I have to go back to the Aisle. It isn't just something I want. There's something pulling me, tugging at my heart, telling me to turn around and march right back into the ruined city.
"No," Jersey says, as if reading my mind. "We are going home to our heated houses and we are going to watch the games, because that's what you wanted. Your mother agreed to let you sit in front of the television, not parade around the District trying to find all of its deep dark secrets."
I make a face at him but don't push the subject.
"Be careful, Shay," Jersey continues, biting his lip nervously. "You're too excited for a girl who just let her best friend go to his death." My body stiffens at the word 'death' but once again I don't say anything. We navigate around a pothole in the middle of the dirt road, our breathing the only sound breaking the silence.
"I'm not excited," I say finally. "I'm scared. God, Jersey, do you think I'm not scared?" My voice catches at the end, portraying the underlying anxiety I feel.
The golden-haired boy looks at me calmly, his eyes searching my face.
"Sometimes I forget that you're Shay Cresta," he confesses. I turn to him, my cheeks flushed from the cold and raise my eyebrows in confusion.
"You're so much like your mother. You see the world in puzzle pieces instead of as the entire puzzle. I forget I'm talking to you sometimes, and not Sea."
We reach his steps and he fiddles with the doorknob, his fingertips blue. Heat washes over us like a light blanket and we step inside. The cold seeps off of me and spins out the door and back into the air.
I lean into the kitchen counter and the corner digs into my side. I couldn't care less about the pain right now. It's nothing compared to what those people in the Aisle are feeling.
"I'm not my mother," I insist. "She likes lies."
Jersey is already shaking his head by the time I'm done speaking.
"She doesn't. She hates them. The problem is, she isn't good at detecting them."
The corner digs deeper into my rib cage, almost piercing my porcelain skin.
"I will not be my mother," I whisper, desperation creeping into my voice. I have been alive for sixteen years, and on my birthday, my one resolution has always been the same. I will not be afraid of my past. I will not let it be my undoing.
Jersey unzips his coat and hangs it by the door, revealing a plain white T-shirt that shows off his lean muscle. He comes to stand next to me, although his height makes it hard. He stands at least two feet taller, his neck bent at an unnatural angle so he is able to look me in the eye.
"Sea Farley is the most courageous, brave person I have ever met," he breathes, like hope and longing all at once. He speaks of her like she's a broken promise.
"She's letting me watch the games," I say after a moment, my eyes still hovering over on his. "I am grateful for that. She is letting me know what my home is. But don't you see, Jersey? I want to know everything. I have this chance, this opening, and I'm going to take it."
His eyebrows furrow, and I know this is not an easy conversation. He was reluctant to take me the first time.
"I'm going back to the Aisle," I continue, cold set determination seeping into my voice. "Now."
"Don't you remember what the woman said?" Jersey bursts. He snatches at my wrist but I pull away, finally relieving the pressure in my side as I move from my spot at the counter. "She told you to know if you wanted the whole truth."
If Jersey were smart, he would know there's no changing my mind once it's already made up, but I humor him.
"The truth is worth nothing if it is not whole," I tell him.
I grab my coat, still cold to the touch from my latest venture, and hurry back out the door. There is no sound for a moment, and I begin to think he is letting me go on my own.
And then: "You are a piece of work," he mutters next to my ear. I shiver as his breath travels down my spine, and smile.
"I know you'd come to your senses," I say cheerfully. He flicks my braid.
"The Farley's have a weird ability of persuasion," he grumbles, but with a glance back I can see he's smiling faintly too.
He reaches into his pocket and shuffles around for a moment before pulling out a small wrapped square and handing it to me. For the second time in an hour, I raise my eyebrows, looking to Jersey for help. He chuckles softly.
"It's chocolate," he says. "Never seen it before?"
I shake my head, staring at the golden wrapping in my hand.
"God, I loved chocolate when I was a kid," Jersey reminisces, his eyes glazed over with memory and nostalgia.
Mu fingers, numb with cold, carefully unfold the delicate paper to reveal a perfect square of light brown chocolate.
I stare at it for a moment, taking in it's small size and cursive writing carved into the top.
"Eat it," Jersey coaxes. Chocolate is one of the many things I grew up without, and here, holding this small delicacy, I wonder for the first time what else I missed out on. The big things I know, but what about the insignificant things? Have I ever known the small joys of life? Will I ever know them?
In a world that was safer, one that was not plagued with lies and doubt and nervous glances at every turn, would I have been happy? Would I be a stranger to those who lived around, just like everyone else? I can't help wondering if without the games and the war and fame, the name Shay Cresta would be only that. A name.
I place the piece of chocolate in-between my teeth, letting just a hint of bitter sweetness flood through my mouth. My eyelids flutter shut, savoring the taste.
This is something that is not worth missing.
"Ah, I see I have just created a chocoholic," Jersey muses, shaking his head at me.
My teeth come down on the square and it breaks apart easily, sending the syrupy inside down my throat. It is a feeling of pure ecstasy.
"Jersey," I say once I've swallowed the candy and stuck the wrapper in my pocket. "Why didn't you marry my mom?" It wasn't the question I had meant to ask. I was planning to inquire him about his love for cheez-its, but I guess there was something bigger nagging at me.
His face pales, if that's possible, and his jaw tightens. I realize with a start that he doesn't look surprised, he looks hurt. '
"That was a long time ago," is all he says. My heart stutters. I may have just inflicted raw pain on Jersey, and that is the last thing I wanted to do. He is so gentle, so innocent, and it's easy for a wild mind like mine to hurt him.
"Did she break your heart?" I whisper, afraid of his answer.
He glances at me, his long lashes covered with a thin layer of frost.
"No," he replies carefully. "I think it was much the other way around."
And that is the most I get out of Jersey Odair.
My mind is wiped of the subject as soon as we set foot in the Aisle. The first thing I notice is the tire marks in the dirt. They are thick and long, ones that belong to a heavy truck.
"Do people drive through here often?" I mutter to myself.
"No," Jersey responds grimly, his lips pressed into a hard line.
The second thing I notice is that it is deadly silent. I can only hear the sound of the sea breeze coming in from the shore. No eyes peer at me from in-between the mossy boards that make up a shack. There are no crows around, squawking at me to get away. If I hadn't been here three hours earlier I would have thought this place was abandoned.
I feel in my back pocket for the Swiss army knife I carry everywhere and flip open the longest blade. Sunlight glints off of it and reflects on the nearest house. I don't know what I'm guarding myself from, but I feel as if a thousand ants are crawling across my skin.
I'm so tense that when a rough voice calls out I almost just three feet in the air.
"Get away," the woman in the middle of the road rasps. Her graying hair flies out behind her like a whip and her almond skin is thick with dirt. Her lips, cracked and bleeding, part in anger.
My sweaty palm tightens around the blade.
"You can put the knife down," the woman spits. "You can't hurt me." Without thinking, my fingers spring open and it clatters to the hard ground.
"Now leave," the woman snarls. "You don't belong here."
"I was here earlier," I try to explain, pressing my back into Jersey's side. "I talked to a woman with dark green eyes." The death glare on the lady's face grows stronger and she steps aside.
"I know. And look what you've done."
I'm not sure what I expected. But it wasn't this.
My mouth falls open as I see the scene laid out before me. The woman with the green eyes is hanging from the side of a crumbling building, her skin bloated and blue, a rope cutting into the side of her neck. And next to her, is the little boy. But it's the writing that gets me. In bright red letters that drip lazily down the wall it states: Don't dig deeper.
Realization comes for everyone. It can come in any form and at any time. Something clicks in everyone's mind and changes them forever.
For me, it comes in the form of a twenty-three-year-old corpse. I stand a few feet from the dangling bodies, trying without success to block out the horrid stench. I've never smelt death before. That is one thing I am grateful to have been sheltered from.
There are people scattered everywhere, their eyes wrinkled and sad. They all stare at me with a masked kind of caution, like I'm something to be afraid of. My frantic eyes skirt across the little boy's vacant face and settle on the writing. It's slowly dripping down the wall.
"Fresh paint?" I ask, my voice so low I wonder if I actually said anything at all.
Jersey reaches out a hand and lightly touches the letters. He brings his stained fingers to his nose and inhales deeply.
"That's not paint," he says grimly. I open my mouth to ask what else it could be, but my question is answered before I can.
"Blood," a little girl calls, stepping out from behind her mother. She can't be more than eight years old, yet her eyes hold wisdom. She's got a loud voice, one of a fighter. "It's blood. From Delilah," she continues, pointing her thin finger at the dead green-eyed woman.
I turn back to the wall of death, my lip trembling with fear.
"Who did this?" I ask blandly, letting the words echo in my ears.
"You need to leave," another man with close-cropped hair growls. "You can't be here, especially now."
"Who did this?" I demand, my hands curling into fists at my sides. The uncontrollable anger I have felt countless times is churning in my stomach, screaming to make a reappearance. But unlike before, this time it is mixed with a numbing sense of dread. I can ask them as many times as I choose who did this, but the answer is right in front of me, staring me down with dark eyes.
"Who did this?" I shriek, dropping to my knees and raking my fingers through my hair. My fingernails dig into my scalp and it stings so I know I've drawn blood.
At this point, maybe I need to feel pain. I've been in this world for sixteen years. I spent most of them in a safe house on a safe beach in a safe part of the District. Now, I am finally experiencing how many of my fellow citizens have grown up on the brink of survival. I deserve to feel pain, sixteen years worth of it.
"Who did this?" I scream one last time, the second word coming out more like a sob.
Jersey's hands are on my back, leading me away, but I won't go. Not until I have the answer I want.
"Peacekeepers," he mumbles in my ear. "Peacekeepers did this. Probably ordered by President Snow." I gulp in a cold breath of air and go limp in his arms. Of course that's the obvious answer, that's who physically killed the woman and the little boy. But they wouldn't be dead if I hadn't come here. The woman told me things. She didn't tell me much, not much at all, but she did tell me to watch the games and learn about Panem. Is it possible that the President doesn't want me to?
But how would he know?
I cannot see any other explanation for this. The words are etched deep into my mind now. Don't dig deeper. Words that simple and that menacing can only be meant for me, the one girl in the District that yearns for more knowledge.
The group around the two victims pushes forward, leaving Jersey and me behind. I watch as they all kneel below the wall of death and place their palms against the ground. It's a young woman who begins the song.
"Are you, are you, coming to the tree?
Where they strung up a man they say murdered three.
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be,
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree."
My body stills at the lyrics. This is no normal song. This is an eerie tune saved for mourning, for revenge, and for despair.
"Are you, are you, coming to the tree,
Where I told you to run so we'd both be free.
Strange things did happen here,
No stranger would it be,
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree."
"That's not a district 4 song," I choke.
"No," Jersey agrees, and his voice is scared. I've never heard the man who is gold all over, his eyes always calm and his words calculated, speak as if he were not in control, and I don't like it. "That's a district 12 song, but I guess it applies here."
I rip myself from his grip, my hair spilling out of its braid and cascading down my back in long, dirty clumps. These people are right. All I will bring this crumbling city is more destruction. Shay Cresta is a famous name, but I am starting to realize that it may also be a dangerous one.
That is only one revelation I have had today. The other is that Panem is not what I thought it was. Up until a few minutes ago, I was convinced I was only trying to find out the truth about a slightly damaged nation. I know we have The Hunger Games and that they're terrible, but I don't think I understood. The Capitol is willing to obliterate everyone that stands in its path.
I turn away from the Aisle, my breathing labored, and try to tell my feet to run. But when I turn, I do not face an empty street. Poppy, the little girl I read to sometimes, is standing there, her fragile feet that resemble those of a ballerina, pointed in. Dirt lines her scalp and the purple bags under her eyes stand out like ripe plums. Her hair, as orange as leaves in autumn, is done up in two pigtails that barely brush her shoulders.
"Poppy?" I ask, my voice carried towards her by the wind. The little girl opens her mouth as if to answer me, but her lips crumble into dust and fall to the dirt road.
I scream, I can't help it, and rush towards her, my entire body shaking something terrible. As I reach her, she reaches out her porcelain hand and it too falls to dust. I watch in horror as Poppy Ringwald begins to disappear before my eyes, leaving behind only a skeleton.
"No!" I scream, throwing myself at the pile of bones. She crumbles beneath me, her hipbone digging into my side. They killed her, the Capitol did.
Strong hands slip beneath me and hoist me up. When I glance down, the pile of Poppy's bones are gone.
"The Capitol is powerful, Shay," Jersey whispers gently in my ear. His breath smells of chocolate. "With a snap of their fingers, they can eliminate us." I nod, understanding that's he's telling me to listen to them, to stop digging. I can instantly tell when someone is lying to me, so it is in my nature to want the truth. But if keeping my mouth shut and my brain quiet means I save those around me, so be it.
As we walk quickly away from the Aisle, Jersey shouting back that we're sorry, that we won't come back, I turn my face into his shirt.
The song said that the hanging tree would set them free. But I think maybe it's too late. We are beyond freedom. From what I see in front of me, we have been for a long time. As they say in Latin, Perdere. The damage is done.