PART NINE: Ike Villanueva, Capitol

The Capitol is very two-faced. In a lot of different ways.

First off is, of course, our treatment of the Districts. And everyone knows it, but nobody seems to care. I feel like I'm the only one that gives a damn about any of them.

There are two Capitol lifestyles, if you look at it.

The first is the usual. The happy, hilarious, WOW LOOK AT THAT PRETTY FLYING PONY IN THE SKY kind of life. And that's how it usually is around here. They may be controlled by the government, but hey, they're getting their shiny objects, so why does it matter, anyways?

They're wasteful; using whatever the hell they want and pitching the rest of it. And they like it that way. They shrug off the Districts like they're just the dirty flies on their prissy pink poodles, to sum it all up. They're the ones that constantly look in the mirror and feel dissatisfied, the people that constantly change their colors every Thursday, the people that gather in the Square to watch the Hunger Games and bet on the tributes… These people have the attention-spans of goldfish but seem to enjoy the life they're living.

Then there's the other group: me.

Well, Ok, being logical, there have gotta be others around somewhere that feel the same way as I do. But I'm the only one around here.

I won't tell you that I don't indulge myself. I do sometimes. But I'll tell you that life in my household isn't easy. Never was, never will be. I can't wait to move out.

Don't get me wrong… I like to be smart, l like to have knowledge… But I wish I could be so happy like them. They have fun every day. And I know that fun isn't right… It's a little sick… Certainly cruel… But they're happy. I'm lucky to crack a smile all day. I usually do, though. I like to smile.

Then you have my sister Santana. She's dark, like me, but clever. Always with every terrible intention, yes, but smart at least. She's sneaky… She has a ton of tricks under her sleeve for getting what she wants. Her main colors are red and black, like a checkerboard.

Me? I prefer navy. Not just a navy… A dark, practically black navy. It's the color of the contacts in my eyes, the color I put in my hair, the color of my baggy jeans…. It's even the color of the guy-liner I put on, and sometimes eye shadow if my parents are out to get me to socially interact with the idiots.

I've never enjoyed life in the Capitol. And I know it sounds whiny… Because any of the District people would kill to have a life like mine. Food on my platter every day, freedom to learn (or shop) and play games all day long as opposed to working. And, though I have to dodge a swing every once in a while, I suppose I should be grateful for the stuff I do have.

The problem is that my parents can be sluggers. And I wish I could tell you I was talking about baseball. Which, they're not too bad at, actually.

And Santana is a strong one. She fought back once and they laid off her. I'm not strong enough to do it, so I just run away when it happens like the coward I am.

They figure that I'm depressed… I think everyone does. And, yeah, I guess you could say that. And I don't want to be depressed because I know how lucky I am to be here. To be me.

But there's still a heavy backpack of guilt that I carry every time I see a piece of fruit or grain or every time I feel like watching TV. Because I know the work that comes to making it. So if I get an apple with a spot on it, I see a little girl working so hard to climb up a tree to get it for me. So I eat around the spot.

They all think I have some mental problem. And I've been offered meds ten different times by ten different adults. But I never want meds. Because there's a part of me that doesn't want to be happy. Ever.

Santana is my parents' little girl. She's the perfect one. They worship the ground she walks on, they hold the doors open for her and practically carry her around on a leather chair. Then they slam the door on my face and step all over me. I'm not the kid they wanted, and I guess she is. My sister's applying for the Head Gamemaker position, of course they love her. I'm more like an afterthought.

But I'm not a mindless monkey, so I can deal with the lack of attention on me all the time. I don't really care for the bad attention, but you live, and you carry on, because there will always be someone that has it worse than you, right?

I mean, while my Mom's slamming me for wearing a baggy black hoody, there's someone in District 8 whose fingers are bleeding from making it. And if I could tell them that it has a good home with me, I would.

And, while my Mom's denying me seconds, there's someone on the streets, wishing for firsts.

I often wish I could be one of them. I wish I could save one of them. Put them in my shoes, take a walk in theirs. If they even have shoes… I shudder at the thought.

Why should I be so unhappy here when someone could be happy?

I dwell on the subject a lot: it makes for a good number of sleepless nights. Not like I want sleep, anyways.

I feel so two-faced right now. Part of me has the personality that I should suck it up and appreciate life. Part of me wants to end life.

My eyes go wide for a second. I've never said those two words together before. Well, not pertaining to myself, anyways.

I'm just tired, I think, Just a good night's sleep and the thoughts will go away.

I toss and turn, and when I finally close my eyes I'm transported to a dream-state that makes me feel like I'm still half-awake as the events unfold in front of my eyes.

But, while that's happening, my mind, my essence, in the dream, is fully awake. All at once.

I'm holding a pair of strong hands, surrounded by nothing but darkness. Above, beside, and even… Below.

"Wh…Who are you!?" the guy who's holding on to me seems just as startled as I am.

"Who are you!?" I quiz.

I look up. I don't see a lot of the person I'm trusting. The only prominent thing I can notice is the glint of a miner's helmet and a pair of the most luminescent yellow eyes I've ever seen.

The breath is knocked out of me, I blink and stutter like an idiot, "I-I-Ike… Th-That's my name…"

"Why are you here, Ike?" he asks.

"Why am I here!?" I ask, finally getting a handle on things.

"Dunno. But I do know this. Let go of me and you die."

Without thinking I unlock my fingers from his and start to fall. But he catches me mid-tumble, squeezing the lights out of my left hand. Then he takes my right again.

"You're not leaving so easily," he says quietly.

"Why not?!"

"Because I want answers. You seem like you have answers."

"Well I don't," I mutter.

There's a brief pause before he speaks.

"My name's Sylvester," he says, "I'm from District 12."

"I…I could tell…."

"Then you can't be a Capitolite."

"I'm different from them!"

"Are you?"

"Yeah! I am."

"Because you're suicidal?" the question is coated with sarcasm but seems to be filled with concern.

"Don't say that word!"

"Well dying sucks. As it happens I did it very slowly."

My slow mind takes a minute to compute this thought.

"You're…You're DEAD!?"

"It appears so. And you're alive."

"Yeah," I mutter, "That's sure how it looks, isn't it?"

"What do you want from me? A fucking cheerleading squad?"

"I don't need cheerleaders! I don't even know why I'm here!"

"Spirits can be helpful sometimes, I suppose," he says quietly.

"You're trying to convince me to not die? It's a battle with myself."

I don't know exactly where these words are coming from. I didn't even think they were true.

"Sure. Not dying is good. I'm glad I'm away though."

"You think I'll be glad?"

"Maybe, at first. But I left behind a family that I love very much. And I don't think I'll ever stand to talk to them… So-"

"My family's not worth two shits," I confess.

"Then what do you live for?" he asks.

"I…I… I don't know!" I confess in a scream, "I don't know! I don't know why I'm still living and you aren't!"

"I died protecting my family," he confesses, "And I could've lived but I lost the will. And I gave up the fight trying to keep them safe."

Those luminescent eyes look down to the bottomless pit below and now I see nothing of Sylvester at all.

"What do I do?" I finally ask quietly. "I've always been a dark character… I've always been sad to live. But I haven't ever thought about dying. Not until now… What does it mean?"

"I wouldn't know," Sylvester confesses. "I've always been content."

"Well I'm not."

"I can see that. But don't get ahead of yourself." His eyes flicker with a tricky glint.

"What's that even supposed to mean!?"

"It means don't do anything stupid. And if you do I'll whoop you."

"What classifies as stupid?"

"You're an inquisitive one, aren't you?"

"I tend to be," I roll my eyes.

"Well I think it's very cunning. So think about what you do. Don't regret it later."

"I have to die." It comes out of my mouth as a whisper that makes me jump back slightly. Sylvester squeezes my hands and looks concerned.

I wake up and roll out of my bed, startled, with a shout, "I HAVE TO DIE!"

"Shut up over there!" my Mom screams, "You little shit!" Then she slams the door to her bedroom shut.

The whole dream reflects in front of me and I don't know what to do. So I sit in the corner of my room and cry. Not an uncommon thing of me to do, true, but today it means so much more than it ever has.

I never admitted that I was broken before. Not out loud to anyone, but especially not to myself. And now I can see that I really am broken. That I want to love but I'll really never be able to because I feel like I'm broken beyond repair. After all, how can you give love if you've never received it? And who would I even want to love around here, anyways? There isn't anyone.

I have to die. I have to die. I have to die. I have to die.

I bury my face in my knees. Even though I feel like I got a long sleep that night, I'm exhausted.

Maybe it won't hurt to doze off for a little while…

I wake up to screaming. The screaming is a mixture of my parents' and my sister Santana's.

I rub my eyes and look around, too tired and lazy to stand up.

They're happy screams. Because my parents adore Santana.

"I'M GOING TO BE A HEAD GAMEMAKER!" Santana squeals so loud my eardrums hurt from upstairs.

"SANTANA, MY PRECIOUS!" Mom says, tears in her voice, "We are SO proud of you!"

I listen to them, all screaming and happy. And I'm hurt once again.

I have to die.

And this time I mean it.

So I throw on a hoody and jeans (as always) and climb up the ladder to the attic.

And that's where I am now. Sitting on a ledge out the attic window, looking out on the city.

We have a great view of the main Capitol city from our house. The cars below look pretty small to me. The sight doesn't make me flinch like it should. In fact I think it's interesting to look at.

The autumn wind nips at my nose and I shiver ever-so-slightly.

The nerves are still jumping around in my stomach, and therefore, I'm sitting on the ledge for now.

It doesn't matter to me that I'll be dead before I can think about it… I don't want to die scared. I want to die at peace. So I'm sitting up here until I can feel peaceful.

The brisk autumn day certainly helps. Autumn is my favorite time of year because a hoody and jeans is perfect clothing. And there's nothing more fun than stepping on withered away leaves.

The cityscape looks like a photograph. A painting. The trees are all perfectly pigmented: reds, oranges, yellows… They all help to calm me down.

I look up at the sky, which is currently the perfect shade of autumn blue that only comes for three or four months in a year. Brisk is a good word for it.

And the weather makes me calm. I take a look down at my old converse and then focus on the cement below. And I see a group of people. They're talking excitedly but I don't care to make out what they're saying.

More people start to wander around until there's a small crowd down there, all waiting for me to do something. I know it.

Santana runs outside and looks up. That stupid smirk of hers is wiped right off upon seeing me up here. My parents look up in shock and point like it's a surprise that I'm up here.

"Ike!"

Dear Lord, Santana has a loud voice.

Everyone's waiting. So I keep them in suspense a little longer by focusing an eye on the birds on our roof. They're big, black, majestic birds that you wouldn't wanna fight for an ear of corn.

When I look back down I see the flashes of cameras and hear a helicopter coming near.

And with that I know it's time.

So I take a deep breath, shut my eyes tightly for just one second before looking up again. Then, without thinking, I jump.

FATE:

Ike succeeds in his quest to die from the suicidal jump. His parents were glad of this but his sister Santana didn't digest it well. She goes on to become the Co-Head Gamemaker for the 81st Hunger Games, and takes out the anger of losing her brother on everyone around her: especially the tributes. Ike was 15 when he died and it made headlines for at least a week after, gaining fame for Santana and her family before the new Co-Head was even introduced.