I remember my mother talking about magpies. “One for sorrow, two for joy. Three for a girl, four for a boy.” She’d recite, and if she saw only one bird she’d cross her blue eyes so that her vision doubled and she’d call out, “Joy!”, and we all laughed at her childish face and at her superstition. Callie in particular was cynical about such things, even as a child. She snorted when mother spoke of astrology and the Zodiac.
“How could that be even remotely true?” she’d say, not maliciously, but stubbornly. “It makes no sense.”
“Typical Capricorn,” was our mother’s response.
Myself? I’m conflicted. I’ve always wanted nothing more than to be loyal to Callie’s beliefs, but I find it easy to have something to define people by. They certainly work for our family, as if the stars were made just for us.
Callie, the Capricorn, ambitious but stubborn.
Flaxe, the Virgo, reliable but worrisome.
Hattie, the Sagittarius, optimistic but careless.
And me, the Aquarius, creative but apathetic.
It almost makes me believe the signs. I think I do believe the signs. But there is only one magpie. I frown, staring at the thing. It’s out of place in such an industrial town. As out of place as pink pointe shoes on cobbled streets.
I lunge at it.
The bird is fast, but I am faster. Faster than the smoke dissipating from factory chimneys, faster than rain smashing on slate roofs. In an instant, my hands are cupped around the soft pied feathers of the magpie.
One for sorrow.
I wait patiently, wait for another bird to join its companion. I wait for joy. I wait for joy. I hold the bird gently in my hands and wait for joy.
I count the shades, but they all slide into one. Wind and rain. Rain and wind. Gravel and brick and slate. Dark plumes of grey smoke billow from grey chimneys into a grey sky. Even the air smells grey - smoggy, cloying, thick. I am sick of grey.
I prefer it, though, to the sudden bursts of colour. I live as though underwater, but every so often I am yanked to the surface above my monochrome world. My chest burns, and breath evades me. I struggle. My muted world is, for a moment, full of fire and burning, blinding reds. Then as the pain subsides, so does the colour. Life is grey again, and I am almost glad of it. It is a choice between searing pain and a slow smothering, and I, unlike Callie, am a coward.
When I am thoroughly tired of black and white and red and grey, I take matters into my own hands. I am an artist, my canvas cobbled streets and greyscale pavements. For a while, for just a little while, I see pinks and blues and yellows, a fruit salad for the eyes and for the mind, and I breathe deeply and all is well. But my lungs are not my friends. They protest. The red overpowers all, and then I am too weak for anything but grey upon grey upon grey.
My sister had eight fingers, and she tapped them on the table when she spoke, bitten nails drumming a rhythmic octet. It was the right hand that the digits had been stolen from by the mill machinery, but her dominant hand was her left: the one she used to scrawl out messages of revolution on fliers and on walls. “At least God gave me one blessing,” she said, and she smiled across the room at me, across to where I sat bored with the meeting, my feet dangling from the chair and aching to dance.
My sister had eight fingers, and they dove up and dove down like sparrows as she sewed pale pink shoes with pale pink thread. “Can you imagine,” she said as she smiled across at me, “Who this fabric might have been for if I’d not taken it? Probably underwear for some snotty Capitol woman. Lord, Sasha! We’ve probably deprived some poor rich lady of her lovely silky panties.” And I laughed, a rare thing unfamiliar in my throat, and I watched the needle fly as my feet dangled from the chair and ached to dance.
My sister had eight fingers, and they clung tightly to the wooden block in the square, revealing the terror that her face would not. “I am guilty,” she said, and she smiled at me across the paving stones, “of nothing more than justice and compassion for my fellow humans. There are others. Remove one head, and three more will take its place.” And she was still smiling when her neck took three blows to sever, and she was still smiling when it tumbled to the ground, and she was still smiling when the Peacekeeper held it in the air like a warning shot.
And I sat down on the floor because my feet ached from standing too long.
mourning, sunshine || five months before reaping || noel & blair
It’s not even daybreak before they decide it’s time to blow up the intercom.
“Miss N-norcross? Ah, Gam-memaker Norcross? S-something has gone wrong. We ne-eed you down h-here…”
The voice is unbearable. Deafening in my silent room; cutting down all chances I have at getting a full night’s rest. I want to scream. I do scream. Sort of, if you count a strangled groan of frustration as screaming. In the same instance, I also throw the book on my nightstand across the room. Only a second passes before I roll out of bed to go pick it back up.
“Gamem-maker? Bl-Bl-Blair?”
Sleep doesn’t linger in my eyes or in my limbs as I walk through the plush carpet. Half-mooned eyes may give the illusion of exhaustion, but I’m as wide awake as ever. That daytime tension has already locked my joints in place, already making my movements stiff, swooping, and swift. Like I’m some demented wind-up toy. Oh how my parents loved giving me those for every single goddamn birthday I was forced to celebrate.
“Bl-la-lair Nor-r-r-cro-s-ss?”
Snatching the book from the floor, I slam my fist onto the button on the wall, holding it so I can reply.
“This better be good,” I spit, yanking my hand away and waiting for another annoying-ass, static ridden message.
Control tells me what’s the matter. I choke on my own curses.
“And you called me first? Where the fuck is Noel?” I grit through my teeth. I don’t give them a chance to respond--like they could ever get her out of bed themselves. “Don’t answer that. I know where she is. We’ll be down in five.”
I yank on the first things my hands touch. Brush my teeth and rake a comb through my hair. Then I’m out the door of my glorified prison cell and down the hallway faster than the control room could ever hope for. I’m a fucking tornado, I swear. Mere seconds pass before I’m at the door of Noel’s own hell hole. Jesus, Mary, Joseph. I hate living in apartments above the damned control room.
I hesitate, of course. I always hesitate before knocking on her door. But I do it anyway.
“Up and at ‘em, sunshine,” I bark, pounding viciously on the metal. “They’ve managed to fuck up. Again.”
The metal cuffs are tight on his wrists, leaving little room for motion. The dim room lays in a stoic state, not a sound to be heard. Ryker checks his teeth in the metal bars his arms are secured to, growing more impatient with each passing second. But soon enough he arrives. Theron Grantham, District Eleven’s head peacekeeper.
In he walks, a large folder in one hand, and a baton in the other. His boots meet the ground with enough force to make the chains on Ryker’s wrists rattle. He smiles at the boy and places both his items on the table, taking his seat on the opposite side.
Ryker sits up straight, glancing down at the folder marked with his name in bold red letters. His muscles tense, but he doesn't let his face change. His stomach begins to twist as he realizes the full extent of what's happening in front of him. He is going to die. After fighting to survive for not only himself, but his family for so long, he is going to be dragged out tomorrow morning and whipped until he can no longer breathe. He's seen it happen a million times. A million times he’s witnessed men and women of all ages get dragged to a post and bound. The leather shredding their flesh until their spine and ribs met the air. And it's always been by this man. The man with his folder and all the power the Capitol’s given him.
But still, Ryker remains unshaken in appearance. He adopts a demeanor of relaxation. Leaning back in his chair and letting his head fall to the side.
“So how long are we going to be sitting here sir, I know this outcome and id rather not deal with all your psychological bullshit beforehand. So if you’d be a peach and hurry this up that’d be great.” Ryker exhales.’
Theron places a hand on Ryker’s folder and flips open to the first page, giving it a quick scan before returning his attention to Ryker. He leans his elbows on the tables and tangles his fingers together, clearing his throat he starts.
“Mr. Decarlo, I know who you are, and I know what you’ve done. And we both know i'm not speaking strictly of tonight's encounters” He starts as Ryker begins to grow more nervous.
“But how about you humor me for a minute and we both pretend you have a clear record. Tell me why exactly you were stupid enough to attempt a robbery at District Eleven’s sole and most heavily guarded medical facility alone?” He continues, lighting a cigarette for himself.
Ryker begins to chew on this inside of his cheek, wondering why he’d even ask this question. He knew that Theron Grantham was partial to manipulation and generally liked to fuck with his victims before their executions. Ryker’s next thought made him feel sick, but at this moment he felt it would be the best outcome for everyone.
He took a deep breath “My sister, Stevie, she got burned in the fires a few days ago. Her entire left side is covered in blisters and charred flesh. I needed something to help her and I knew Id only be able to get it there.”
Ryker knew that his death was imminent, but by telling the truth he hoped that Theron would do what he thinks he will and end her before ending me. A death like that would be much more peaceful than the one that waits for her after his death. The thought pains Ryker more than any torture could, but it's what needs to happen.
“A heroic act really, but you’re still stupid. Your little sister is as good as dead regardless of what you bring her. A thief like yourself has no skill to treat her wounds. You shouldve put her down the moment you found her.” Theron’s voice cuts across the room like a sharp blade. He fists band on the table and he spits across the room. “Did you think your little story would break my heart? That it would move me enough to uncuff you and let you walk?”
Ryker’s nerves shake, but no longer does his stomach twist. his face heats up, but he maintains his statuesque posture. “No, Mr. Grantham, i did not expect you to pity me. You asked me why I did what I did. And i’d do it again without hesitation.” He replies, calmly.
Theron grins, leaning back in his chair again. he places his leg over his other knee and just stares at Ryker for a moment. He begins to laugh quietly to himself before opening his mouth again.
“Actually, I have a much more interesting proposition for you, Ryker.” He narrows his eyes and leans in close again. “How would you like to go into the Games?” He asks in a whisper.
Ryker’s heart pangs in his chest at the mention of the Hunger Games. They were fast approaching and he wasn’t sure what Theron was asking. He was already waiting for his own death that he scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. Why was he asking about the games?
“What do you mean?” He asked.
“This is me being merciful. Perhaps your story did move me a little. I am giving you the choice to either enter the Games at the reaping in nine days, fight for your own life and return to your sister in perfect health -or- I can drag you by your hair through the mud, tie you to a wooden post, and whip you until you crumple and die.”
He wears a smile on his face. One of power and total control over those he stands taller than. He gathers his things, his weapon and Ryker’s folder, before standing. Continuing to smile at the boy.
“Choose” He whispers as the door shut behind him, leaving the boy the stew in the dark quiet room.
It’s one of his most prized possessions. Every day he scrubs it clean. Scrubs it of dirt, scrubs it of spots, scrubs it of soot, scrubs it of factory grime. He scrubs, and scrubs, and scrubs it. The glass must be polished. The frame must be in pristine condition. It is one of the objects which he values most in life, aside from himself, of course. Every day, he stands before it. He examines what lies within it with satisfaction.
Eyes as golden as the sun. Not human, no they don’t look humanesque. Not at all. There is no semblance of the Homo sapiens in his eyes. Not an ounce of humanity can be discerned beyond his cornea. There is the slyness and stealth of the Felis catus, the poise and unpredictability of the Ophiophagus hannah. There is nothing human about these deceitful eyes, and he knows it. Yes, Genesis knows it.
And it brings a smile to his lips. They spread across his face, stretching to reveal rows of pearly, opalescent white teeth. Not a single one is askew, nor chipped, nor yellowed. He runs a hand along his skin as smooth as the silks of his district, and alters the position of his head, revealing a side view of the masterpiece. He traces a finger along his jawline, a jawline sharp enough to slice through the flesh of his finger.
It is in this mirror where his confidence lies. Where his narcissism manifests. Where his ability to bring destruction originates. The mirror is Genesis’s source of power. It is his source of being, his source of every ounce of self-worth. The mirror holds a wisp of the soul of Genesis. As long as it remains, unshattered, unbroken, untarnished, Genesis remains an immortal being. At least, he likes to think as much. That his youth and beauty will never cease to exist, when in reality it could fade and rot away at a moment’s notice. He refuses to acknowledge this possibility.
Sorry ‘bout having to leave right after the show last, Mueller wanted to go over some of our finances. He told me pass on his compliments for your performance, just on the way to the tent we heard a bunch of guests talking about how captivating the silk girl was. He says you’re almost ready for a headlining act and even I have a hard time arguing that. I think he wants to talk about pushing you a little further so he might come to rehearsal. No pressure or anything hey sis?
P.S. Letia’s sending me into town tomorrow to grab some things, do you need anything? I was gonna grab us a couple bottles of that honey lager from Crazy Dee.
