137th – Brady Beltrami, District Eleven
…
Buckley has always been a little bit curious about death. He gets it from his dad. His dad is weird like that, and ever since his mom died, Buckley's been weird like that too. So…he's definitely a little bit curious. When he was younger, he wished he could die for a day, and then come back, so he could tell his dad what it was like.
But the important part was that he would come back. He wouldn't just be dead. Buckley's just going to be dead now.
So, sometimes, when you die, the last thing to go is your hearing. Buckley knows this because his father told him, and it occurs to him while he's lying in the mud and bleeding out.
Actually, Buckley knows a lot of things about the human body as it dies. Sometimes, a person pees themself when they die. Usually, eyes don't stay closed like in the movies. Funeral parlors have to sew the eyes shut. Buckley knows all of that because he lived and worked in a funeral parlor. His father has spent his life surrounded by death, and he won't even get the chance to dress Buckley's corpse. They send all tributes back to the districts in pinewood boxes nailed shut, and they're buried in the Tribute Graveyard before anything else can be done. Buckley's dad complains about it all of the time, saying that it is disrespectful. He bets he'll feel even worse about it now.
He doesn't know where the boy from Eleven has gone, but it doesn't matter. Buckley's going to die. That stab wound in his chest is just too deep, too expansive. His dad does autopsies too, mainly because that was what he learned to do first. Buckley knows all about wounds that are lethal and wounds that aren't, and this one is assuredly lethal. It's just going to take a while.
"Dad," Buckley says. "it hurts. Dying hurts."
"Who are you talking to?" the boy from Eleven says from…somewhere. Buckley can't figure out where he is, but he's somewhere around here. It doesn't matter anymore. Buckley can't get more dead, you know?
"I hope it's going to be quiet," Buckley says.
He hears someone sitting down beside his head. That's nice. He likes that he won't be alone when he dies. There have been far too many corpses in the funeral hall that died all alone.
"I can't believe this is happening," the boy from Eleven says, and Buckley realizes he's the one sitting by his head. "I can't believe any of this real."
"Tell my dad that I'm not scared," Buckley says. "It hurts, but I'm not scared."
Everything is getting darker. Is the sun going down? His head feels weird, but at least the wound in his chest has stopped throbbing. He must be getting better. Maybe there's still hope for him yet.
"I'm sorry," the boy from Eleven says. He doesn't seem to be bothered by how dark and blurry everything is getting. "I'm sorry."
Buckley tries to respond. He wants to tell the boy that it's okay, that Buckley will be okay because he's getting better, but nothing really happens when he tries. Everything is really dark now. Not even dark, really—just nothing. He sees nothing.
He hears a cannon shot. Maybe he is going home after all.