So, here I am, standing alone and surrounded by a lifetime's worth of memories and belongings. The cardboard boxes are piled around the room, leaning haphazardly against one another and I sigh. This is it, this is me, and I fit into ten crushed boxes.
It's the day after dinner at the mayor's house and it is moving day. I've seen people in the district moving house before. Maybe someone has been given a promotion and they get the chance to buy a bigger house, one that actually has enough space to contain their family. Or, more likely, someone has lost their job and they're forced to relocate somewhere smaller, and somewhere with more damp and mould. Or somewhere 'beneath the stars,' as being homeless is optimistically known by most members of District 11.
My point is that moving days are normally loud, chaotic and filled with screaming children who don't want to leave their old house. I don't have any of this to worry about, because my family aren't coming with me. I can't say that I blame them for their decision really. After all, we barely said two words to each other throughout the whole of yesterday's 'celebrations,' and then I woke everyone up screaming blue bloody murder because Kloe had been back in my nightmares. But I'm not going to pretend it didn't hurt, "You're an adult now Ryla, and you should have a house all to yourself. Enjoy your independence." Independence isn't the word I would use, loneliness is more apt.
I shake myself and look at the boxes for a few moments. I'm being very unproductive I know, because I don't really know where to start. This house has almost twenty rooms, and I have enough stuff for just one room. So I'm not sure whether to just keep it all in one and then spend most of my time in that room, or to spread it out, very thinly, making my house look very tragic and depressing. I decide that I don't have enough time to deal with this right now because, to make this day even more fantastic... Marko's funeral is this afternoon. And of course, I have to go. His mother personally asked me to, and I didn't have the heart to turn her down. But I'm not sure what she expects from me. If I'm brutally honest we barely even said three sentences to one another; all I know about Marko is that he was a sweet, if slightly coarse, skinny little boy who should've had someone to protect him. And I regret it with all my heart that I wasn't strong enough to have been able to offer him that protection.
I head back downstairs into the kitchen; fully equipped with all the latest mod-cons, and completely soulless of course. I used to like cooking back home, surrounded by our old, tattered recipe books but I get the feeling that it won't be the same here, surrounded by stainless steel and plastic tiles. Instead of boiling water in a pan to make my tea like I used to do, I now just have to flick a switch on the kettle. I take my one very lonely looking cup from the sideboard and place it beside the kettle, waiting for it to finish boiling.
Just as there's a click to let me know that it's done there's a rap at my door. I sigh and wander through the kitchen, trying to remember the location of the door in this winding maze of rooms that I now have to call my home. Luckily, I've remembered correctly, and I swing the door open and come face to face with olive skin and black hair. Seeder; she smiles at me gently, clutching a plate covered with a piece of red and white checked cloth. "I didn't think you'd have time to eat before the funeral," she says softly, "so I thought I'd bring you something."
I hold my hands out to take the plate from her, and murmur, "Thanks." I hadn't even been thinking about food; my stomach doesn't seem to have been very connected to my brain recently.
"Well, if you need to talk then you know where I am," Seeder tells me and she starts to hold out her arms like she wants to hug me. So of course I panic, shoot her a quick smile and shut the door. It takes me several moments before I realise how rude I must just have seemed and so I shove the door back open and stick my head so I can glance up the street. She must be faster than she looks because she's disappeared from view, and I actually have no idea where her house is, so it might be hard for me to talk to her if I need to... All these houses look identical, and I made no effort to ask the other victors where they were living. In fact, I made no effort to ask them anything at all last night, because even though I'm now one of them, they still scare me. Pathetic, I know.
I keep shooting panicked glances at the clock because the hour of the funeral is drawing nearer and I still have no idea what I'm going to wear. It seems such a stupid and trivial thing to be worrying about but it stops me from worrying about the actual process of the funeral so I keep obsessing over it. The thing is, the clothes that Cleo sent home with me are all ridiculously bright and made to be worn in the Capitol, not to a funeral. It also doesn't hope that I haven't started unpacking and so all my clothes are piled at the bottom of boxes and I swear some of them have gone missing in the move.
Argh, I never thought it would be this hard to locate an item of black clothing. I claw through my clothes almost desperately: red silk and purple velvet, bundles of emerald ribbons – I swear in frustration. Who does Cleo think I am? These aren't normal people's clothes, these are clothes you wear when you want everyone to look at you. I end up flinging a flimsy pink dress against the wall because it's so hideous and I yell in excitement as I see what the vile garment was hiding. It's something black, and fairly austere looking which is a bit of an achievement for Cleo. The clock tells me I have about twenty minutes so I quickly change into the dress, shoot a cursory peek into the mirror nailed to the wall in the hallway and then slam the door shut behind me.
I refuse to run, partly because of my clumsiness, but mainly because I have no desire to arrive at a funeral red faced and out of breath.
I keep my promise to myself, and don't run at all. But this of course means that I'm very nearly late. The funeral is being held in the main square and I have to suppress a gasp as I see how packed the place is. I guess this is the only way that we can really speak out against the Games. We can dress in black, and mourn the death of an innocent child who need never have died. We can weep, and sob and show solidarity. And that's not something that happens often in this District. You can only afford to worry about yourself and your family or you'd just be worried all the time. As I push my way into the crowd I notice that there's a severe lack of men and my stomach turns as I realise that the Peacekeepers have obviously refused to give anyone the day off for the funeral. There will probably be serious punishments for anyone who does actually attend, and I wonder whether Marko's father will be risking it. Because family or not, I know that the same rules will apply to everyone.
I shove through the throng because I want to be close to the front. I feel this is the last respect I can give to Marko – to be near enough to see his body when it starts to burn.
A deathly hush suddenly falls upon the crowd and Marko's mother walks onto the raised platform. She is obviously the one who has been chosen to read the last respects. She starts to speak, and tells us about her sweet little boy who used to hug her, and his infectious laugh that always made her smile. She tells us about the time he found a dying bird and insisted that she make it better. She recounts the story of Marko's sixth birthday when they had saved up to make a cake, and he made everyone blow the candles out with him because he didn't want anyone to be left out. I think of my own memories of Marko; the way he kept making jokes because he was so nervous and he didn't want to give into the fear. I remember how he cried openly at the interview when he spoke about his family. If I close my eyes then I can see the earnestness in his as he wished me good luck the morning before we entered the arena.
He had tripped; they had shown his death in the video and I had seen him trip. One stupid loose rock and he had fallen. Only to be trapped by a Career and stabbed ruthlessly with a spear. That's all it had taken for Marko Vallier to die, or rather, for him to be needlessly murdered.
His mother lights the torch and places it gently onto the pyre. She kisses his forehead just as gently and then pulls away as the flames start to spread across the wood. Marko, people start whispering his name and I want to turn away as his mother falls to her knees before his body. I feel like I'm intruding on her grief.
It's the sight of the flames licking his body that finally starts me crying. Tears roll slowly down my cheeks and I make no effort to wipe them away, because what's the point? I turn my head to find his family and find his father to be absent. The Peacekeepers have caused a man to miss the funeral of his own son because he knows that if his disobedience caused his death, then he could cause the deaths of even more of his children.
Tears streaming down my face I scan his family. It's big; three younger sisters who are clutching on another, crying and confused. They're too young to really understand what's happening, but they are watching their own mother sobbing and it's made them cry too. Marko mentioned an older brother as well and as I locate him crouched behind his sisters his dark eyes glance up and meet mine.
Even from this distance I can read the pain in them. But more than that, I see fury, and I know it's aimed at me.
Thanks for the reviews :) I'd love some more, hint hint..!