I lie on my back, staring vacantly at the sea glass mobile dangling from my brother's ceiling. On a normal day I would not allow myself to be here, but it is Reaping Day—the one day a year when I rise before the sun, slip into my brother's room, and stay there until I hear my father stirring down the hall. I don't touch anything. I just lie in his bed and breathe in the salty-soapy ocean smell that still lingers after 3 years on his pillow. Three years ago today was the last time he was ever in this room. Ellis was always very neat, so there are hardly any clues to who once lived here, but a precious few still remain. A letter on his bedside table, graced with the unmistakable scrawl of a girl. A dress shirt slung over the chair, presumably rejected in favor for the vibrant blue one he had worn 3 Reapings ago. A jar of sea glass on the desk along with the mobile swinging gently in the lazy sea breeze. Ellis and I had spent much of our free time as children collecting the stuff, combing beaches, wading into the current and digging for it in the sand with our toes.
My mind drifts inevitably to Ellis, flash floods of the day he went away, 18 and handsome, bound to the sea by the salt in his blood. He was a tall boy with tousled dark hair, an easy smile, and the vivid eyes typical of natives of District 4. People always gave him a little more than they had to when he brought fish to the market. It was because my father was well-respected, because my mother had died, and because Ellis was kind. He watched out for everyone, and no amount of money could really repay what he gave to the District. We always had a little extra, and for a family from the Wharf, we lived well. I think of leaving the house that morning, flouncing in my brother's shadow, reveling in my Reaping dress and shiny Reaping shoes.
At first, when my mother died, everything was Befores and Afters and black and white and sharp edges, but then Death strikes again and makes itself at home and everything is gray and unclear and blurry. No longer is anything certain. But it's true, what they say. Wounds heal with time. Tendrils of blue start creeping back into the ocean and the sky and life goes on. It doesn't mean it hurts any less. It just means you get better at forgetting. All time does is form a scab. You can't change how deep you've been cut.
The sound of my father's mattress creaking travels through the wall and interrupts my daydreams. I am thankful for it. I try not to think about my mother or brother. I bolt out of Ellis' room and out the back door. I don't stop, can't stop, until I am treading water, surrounded by crashing blue ocean, swallowed by the sea.