You could read a thousand tragic books, watch a thousand hopeless movies, and die a thousand excruciating deaths, but you will never feel as dead as I do now. Words can't describe it. And it's such a drastic change, too. A month before, I was your average Capitol teenager, strolling the golden, sparkly streets with not a care in the world. Now it feels as if the entire world has been thrown on my shoulders, spiraling out of control into an abyss of oblivion.
When the hovercraft arrives at the Capitol, we are greeted by our parents. While the other kids chatter about noisily, telling their moms and dads about their trip, my parents and I slip away quietly. My father inserts the key into the ignition silently, twisting it as the car comes alive with a low buzz. And then we're off.
No words spoken, no physical contact exchanged, we arrive at our home. I lock myself in my room and no one comes to call me for dinner. I only fall asleep, wishing I will never wake.
But I do. And today, it is as sunny as ever. Out on the street, you can hear merry whistling and laughter and chatter. The average Capitol cacophony. Fazed by the daylight, I sluggishly get up from my bed and walk out the halls. Silence. The only thing I hear is the sound of my bare feet against the cool wood floor.
I head down the stairs and into the kitchen. I'm quite surprised to find that my dad sits at the table, his elbows on the table and his face buried into his palms. He's wearing his light blue, long-sleeved button up shirt with a white-and-blue striped tie, otherwise known as his uniform. Normally, he'd be at work at this time. It's not really mandatory for Capitol people to have jobs, since the only people that ever really have to thrive for food and money are the district people. But getting a job means getting more expensive and shiny stuff, so the majority of us jump at the opportunity.
I slip out of the kitchen quietly, knowing my dad wouldn't want me to see his weakness. I decide to take a walk around our garden, which is more of a field that a backyard.
The walls are made of sound-proof glass and so is the ceiling, but with a push of a few buttons, it can retract to let the rain or sunlight in. I decide to leave it closed, because I really don't want to hear any singing or laughter from outside.
In the middle of our vast garden, there's a large banapple tree that offers much shade. Its fruit is shaped like its parent, the banana, yet a little rouder. Skin colored with a deep, juicy fuschia, it practically calls out to me. I reach up and yank a fruit from one of the overhead branches and I take a seat on the ground, my back against the trunk.
I recall one memory shared with my brother right here beneath this very tree. It happened five years ago. I was twelve, he was thirteen. We had a bet on who could eat the most banapples without throwing up. I won, and afterwards, he chuckled and grinned at me, ruffling my hair with his hand. "That's my Skye," he said.
Then we both got up, laughing as I tossed a banapple peel over my shoulder.
I rise from my position on the ground, throwing the peel behind me just like I did five years ago. It's almost exactly the same, except now there's no Levi to wrap an arm over my shoulder and laugh with.
When I get back inside the house, I find my father about to walk out the front door.
"Work?" I ask in a monotone.
He pauses, his hand on the doorknob, and glances back at me briefly. There's some silence, until he finally sighs. "No," he says. "Morgue."
Then he wordlessly leaves, the door closing with a click behind him.
Five days later, I awake in my room with a startle as I hear my dad's car zooming away. He should be heading back to the morgue to finalize my brother's funeral, which will happen next week. Like I did for the past few days, I get up without a sound and head down the hallways. I pause when I see that the door to my brother's room is gaping open.
Curious, I peek in and find my mother, lying soundlessly on Levi's bed, which clearly hasn't been made since we left for the fieldtrip. Her back to me, she's curled up in a little ball, her hair anywhere but in place.
My eyes travel around the familiar room. The walls are painted a dark navy blue, the floor made of a certain dark wood. His bed sits on a platform in the far right corner of the room, and on the opposite side, there are shelves filled with boxes of Audio-Video Plates. Stick them in an AVP player, and you get a movie or some songs. We call them AV's, for short.
I walk over to my mom, taking a seat on the bed carefully. From here, I can see that she's not asleep, but wide awake. Her red, tired eyes are glued to the wall before her. She doesn't move or say anything, which is a miracle, because my mother is a fast-paced, exciting woman. I used to joke around with her and tell her to freeze for once, if only for a moment. Then she'd reply, "Well, if I stop moving, it means I'm dead."
And maybe, in some way, she is.
I gingerly run my fingers through her tousled hair as a form of endearment. She doesn't respond, but she does, however, close her eyes and let out a quiet sigh. I just sit there and keep brushing her hair with my hand until I'm convinced she's asleep. Just as I get up carefully from the bed, the doorbell goes off.
Wondering who it could be, I head off the get the door. Through the built-in camera, I eye carnation pink hair. I'm surprised, and I actually have to think for a moment before remembering that it's Rita Lorkerstone and that she's my friend. I've just been living in such an empty, antisocial world for the past few days that I've sort of forgotten the world that lies behind my front door.
I open up to her sad, sympathetic expression. For a moment, she just stands there, rocking back and forth on her toes and the balls of her feet. She fidgets with her hands and looks at me deplorably.
"Hey," I say, trying to put some life into my voice, but clearly, it's useless.
"Hey," she says, her voice caring and tender. "Can I come in, Skye, sweetie?"
"Uh, sure," I say, opening the door for her. She strolls in with a half-smile and I take the lead. Behind me, I hear the muted clinks and the clanks of Rita's high heels against the wooden floor as I walk us all the way to the swanky living room and take a seat on the velvety couch. She follows shortly, sitting down beside me with a sigh.
She's quiet for a while, but eventually, she clears her throat. "How are you?" she asks.
"Fine," I say.
She nods, considering it. "I know what it feels like," she tells me.
"I bet you do."
"At least you're talking," she says. "I didn't say a word until a week afterward." When I don't say anything, she blurts out, "Abel wanted to come to see you."
"Really?" I ask, but there's no enthusiasm in my voice. I still feel a little weird and alienated after five days of solitude. It's taking a lot for me to start remembering people's names and what kind of relationship I have with them.
"Really," she says. "But I managed to hold him back. Thought maybe you'd want to speak about it with someone who knows what you're dealing with."
I let my gaze drop to the floor. "I-I actually don't want to speak with anyone," I confess.
It takes a second for Rita to register this, and then there's a surprised expression on her face, her pink eyebrows raised high. "Well," she says, clearly a bit embarrassed. I almost feel sorry for shooing her away. Almost. "I'm sorry. I just thought..." her voice trails away.
"No, don't apologize," I quickly insert. "It's just that I need time alone, okay?"
She nods. "I understand."
We rise from the sofa and I show her to the door. But the moment she's about to step out, she pauses and turns around to face me.
"Are you going to Tania's vigil next week?" she asks me. Her surgically altered pink eyes actually look like they're begging me.
"Yeah," I say. "I'll be there."
Then she whirls around. But before she leaves, she surprises me with a hug. It lasts for a while, and she's rubbing my back in endearment, but I just stand motionless like stone. Somehow, however, I appreciate the gesture and it feels as if a little of the load has been lifted off. It's not much, but still it's better than before.
She gives me one last half-smile before hopping off our porch and sliding into her sleek silver car that zooms away at rocket speed.
If I'm to be honest with you, I'd say I'm pretty surprised that Rita Lorkerstone showed at my doorstep today. She just hasn't crossed me as a friend, let alone a close one. So her visit was a little uncalled for. But, as it turns out, she's not the only one who plans to visit me this week.
Two days later, as I'm left alone at home, both my parents out running errands for Levi's funeral, I'm pulled out of my silent misery by the doorbell. I rush over to the door, half expecting it to be Rita or Abel or even Oakley, but it's neither of them.
Standing before me is my cousin, Cinna, his dark brown hair swept all over the place, his golden eyes a bit watery. By the heavy rise and fall of his chest, it seems to me as if he's been running for a while. I'd guess he heard about Levi and came bolting all the way from his house.
Cinna is only a year older than me, but even at eighteen, he's about six inches taller. Like the rest of our family, he has no alterations. Maybe except for his signature golden eyeliner, which regretfully has never worked on myself. It looks attractive and handsome on him, though.
When you look at Cinna, you expect him to be into sports, drinking, partying, or the Hunger Games. But really, he's the exact opposite of that all. He's got an interest for sports, but never enough to bellow and cheer for his favorite team. He doesn't drink, and I believe the only parties he goes to are my and Levi's birthdays. As for the Hunger Games... I'm not sure. He doesn't show as much enthusiasm for the gore as I used to. Actually, I think the only reason he ever even watches the Games is to observe the costumes in the Opening Ceremony.
Why? Because he's a clothing designer. And a darn amazing one at that. He's not an official one yet, but he goes to a design school, and in about three years, he's scheduled to graduate. He always tells me about his plans of working as a costume designer for the Hunger Games, and I won't be surprised when one day, his work will be on stage for all to see.
It's a shame I'd be too busy being insane by then.
Cinna looks at me, a strange gloominess across his face. And believe me when I say that Cinna is never gloomy. Thoughtful, maybe, but not gloomy.
"Is it true?" he asks, his voice raspy.
I purse my lips and give him a prompt nod. For a while, we only stand there, silently staring at each other. We let our eyes say the words that we can't bear to pronounce.
After what feels like an eternity, he opens his arms wide, and I walk into him. I surprise myself when, suddenly, face muffled by Cinna's chest, I start crying. Crying like you wouldn't believe. Crying so hard that I start having the worst case of hiccups in the history of humanity.
I could tell you about how embarrassed I feel to have let out so much emotion, but the truth is, it feels good. It feels good to let someone know you can't bear it, that you're hurting so much inside but you don't know how to show it. To let someone know that you're human and subject to pain. And, in this case, Cinna is the perfect someone for that job.
He leads me into my own home and sits me down on the very couch Rita and I had used a few days back. And he just holds me. Holds me as I bawl out, hiccup, and soil his fresh white button-down shirt with my tears. To say that Cinna is awesome would be an understatement.
Ten minutes, thirty, and finally an hour passes. Or so it feels like it. The sobs have died down, and Cinna and I sit quietly on the couch next to each other. He has his arm over my shoulder, and I lean against him.
"How'd you find out?" I eventually ask. My voice is absolutely awful. I might as well have looked like a croaking frog and Cinna wouldn't be any more surprised.
He sighs. "My parents. Your parents stopped by our house, the usual drill."
Of course. Here in the Capitol, when someone dies, the family mourns in solitude for seven days, and then they spread the news to close relatives, friends, and colleagues afterwards. It's considered unlucky to tell anyone outside the direct family of a person's death before the end of the seven days. Not that it really matters. Luck hasn't been on my side for the past few weeks anyway, so why bother?
"How did your parents take it?" I ask.
Cinna shrugs. "I don't know," he says. "I stormed off as soon as I heard them." When I don't reply, he lets out a little sigh. "I thought I'd come to you for an answer." Then he gestures at his soaked white shirt with a half-smile. "Never thought you'd respond like you did," he tells me. "Usually, you're really sunny and happy and positive about things. You never cry, not even about the saddest things. You used to be our little Clear Blue Skye. Always offering a brighter tomorrow."
I snort. "People change, or haven't you heard?"
"That's true," he admits. "I just didn't expect you to be one of those people."
"Expect the unexpected," I say.
He eyes me weirdly. "Well, then, doesn't that make the unexpected expected?"
I only give him a strange look, and we hold each other's gazes for a moment, until we break it off, chuckling.
Yeah. Chuckling. People, I have officially crossed over to the bipolar side.
Our laughter dies down, the sad silence settling down upon us again. Luckily, before it gets too depressing, Cinna shoots up from his seat and gestures to the kitchen.
"Tea or milk?" he asks.
I smile. "Both," I say. Milk tea is something Cinna, Levi, and I discovered six years ago. We were three young kids in a large kitchen with nothing to do. The result? A room cloaked with every kind of ingredient you could imagine, and a cup of the most delicious substance we'd ever tasted. Lo and behold, milk tea.
As Cinna sets a warm mug of milk tea before me, he stirs his own and sits down at the counter. For a while, we drink our teas in silence, until Cinna lets out a weird, almost bitter, chuckle.
"I remember this crack," he says, his fingers tracing the chap on the dark marble counter.
I smile. Two smiles in two weeks. I'm on a roll. "You and Levi wanted to play bowling with Dad's heavy bowling balls. You thought the countertop was ideal for the lanes," I say, mind wandering to the old times.
He gives me a half-smile. "The good days. Don't you miss it?"
"Terribly," I frown, taking a sip of my tea.
"What does it feel like?" Cinna asks me after a beat of silence. "To lose someone, I mean," he continues. "I've never lost a sibling before. Not that I have any in the first place."
I sigh. "Feels like the end of the world. But not in a way that makes you bawl out in pain, but rather, the end of the world in the sense that you stop living, or wish that you could stop living. I know that I do. I go to sleep and beg with fate that I will never again wake. But whether I like it or not, the day comes, and so does the emptiness."
"Is it too much if I ask you what happened in the arena?" he says, an expression of pure curiousity mixed with a little guilt across his face.
"Nah," I say. "It doesn't change a thing anyway. What do you want to know?"
"I want to know how Levi died," he admits.
"So do I," I tell him. "But I was too busy drowning." The look of sudden interest on Cinna's face urges me to continue. "We were swimming in the river," I say. "Then I felt something tug on my leg. I went under. The next time I woke up, I was half-dead, and Levi was gone."
"Wow," Cinna sighs. "That's really hard. I never expected it to be like that. Mysterious, wouldn't you say? It just doesn't make sense. Why would something be tugging on your leg, and why would Levi die? It just perplexes me..."
Cinna goes on talking, but somehow my mind is not following his words. Because something else has stolen my attention from him. Something peculiar that glints in the sunlight that's filtering through the window. Something that's dangling around his neck. Golden. Circular. Thick.
It's a locket. But not just any locket.
It's the one that was in my backpack. The one in my dream.
The one that signifies its owner is someone who I can trust, possibly with my life.
