Hanging tree
Are you, are you
Coming to the tree
My heart beats in my throat— the heart that would soon be stopped and the throat that would soon be snapped. Onlookers stare as I walk with bound wrists, some crying, some pitying, some cutting through me with the dangerous look of respect— a respect that ignites in their eyes and promises to continue what I had begun.
Where they strung up a man they say murdered three.
The sun bleeds the orange before dusk, bleeding like the lash wounds across my back. Dots of it remain on the peacekeeper white of the soldiers leading me. Blood seeps into my mouth from my broken nose, the metallic as bitter as my thoughts. Murder, they say. Is it murder to kill one who has killed thousands? My bruised lids lift and meet two green eyes, dry, her shoulders shaking. The heart in my throat wrenches and tightens.
Strange things did happen here
She can't watch this. Shouldn't.
No stranger would it be
Her small form pushes through the crowds wildly until she stands close by, close enough to reach, earning herself a smack to the stomach with the butt of a peacekeeper's gun. A strangling cry tries to escape my dry, bloody lips. She straightens quickly, wrapping a slim hand where a bruise would soon form.
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.
The tree looms closer still, dust kicking up around my bare feet as the distance between me and death shortens. I am still wearing what I wore on our quest for revolution, the clothes smelling of gunpowder and dirt. From a thick branch hangs a rope, swinging softly in the wind. The small circle of a red sun positions itself perfectly in the noose's center. Death swings softly in the wind. The bodies of my friends had already been moved away. Murder swings softly in the wind.
Are you, are you
Coming to the tree
Some of the watchers begin to walk home, unable to stomach what was to come, unable to watch me die. I do not blame them. One remains amongst the several left. She stumbles along on tiring legs in her cotton dress, still clutching her stomach, tears now falling roughly down a pale and beautiful face.
Where the dead man called out for his love to flee.
I march between plastic white soldiers, as stiff as toys I used to play with as a boy, until I stand below the branch, the rope brushing my back. Go I mouth towards her trembling lips. She shakes her head fervently, curls bouncing against tear-stained cheeks and a troubled brow.
Strange things did happen here
White-gloved hands push me forward until my shins knock into a metal stool below the rope, forcing me to step up onto it. I see the stamp of the Capitol on its center and stand on it fully, making sure my feet grind into it.
No stranger would it be
The faces around me begin to blur through my own filmy eyes, the ones which had once wished to see a better world, to see a family that would now never be. The tears of dew on the grass are the tears I cannot let fall.
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.
One peacekeeper stands on each side of me, and one behind my back. Four stand to keep the crowd back.
Are you, are you
They make no sound, not even one hollow sound of a breath beneath their reflective masks.
Coming to the tree
The one behind my back reaches up and pulls the noose over my head. I feel it tickle my hair, then scrape my nose and lips, and then finally stop around my neck. My throat thumps wildly, pulsing.
Where I told you to run so we'd both be free.
My eyes never leave two green ones, as green as the grass under dusk's now bluing sky. Run, I mouth, knowing what my voice would sound like lest I speak. She shakes her head harder, a scream breaking from the bottom of her throat as I feel the peacekeeper fasten the rope as tight as it would go before my weight could hang it taut.
Strange things did happen here
Her little form tries to thrash against the wall of one peacekeeper, but two grab her arms. Why will she not run?
No stranger would it be
The stool vibrates when one foot gives a kick to it, taunting and cruel. I force my eyes to remain open, to not leave this world without my eyes open. They will not see me suffer.
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.
Abruptly, my weight drops. The rope strains. My feet dangle. A garbled scream sounds. A fire erupts in my throat. The—
Are you, are you
They sky is black and the moon is bright, throwing a crystalline glow onto his form swaying limply on the tree. My legs give out and leave me in a heap. It was cruel to wish he would laugh, blink those mischievous blue eyes, and pull the rope from his neck, giving a short bow after stepping back onto the ground. Oh, I close my eyes and wish it. The rope I fastened right next to his head and the stool next to his feet remain, beckoning me forward and chiding my foolish thoughts.
Coming to the tree
I love you, I whisper into the ground, the grass wetting my lips as I force myself to look up at his lifeless face. Closing my eyes again, I picture what he would say to me now with those bright blue eyes and smirking lips, the kind that would always seem like they had a secret. It's okay to be scared. He would have tucked a blonde curl behind my ear. Bravery does not mean you don't have fears. Be brave. I'll be right next to you. After crawling closer to him, I stand numbly, my finger reaching up and tracing the small crook on his nose, the lips that used to be so soft, his strong jaw, the cold arms that used to hold me so tight in their warmth. I wipe the blood with each caress and search for the boy that existed before cruel oppression ravaged him. Ravaged us all.
Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me.
Maybe I am mad, but I step onto my own wooden stool and stare out at the silence, smiling through tears when his fingers still twine with mine, though stiffly. The noose wraps easily around my neck like a necklace he once gave me. He made it from leather and it would rest right above my heart.
Strange things did happen here
The world is cold and silent from this view, a few flowers from grievers now resting at the foot of the tree. He will be cut down tomorrow. The rope itches against my neck as I lean my face towards the wind and close my eyes.
No stranger would it be
I will be cut down tomorrow.
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.
