When Ibiza was a young girl, before her beauty was exploited by President Snow, her mother would cut her hair the first Saturday of every other month. She would sit before the mirror, watching with interest as her mother's spindly fingers pried back sections of loose, flowy hair, sleek and cascading across the woman's sun wrinkled skin. Her chops were always even and smooth as the silvery scissors made a little grating noise as they sliced through the strip of hair. A circle would form around her dangling feet, and when she was done her mother would swoop away quietly, and she would sit on the stool alone, her feet dangling, her muscles aching.
When Ibiza was a young girl, before her innocence was tattered like an old dress, her father would take her to the beach the night before her birthday every single year. They'd camp on the water's edge with nothing more than a flimsy plastic tent, a picnic basket with a scant offering of nourishment, and a couple of tiny fairy-like wooden dolls that her father hand whittled for her as early birthday presents each year. As the sun set, they would crawl out onto the beach and build a little sandcastle, and play with it and the dolls until the tide crept up too far and swallowed it back to its saturnine depths. Still they played, until the ocean and the sky became inky black, and Ibiza was too scared to stay out any longer. Then they moved their tent up the beach, and her father lit a lantern or a campfire, and they'd fall asleep, Ibiza wrapped tight in her father's thickly muscled arms, dreaming of tomorrow's bounties.
When Ibiza was a young girl, before her mind was torn to pieces like an angry love letter, scattered about the floor, her brother would teach her things. She wasn't old enough to go to school yet, but by the time she would be old enough, she'd be going to the Academy, just like him. He'd picked up some things from his friends who went to day school and had never stepped foot in the Academy, however. He taught her arithmetic and science and history and literature and survival skills in the brief moments between play and sleep. The intellect helped her outplay all of her enemies in the Academy.
They're all insignificant moments, but after her mother left to masquerade with love and power; after her father wasted away in the tavern, then the hospital; and after her brother signed up to join the Peacekeepers to escape it all and booked it to District Eight; insignificant moments became all she had left.
She has so many insignificant moments of Dirk Tautson. The way his mouth quirked in the days when he used to smile. The way he exhales, slow and steady, when the needle bites into the crook of his elbow. The way his paintbrush scratches against the canvas when it's drying and out of paint. The way he says her name in a monotone voice, but she hears wind chimes and doorbells crescendoing in the flat, empty syllables. The way her heart aches for him. The way she hates him. The way she hates him more than anyone she's ever hated, more than her mother, more than her father, more than her brother, more than the Capitol itself. She hates him because he made her love him, and then he destroyed himself. And in destroying himself, he destroyed her.
"Ibby," Dirk says, empty, jaw slack.
She can't move from her chair. She can't do anything. The tears crowd her eyes but she won't let them fall. She knows she should be angry, she should be ashamed, she should hold her head high and march right out of that damn hallway, but she can't. She can't move.
"Ibby, are you okay?" Dirk asks tenderly.
"You make me want to love, hate, cry, take every part of you," Ibiza mutters, her voice breathy and mulled by her shock. Her voice takes on an edge as she starts to feel, as she starts to come back. "Where were you, Dirk?"
A woman totters around the corner, dressed in a sleek tan dress, holding a small gray case marked with a red first aid sign. Her stomach protrudes a bit, which is strange, because her arms, face, and legs are that of a thin, athletic person. She walks to Dirk's side and places her hand on my shoulder.
"Who's this?" Ibiza stutters out.
"My nurse, Yasmine," Dirk chuckles hollowly. "She's been helping me."
Yasmine opens her mouth to speak, but Dirk looks deeply into her eyes.
"What's wrong, baby?" Yasmine asks Dirk, holding his other hand and squeezing it. Ibiza sees the engagement ring glittering under the fluorescent light strips and her eyes squint a little to peer at it. Something seems off. Terribly off. What's wrong with this man?
One look into Dirk's eyes says it all:
I'm sorry, Ibiza. You were the one who wasn't there.
Insignificant moments. It's all she has left.
A/N: Wow. I loved this. I think this might be the best chapter of the story yet?
It might seem like this is nearing it's close, but we still have several songs to go, so don't think this is the end. Please review, it's very helpful to hear what you guys think! :D
Until Next Time,
Tracee