don't think I've ever really paid attention to her face until the day we both stood on stage together as the tributes from District 11.
I only remember seeing her from afar, her head bobbing up and down, disappearing every now and then under the rows and rows of wheat. Every once in a while you'd hear her laughter, soft and riddled by coughs.
We've never had much to eat or drink out on the fields, but there she was, always humming and working as best she could.
I remember the day my grandmother first pointed her out. I had only been working the fields for a month or two and my grandmother was always home alone, day after day. She'd been sickly for a few years now, spending her days sitting on a stool I had put by the window, watching the quiet shadows of our shanties growing and shrinking as the days pass.
"That one," my grandmother nodded towards her direction, shaking her head.
"She's a strange one," my grandmother continued, "she's been sitting on that tree all afternoon."
Rue hasn't started working on the fields then, she was barely as tall as my waist. I remember having seen her around, but I didn't know her name. She lived somewhere down the street from us, if you could call it a street. She was always with her siblings; all of them small and skinny.
My grandmother didn't continue. She just stared out the window at the small figure sitting on the tree branch. The little girl seemed to be preoccupied with whatever she was doing, because not once did she stare back.
I shrugged and left to prepare dinner. By the time I had finished setting up the table, my grandmother had fallen asleep on her chair, and the figure on the tree had vanished.
For the next few days, it continued as such: my grandmother, staring outside the window, seemingly bemused by the little girl sitting on the tree and the little girl, fumbling around on the same tree branch day after day.
By the second week, my grandmother seemed to have gotten an idea about what the little girl was doing.
"Her mother came over today," my grandmother explained, her soft, croaking voice trembling with excitement, "said her daughter's been trying to teach the birds to sing."
"Birds?"
"You know, the mockingjays." My grandmother waved me off.
"Nana, the mockingjays always sing." I said, shaking my head.
"Yes," my grandmother said, nodding fervently, "but she said this song was special."
I must've looked completely bewildered, because my grandmother only rolled her eyes and looked away. Right before she looked away, though, I thought I caught a glimpse of disappointment in her eyes.
"You know, she reminds me of your mother when she was younger," my grandmother chuckled, "always singing off hear head like a little songbird. "
She glanced at me again, "You look more like your father, though. Big and strong. And quiet."
My grandmother sighed, "It gets kind of lonely without all of you here."
I felt the pang in my heart. There really was nothing I could do about that. In fact, there wasn't much I could say about that either. What could I do? Promise I'd come home earlier?
You can't afford silly thoughts like loneliness and depression and whatnots these days, not with the Peacekeepers always at your feet. They'd catch you if you showed any contempt. They'd whip you.
"Yeah, I'm sorry about that, Nana."
I walked into my room and closed the curtains. Here in the slums there isn't much room in our houses, even my room is just a bed with a curtain. Just so I don't have to face everyone else. Just so I could have the illusion of privacy, of solitude.
I felt like I could hear my grandmother sobbing that night, stifled and barely a whisper, but you could hear it. Her breath, choked.
I left for work the next morning without saying goodbye. I don't think I'd have been able to look Nana straight in the eye. I imagined her eyes red and puffy, pleading. I don't think I could handle that. I don't think I'd be able to look her in the eye and not break down as well.
So I left without a word.
When I got back to the house, the sun had long gone down behind the far hills on the west, but I found my grandmother still sitting by the window. The little girl was gone too. My grandmother sat there, staring at the empty space by the tree where she used to sit. She didn't look at me as I came in the room.
"She really was singing." My grandmother spoke suddenly.
"Uh-huh," I mumbled.
"She had a beautiful voice, Thresh," she continued, "You should have heard her sing."
I sat down by the dinner table, staring at my Nana in the dark. She didn't stop to look at me; she just stared out the window, looking wishful.
"When your mother was a girl, there was a lullaby I used to sing to her." Nana smiled, "She got the mockingjays to sing it."
She turned towards me. In the dark, I could barely see her face, but her grey eyes stared defiantly back at me. As if it had been lit, lit by the little show that the little girl and her flock of birds had put up for her.
"Really, now," Nana sighed, her voice heightened by what sounded like a mixture of happiness and heartbreak, of fond memories and tragedies swirling in her thoughts, " I really do miss your mother."
As she looked away, I saw a sad, sad smile on her face. For the mother I barely got to know. I heard her hum a song in her sleep that night, a song for my dead mother. A song for the birds to sing.
A gift, from a certain little girl.
For the next few years, I found myself coming home to my grandmother smiling, humming the same tune day after day, staring at an empty space between the trees. I would sometimes come home to swept floors and wiped tables, to dinner set up on the table. Sometimes, even, there would be fresh flowers standing limply in a small earthen vase by the window.
The house would be warm as I walked in, with a small fire roasting and water boiling in a small pot above it.
It was like my mother was back in the house.
The harvest was almost done for the season when I walked home that day. From the corner of my eye, I caught a pair of little feet running beside me, looking straight ahead. She passed me quickly and disappeared into one of the alleys.
I found my grandmother sitting on the dinner table already by the time I reached the house.
"The little songbird came by to say hello today," Nana smiled, "Said her name was Rue."
"That's it?"
"Said she can't accompany me anymore, too," she added with a sad smile, "said she's got to work in the fields from now on."
"I guess she came to say goodbye, then."
"Yes," Nana paused, looking up at the ceiling, as if holding back tears, "I suppose so."
My grandmother stayed silent for a while, staring at the ceiling. Then she looked at me and ushered me to the dinner table, keeping idle chatter throughout the night. That night, she sang herself to sleep.
When I stood on the stage, it's been a few years since I last saw her perched on that tree. I stared at her for a long time. A little girl, staring back, afraid but strong-willed. I don't think she remembers me.
But my grandmother remembers her, because I could see her, sitting way back in the midst of the audience. I can see her, holding back tears. For me. For Rue.
The clock ticked away as we said our last goodbyes. My grandmother visited me the last. She barely said a word, just held my hand and stared at me.
"You're big and strong, just like your father." She managed to stutter. "Be strong, Thresh."
I nodded, squeezing her hands tightly. "I will, Nana."
"Take care of Rue."
"I will, Nana."
That was all I could manage to say. I will, Nana. I would do anything. I would do anything to be able to come back.
As the Peacekeepers came in to take her away, Nana took one last look at me, forced on her biggest smile and said, "It'll get kind of lonely without all of you here."
On the last night before the Hunger Games began, I knocked on her door. She opened, hesitating.
"Yes?"
Her voice quivered, she barely peeked behind her door.
"Thank you."
She stared at me, confused. "For singing." I added. I walked away hurriedly without waiting for a response.
When the Hunger Games started the next day, I managed to catch a glimpse of Rue, standing on her plate. It's not District 11 here anymore. Now it's every man for himself. It's kill or be killed here. I can't protect anyone.
I took a deep breath, staring at the Cornucopia, glistening in the sunlight. It reminded me of the soft, smoldering glow of the fire back home. The fire my mother used to put up before my father got back from the fields, the fire my grandmother missed so much. The fire Rue's song returned to our hearth.
I imagine my grandmother pacing the floors back home. I imagine Rue's family, watching us on the television, anxious, afraid.
I took one last look at her as the gong rang.
Thank you for singing. May the odds be ever in your favor.
-x-