I'm taken to the room in the Justice Building. I stand, stiff and impatient, until my sister and mother enter.
"Azlyn, you retard!" Allison screams.
Allison's right. I should've let her go on stage-even if just to volunteer. Because people will quickly find out that it's not Allison dying.
"I wanted to save your pride, Allie," I whisper. I haven't called her Allie since before Dad was taken. "I couldn't let you die-I would've volunteered anyways. And with your personality and my strength-well, I'd just about say you have a chance," I give Allison a sort of half-hearted grin and drop my eyes back to my feet.
"Azlyn, you retard," Allison repeats, only this time in a whisper.
The next half hour or so is a fest of crying and hugging. It's all a flurry, and Allison cries, even though I'm the one sacrificing. But I don't cry. She has every right to mourn me, even if no one else does.
The one thing that's conspicuously absent is my mother. But I don't particularly care. I know that my sister is her favorite-even if she doesn't admit it. While both Allison and myself have my father's nut brown hair, my mother sees him in only me. In my piercing blue eyes.
And before I know it, the Peacekeepers are here, and Allison adopts her role. "Allison!" she screams-I can tell that she would much prefer to be screaming Azlyn. Then the door slams and I am alone.
For a few minutes, I just sit there, staring at a wall. Then there's a quiet knock and someone slips in.
It's a little girl-12 or 13, although she doesn't really look much older than 9 or 10. She holds in her hand something-a rustic gold, dark and worn but still maintaining it's gorgeous color.
The girl looks familiar-she has curly light blonde hair and sea green eyes. Her hair's pinned back and she has the town look to her. She's definitely not a farmer, like my father was. I loved the farm over wherever the hell we are now-it's not the farms, and it's a damn sight from town.
The girl is quiet, and she comes up to me. She slips something into the palm of my hand, and then quietly walks out of the room, silent steps. I stare at her, even after the door closes, her image embedded in my mind. She very well could've been in my position-and I would've never thought to visit her. But she's so familiar.
I look in my palm and there's a bracelet. A bracelet and a piece of paper, also worn and yellowing. But it could very well be intentional. I look at the bracelet-it's a chain, adorned with charms, things to remind me of home. Then I very slowly open the folded piece of paper and read the words, scrawled neatly on the page.
I know who you are. Azlyn.