a/n [The uprising in District Eight. Bonnie-centric. Written for Caesar's Palace's Monthly Oneshot Challenge. Also for Lils because it is required that every minor character story be dedicated to her.]
dulce et decorum est pro patria mori
sed dulcius pro patria vivere
et dulcissimum pro patria bibere
ergo, bibamus pro salute patriae
it is sweet and dignified to die for the homeland
but it is sweeter to live for the homeland
and the sweetest to drink for it
therefore let us drink to the health of the homeland
There's a time of day when you can look to the sky and tell that it's just a little bit darker. That the sun will soon set. That night will fall and the sky will be black, empty if not for the glittering stars that trace patterns in the sky. But then, as you look up, minutes, it seems, later, it's suddenly dark, and you can't remember that happening because you just checked and the sky was lit with the thousands of colors of everyday life. You need to move on with it though, because as much as you'd love to stare up at the sky and ponder the reasons time seems to move much too quickly, it's time to go home and end the day.
Today, however, was different. For me, at least. I had heard the rushed whispers that started circling months before. They passed by my ear—and sometimes right to me when others entrusted their secrets upon a fourteen-year-old girl—for the longest time. I would pretend not to hear, of course, and go back to sewing up endless seams day after night after day. It's not as if I'm completely alone in this factory of hushed voices and flaky secrets; my sister stands across from me, sewing her own endless seams day after night after day. My mother and father are in a different section, fixing the machines as they break, and swallowing down the countless insults from the higher-ups. My schoolteacher and her husband are on helmet duty in the back corner of the factory. I'll sneak a glance at them, then to my parents, before chatting with my sister about seemingly pointless topics.
"How was school today, Bonnie?" she will ask.
"Fine," I will respond.
Then: "What did you do?"
And then I'll proceed to tell her what we did that day, which probably wasn't all that exciting because all we ever learn about is the failed war and different stitches and math.
"How has your day been, Mir?" I'll ask next, even though we both know she's been here at the factory all day—she's usually on her third four-hour shift by the time I arrive.
Today, though, it was tenser. The whispers were more urgent. I could almost feel them pulling at me, twisting my thoughts, trying to get me to run. Today was the day we stood up to the Capitol. Mirabelle could sense it too. Her shoulders were stiffer, and she forgot to ask me our daily questions. I decided that's quite all right though because there will be much more interesting things to discuss tomorrow. A nagging voice tugged on my mind. It wondered if there'll be a tomorrow. I gritted my teeth and willed it to go away. It was persistent, though, and took away my main trail of thought for the rest of my shift.
I was almost screaming when we were informed that the three o'clock shift was free to go. I was suddenly very sure that I didn't want a war, and I didn't want to lose my family, and I didn't want to start another failed rebellion because the one we learn about now is already so incredibly boring and future generations shouldn't have to learn about two. But then I was chiding myself. Rebellion? No, it was just a little fight that was going to cause everyone to laugh at pathetic District Eight for reading all of the signs wrong.
Or were we? I wished people would take the time to inform me.
At home it was quiet. I could think of only three things: The mandatory programming, the organized uprising, and how I might have be breathing a bit too loudly. It was always the case, it seemed, that when you're in a solemn setting everything is much too loud. Even the setting sun seemed to be screeching downward in an upsetting spiral, disturbing the stilled air. It chilled me to the bone.
"Mir, what time is it?" I asked my sister, who was calmly reading a book by the fireplace.
"Five minutes past the last time you asked." She sighed.
"But I don't remember the time you said last."
"Then you should remember more."
"Tell me one more time, please?"
Mir looked up at the hanging clock, counting the hands as I waited patiently for the verdict. Time telling was not one of my talents; I always confused the two hands with each other. Fortunately, digital clocks were everywhere. They had to be, so the commuting people would always be on time to the factories. It was crucial, they told us, that we were always on top of everything.
"Five twenty-two," my sister answered, immediately turning to her book right after.
"And what time is the program?"
Mirabelle sighed again, louder and more obnoxiously this time. It was typically the result of asking too many questions.
"Six." Her voice was tight, so I didn't ask any more questions.
Instead, I leaned back against the recently upholstered sofa and folded my legs to my chest, wallowing my thoughts once more. The sky was dark now, which surprised me. The time at which the sun sets during winter is always a surprising thing because it's never quite when you think it should be. As each year passes and summer comes around once more, you forget that the sky ever turned dark so quickly.
Another thing I've figured out is how the time in your mind moves much quicker than time spent outside. I felt like I'd been pondering the size of relative time and space for what must've been thirty minutes, but a glance at the television told me that it was still quiet and still. Turned off, like the sun.
"Mir, what time is it?"
She shot me a glare so strong that I unconsciously slid down in my seat. Then, I entertained myself by finding different ways to spot my feet until mother poked her head in the room, announcing the time.
I bounced back up in my seat, lowering the foot I was attempting to raise above my head. In no means was I excited for the last part of the Victory Tour, I was starting to become excited of the madness to come. Sure, I was against it for the most part, but a little sliver of me was so hopeful that I couldn't resist.
I remember it started out slowly, the anthem of Panem playing softly in the background. Caesar Flickerman was on the screen, his expression brighter than his hair. My mother joined me on the sofa, placing her arm comfortingly over my shoulder. It felt like she was trying to protect me. Katniss and Peeta were on the screen next. Anyone could tell that their smiles were strained as they waved to the audience. I leaned forward a bit. Any second now.
Then everything started speeding up, my mind buzzing inside my head. Peeta was kneeling on the ground—proposing, I think—when someone shouted outside our door. Mir rose up from her perch on the ground, her hand reaching to pull back the curtain.
"Wait," my mother warned, and my sister froze.
More shouts, and the room shook a little bit. A gunshot, and the image on the screen flickered. I glanced over at the television, but my attention was fully taken by the commotion outside. My father was out there, somewhere, probably shouting among all the others. I rose, and joined my sister at the covered window. We stood side by side, just watching blurs and streaks of light race across our vision. It was thrilling and exhilarating. My body felt light, like I was flying.
There was a gunshot somewhere not too far away, and I jumped. My mind was swimming now, trying to make sense of the commotion. More gunshots, and I backed away from the window slowly.
"Mom," I whimpered. I felt so childish all of a sudden, but still I ran to my mother's embrace. Her shoulder was dark and warm. It smelled reassuring. I stayed there for a long time.
The rest of my memory of the night came to me by sound. There was a quiet whirring noise, like the sewing machines from the factory. It became louder, slowly, until I could recognize it. Hovercrafts. I heard running feet, more of them than before. It sounded like a thousand boots stomping around our small house. The shouts got louder until it was just a mix of different screams in my head.
What happened next I remember perfectly clear. I felt it before I heard it; the floor vibrated beneath my feet. I wiggled my toes, unaccustomed to the feeling, but then the vibrations became stronger and that's when I heard it. The sound was louder than all of the others combined. It pressed against my eardrums and tried to force it's way in, shaking me to my core. Even pressed against my mother, I could tell the room got a bit brighter. I knew what had happened, but I didn't want to admit to that to myself.
Sometimes, when you're sitting in school or maybe at home or maybe at work, you learn something. Not a traditional something, like a math equation or how to spell a ridiculously strange word, but an interesting something. You listen intently because it appeals to you. It's digging at your bones and you want to know more. But this something can also be completely frightening, but it doesn't frighten you because it has never happened to you. It never will happen to you, you don't think. But if, or when, it does happen, you'll know it. You'll taste the word in your mouth, feel it on the tip of your tongue, but you can't say it because it wasn't supposed to be real.
The nagging voice was back again, tugging and twisting at the edges of my mind. It opened its mouth, preparing to whisper something horrible in my ear, but another vibration cut it off. I tried to prepare myself for the explosion this time, but no one can ever prepare himself or herself for the impossible.
My class learned about it a long time ago. We were learning about the failed rebellion and our Hunger Games, and how we will forever live oppressed by the Capital. We would never know what it felt like to rebel because we learned the consequences, didn't we? We learned that we could never win. So my class was taught words and phrases and events that we listened to and took notes on, but no one was paying too close of attention because it wasn't relevant. It wasn't supposed to be relevant.
The shaking ended, and the soft voice returned. You're under attack, it whispered. I pleaded for it to stop. You're being bombed.
I clung tighter to my mother, digging my nails into her sweater because this wasn't supposed to happen.
We were supposed to just live on.
We were supposed to be happy.
We were supposed to raise our glasses and praise the world.
Because that's what it's all about, isn't it?
Well, now it's about war. And war is all about being fought.