Sometimes I look at her. Across the cafeteria, in the halls, when she's escaping into the cupboards.
When she's escaping into my cupboards.
I used to hide there. That used to be my spot. But two weeks ago I watched as she snuck inside and I saw the look on her face and you know how sometimes you can just tell when people need something? That was the look I saw on her face. She needed that cupboard more than I did. I could tell.
So I've stopped using it. I found a new one – there's lots here in the hive and it would have been selfish to try to force her out.
Besides, she was the Mockingjay. I couldn't say a thing to her, let alone ask her to get out of my hiding spot. That would be too forward and I'd probably get in trouble for breaking schedule.
Stupid schedules.
Watching is what I do best. I'm a Ditch Kid, the third offspring to an unexpecting match who thought they'd finished having kids after the Drought.
Let me explain otherwise you'll have no idea what I'm talking about.
In District 13 the Drought had nothing to do with water. Or maybe it had something to do with the water – we aren't quite sure – all we know is that a few years ago babies just stopped being born. The ovaries dried up just like a field in a drought. Not all babies stopped, but most. Some like me still pop out every once in a while but we're the Ditch Kids – last ditch efforts by the district to continue on. Most people don't think we're quite right. Some think that maybe we're cooked up in the burrows like the rumours say.
I don't know any different. All I know is that I'm the reason my family lives in two compartments and 'wastes valuable resources'.
I try not to spend any time there if I can help it. My dad isn't the most welcoming, if you understand. We don't like to talk about it here in 13 – whatever happens in your compartment stays there. So I try to not be there. It's all I've got.
Now I spend my hours skipping course, catching glimpses of her as she wanders as aimlessly as I feel. Every so often I'll see her scowl disappear and her brow furrow and her face just seem to crumple. Those are the days where I can watch her disappear into the cupboard and not come out for a real long while.
I know how she feels.
Today though I can't help but watch her as she enters the cafeteria with that cousin of hers. Her face looks thinner and I wonder if she's eating. I heard something about a video from the Capitol – a video of the boy – maybe that's why she looks tired.
Watching from across the room I count slowly in my head the time it takes her to ease into her seat. She's slower today than normal – that's something you can measure. The slower you are the more your body hurts and if she's anything like me her body hurts because she hurts. It might not be on the outside, but she's hurting.
I wish I could give her my food. Tell her to eat. Tell her they'll get him back because she's the Mockingjay and they do that kind of stuff for people they need. But then I remember the rules. I remember I don't like being told what to do. And nobody ever needed me enough to try to make me hurt less.
That's just the way of the hive. Move together or sink alone. Get ditched.
For somewhere so intent on keeping everyone in line, they sure do make it easy to disappear.
