I can't breathe. I can't move. I can't think. I feel so crowded, so suffocated, so trapped. All that I know is that they're killing him, they're killing him, they're killing him.
My true love. Me sweet angel. My tender soul. My mischievous prankster. My man who laughs too loudly and speaks words others would be too afraid to say. My Herb. They're killing him.
I watch as he is lead to the box underneath the tree by two peacekeepers with bright gray uniforms, their eyes hard and horrible. I watch as they hold him in place, and a third, stern-faced peacekeeper places the noose around his neck. The noose made of horrible, coarse, hard rope.
His dark, rich skin looks like ash. His dark, full curls catch the sun and look like a halo. He looks like an angel. My angel. His expression has moved past anguish, moved past terror, and now is only desolate acceptance. But even underneath the surrender, I can see the fire of love in his eyes, burning as strongly as ever.
Love for me. Love for his many younger sisters. Love for his neighbours, their children. Love for his comrades who worked down in the rickety mine shafts with him. He has so much love. And so much hatred. And all that passion is going to be wasted, going to be destroyed, going to be killed.
Going to be killed by the very same Capitol that he used to swear our people would bring down one day. Killed by the very same Capitol that has taken everything from us for so long. The Capitol that has taken our pride, our joy, our time, our energy, our effort, our potential, our dreams, our hope, our families, our children, our health, our sweat, and our blood. And now they're taking my true love away from me.
The people on either side of me let me clutch their hands. I am vaguely aware that I am clutching so hard that they might be in pain. But I cannot help it. Herb is standing there with a noose around his neck and my eyes are locked on him and I need something to hold, I need something to hold. I need someone to hold.
I wish I could hold Herb. But I can't. I never will be able to again. Not until, not until I die myself. And the misery seeps cold and poisoned through me and I know, I know that I'll never recover from this. I know that my life will be nothing more than a shadow if Herb is not in it.
He is looking at me. And even in his haggard, tortured state he seems to shine. Even in his worn-down clothing and sweat-streaked body covered in bruises he is beautiful. And I know that his beauty will be gone from this world forevermore. And I cannot take that fact. I just can't take it.
Not just his beauty will be gone. His kindness will be gone from this world. The way he jokes and plays, brightening even the darkest of days, that will be gone from this world. The way that he sings badly and off-tune, that will be gone from this world. The way that he treats even strangers as if they are brothers he has known for such a long time, that will be gone from this world.
The hatred that he has for the Capitol will be gone from this world, and the hope that he has of winning against it. I guess he never did win against the Capitol. I guess the Capitol destroyed him. It destroyed him and it destroyed me with him.
And not just his love and his goodness and his hate. The intangible, indescribable, ineffable quality of his spirit, the way it moves and sings and dances and mourns and screams and cries. His life, his energy, his soul. Everything about him that I will never be able to name, that no-one will ever be able to name, all that will be gone. And it will be gone forever.
I don't know how to live in a world where everything he is is gone. I cannot live in a world where everything he is is gone. I don't think I'll ever be able to live in a world where everything he is is gone. I need him. I need him. More than life I need him. More than air I need him. More than my own being itself, I need him to be. And I need him to be with me, for as long as he longs to be.
And looking into his eyes right now, into the brokenness within them, I can tell that he wants nothing more than to be with me. He wants nothing more than to be with me right now, through this unspeakable moment of unnameable terribleness. And he wants nothing more than to be with me forever more.
But that it something I cannot give him. I gave him my love, as much as I could and for as long as I could, but I can't anymore. Not until the day I die and am returned to his arms. Not until the day when we will be together, forever and ever, and nothing will be able to tear us apart.
The peacekeepers read off his list of crimes. Their voices are apathetic and acrid. They send shivers through my spine. How on earth possibly can they remain so detached, remain so functional, here in these too-long and too-short moments in which they are preparing to end a life? How can they commit murder so calmly and harshly?
Of course, they do not think that what they're doing is murder. They think that it's just Herb's just punishment for what he did. Just punishment. As if. Herb is a better man than they'll ever be. He's a better man than anyone from the Capitol or favoured by the glaring city will ever be. He's a better man than most, and it's not justice to kill a soul like his. It's cruelty.
Though what is the Capitol except for cruelty?
"Herb Jackson," the peacekeeper's voice booms, "you are guilty on the crime of murder, on three accounts. You are guilty of the crime of murder against citizens of the Capitol, which is among the highest offences in this country."
I internally scoff at the man's words. Murder of citizens of the Capitol. How about all the citizens of District Twelve and the other districts that the Capitol kills?
What about the people killed in the mines, numbering in the hundreds each year? What about the people who die because they cannot afford the steep cost of healthcare? What about the people who kill themselves because they can no longer continue to live like this? What about the people who starve during the years where there is famine? What about the people who get sick from drinking dirty water, or from the winter's cold? What about the kids killed in The Games? Or the people executed for petty crimes? What about the people killed by peacekeepers who have not even committed a crime? What about all of them? What about all of us?
Where is the justice for us? Or do our deaths not count? Does our pain not count? Does our grief not count?
"You are to be executed by ways of the hanging," the peacekeeper continues, "and selected citizens from the district are to watch, so that all may know what the consequences of committing violence against the citizens of the Capitol are. Any last words?"
"Yes," Herb declares, defiant to the last. "The Capitol may kill me. The Capitol may kill all of us. But they cannot kill the love that we share. They cannot kill our spirits. And they cannot kill the revolution that is yet to come!"
I want to cheer for him. Herb, the ever-rebellious. Herb, the ever-hopeful. Making the best out of even an impossible situation. Serving others even when he is about to die himself. It fills my crumbled heart with joy, with pride. I want to cheer for him,
But I cannot. Because I don't want to put the crowd of people around me in any danger. So I bite my tongue and let the screams rush through inside me instead.
Finally, in one disastrous moment, the box underneath him is kicked away. And now I do scream. I scream and I scream and I keep on screaming until I am sure that my throat must be bleeding. But still I keep on screaming even more.
My Herb hangs there, making desperate, bone-chilling choking sounds. He kicks his feet and clutches the rope around his neck, clawing at it desperately. He swings this way and that. And in his thrashing desperation, I am completely unable to help. I am only able to stand there and take it all in, screaming. His face slowly turns a deep shade of purple, then black. He hands go limp and so do his feet.
It's happened. He has died. And I think that everything bright and joyful inside me has also died, along with him. The world tilts and shifts queerly. I feel strong arms wrapping themselves around me. And then everything goes black.
——— Chapter Two ———
I wake up and I'm in my bedroll in my one-room hut. Where I live. The wooden floor is hard underneath my worn-down blankets. The rough, wooden walls are dark and the fire in the fireplace burns low, not enough wood placed within the flames to fuel it.
Beside me is Amber, my next door neighbour. Beside her is Willow, my neighbour two houses over. In Willow's arms is a sleeping Rowan, his tiny form wrapped in a threadbare blanket.
"How are you feeling?" Amber asks me softly, solemnly, her dark eyes looking into mine.
"Terrible," I reply. And it's not the truth. The way I'm feeling is actually so much worse than terrible. It's a desperate, aching, overwhelming feeling, at once far too much and not nearly enough. I feel as if all the colour is gone from this world, as if everything that was beautiful is nothing now.
But I can't describe this feeling. And, looking into Amber's worried eyes, I think that she understands anyways.
"Have some water," Willow presses me.
"I can't." I think I'll never be able to eat or drink again.
"Are you sure?" she asks.
"Yes."
"You need to drink something," Amber chides with a voice full of gentleness.
"I can't right now. I will though. Don't worry."
"You promise?" Willow's voice is maternally worried.
"I do," I lie.
"What do you think would help you right now?" Amber asks.
"I think ... I'll just go for a walk." A walk by the meadow. To get my thoughts in order.
"Do you want any of us to come with you?" Willow questions gently.
"No. I'll be alright by myself."
"Are you sure?" She presses.
"Yes."
I force myself up out of the bedroll and I make my way out of the creaking door. Looking at the darkness and gloom all around me, I can tell that it's about to be evening. Well, whatever. I can stay out as long as I need to. It's Sunday tomorrow, the one precious day in which there is no work.
I make my way to the edges of the Seam. To where the grasses grow tall and sway in the summer breeze. There are children playing somewhere nearby, and their laughter and screams seem haunting to me. I used to love the sound of children playing. I keep walking, as if in a trance, until I reach the fence.
I hold the rough metal wires in my hands. I look out at the woods, stretching beautiful and dark and inviting. I look out into the expanse of everything that I'll never know, everything that I'll never have, everything that myself and my people have lost. And I scream. I scream until I feel all the energy pour out of my body and then I scream some more.
People come to check on me, all worry and concern and care. But I send them all away. I do not want their offers to come back to their huts and sit by the fire. I do not care for their questions on my well-being. I do not wish to be comforted right now. I only wish to let my misery overtake me.
I sink down to the grass floor of the meadow, and look out at the woods and up at the sky. All I can think about is Herb. All I can think about is all the tender moments that we shared together, moments that are now forever gone. All I can see is his face, smiling softly at me by the dim glow of the fire. All I can feel is his arms around my body, making me feel small and safe and loved.
I think of all the times Herb and I sat side-by-side in our little hut or in our neighbor's huts or in the huts of someone from the Seam. How we all talked. About our pain, and our suffering. About the small moments of hope underneath it all. About all that we dreamed, all that we wished, all that we were. I remember Herb's voice amongst all the others. How it all fit together in perfect harmony. I remember how he was a part of us, a part that is gone.
I remember standing beside Herb when we were at The Hobb together. How he smiled and said hello to all the vendors in their little makeshift ramshackle booths. How he laughed at inappropriate jokes and how I always chided him for that. I remember how the vendors were always happy to see him, how he would ask them about their families and their lives.
I remember the moments Herb and I found ourselves alone in some abandoned alkeywway in the Seam. How we felt each other so deeply, so intensely. How we both mashed our lips and our bodies and our souls together until I didn't know where I ended and where Herb began, until we were two parts of the same being, of the same whole.
I remember quietly whispered conversations with Herb just before bedtime. How we talked about the future we were going to have together. How we talked about the children that we wanted to create and the lives that we wanted to live.
Of course, we never could live the lives we truly wanted, not while the Capitol kept stealing all our labour and our resources and our life energy. But still, we could dream, and now even the dreaming has been taken away from me by the cruel, greedy, grabbing hands of the Capitol. Now I have nothing left.
Herb should not have died. But he was too good. He was too good and he was too loyal towards his own people and he was too brave and rebellious against the Capitol.
I remember the day he was taken into custody by the peacekeepers. I remember the flashing fight and protection and love in his eyes. I remember how he fought them, how he fought them until he couldn't anymore, how it had taken all of five peacekeepers to restrain him and hold him down and transport him to the district prison.
Herb and I were at the market then. At the normal market, not the Hobb. There were a few Capitol tourists there, somewhere in the milieu of the people, buying things that only the tourists and the people from the town could ever buy. Herb and I were far away from that section of the market, but still everyone around us was tense. Everyone around us was on their best behaviour.
Suddenly we heard a screaming coming from the edge of the market. A little girl's screaming. It was a terrorized, desperate sound. A sound that begged for help, Herb, being the hero he is - was - ran to go investigate it. And I ran after him, thinking that maybe I could be of some help.
He got to the source of the screaming, which was behind some apandoned market stalls, in a little alley that was closed in and entrapping. There, three well-dressed, well-groomed, shining men were holding a little girl down and raping her. The girl was obviously district, wearing work rags and with dirty hair. But besides that we didn't know anything about her.
Herb got out his knife and pressed it against the neck of the man on top of the little girl. Not hard enough to draw blood. But hard enough so that he could feel it. The three men then turned on my lover, and they started to fight him in earnest. I took the little girl and delivered her far away from the scene.
When I came back, I saw that all three men were dead, stabbed by Herb's pocket knife that he usually only used to cut vegetables. There was however, a small crowd of peacekeepers around him and Herb, my dear, brave Herb, was fighting them all all by himself.
I tried to help but a few of the peacekeepers came upon me and held me down. All I could do was watch in horror from the ground as Herb got dragged away in chains.
And that was the last time I got to hold my true love.
I cannot tell if I've been crying or not, in this darkening meadow. All I can tell is that twilight has come from behind the clouds and I need to get back before I'm dragged back against my will by well-meaning coal miners. So I push myself up.
I do not go back towards the rows of shacks however. Something draws me in a different direction. I don't know what.
I keep on walking until I reach the tree where they hung him. His stiff, mutilated body is still hanging there now, amidst the shadows and the darkness. I need to be with him. I need to be with him. I make up a plan.
——— Chapter Three ———
All I've ever had was nothing. Nothing but for the people all around me. Nothing but for the hunger that we shared. But I've heard the songs.
I've heard the songs of the land of eternal freedom in the lands of the afterlife. Songs that sang about how there were no mines or factories or processing plants or refineries or fishing vessels or packaging plants or chainsaws or crops or anything of the sort. There were just endless fields and forests and stretching wild lands alive with every sort of life. I've heard the songs about how there is no hunger in the afterlife, no thirst, no sickness, no pain. How there is only the love and the camaraderie from souls all over the twelve districts. I've heard the songs about how one would be reunited with all the loved ones they had lost there and live in peace forevermore.
And it's those songs that I sing in my head to myself as I come back down to the rows of shacks that line the Seam. I do not tell anyone of my plans as I am welcomed into Willow's hut and invited to spend my night sleeping alongside her family. I savour the last moments I get with them, and I almost feel at peace when I finally do fall asleep.
In the morning I go from hut to hut to hut. I go from gathering to gathering to gathering. And I say hello to all the people there. I savour the small talk coming at me from all directions. And I savour the faces and voices and concerned, broken smiles of all the people in my community. I know that I won't be seeing them for a long time.
I think about Herb, about his body swinging there, hanging from that dreaded, promising, shining tree. I think about how we used to talk about running away together. How we made so many joking plans about where we would go and what we would do. I remember how we were almost serious about it, about our plan to escape. Well, I guess we'll be escaping now.
Escaping from the reach of the Capitol and all the cruelties that it is able to inflict. Escaping from the harsh entrapment of life and all the trials and tribulations that we are forced to undergo. Escaping from the mines and the shacks that make up everything in our world. Escaping from mortality itself to make our souls immortal.
I play in the cramped streets with the children. And even the children know that something is wrong with me. Even the children know that it doesn't make sense to be so recovered so fast. But they do not question my seeming happiness, just as no-one else does. And they let me join their games.
I treasure my time with all the children. The children are so precious. They are the treasure of our district. The people who all of our lives and all of our struggling is for. I am beyond grateful that I get to spend these last few hours with the children, as much as I will miss them.
And I will miss them, I'll miss them unspeakably. I'll miss everyone. I'll miss the community that I've grown up in, the community that made me, the community that all at once and slowly over the years I have come to call my own. For these are my people. These are my people who I love and who I belong with, the people I have spent my whole life trying to protect.
But I know that they would want me to be free. I know that they would want me to escape, however I can.
Still, just to be safe, I do not tell anyone of my plans. Because I simply could not stand being stopped. Not now, not here, not when my mind is already made up and I know what I need more than anything. Not when the need to do this is flowing so strongly through me, even against all the currents that are pushing me the other way.
I am aware however, that it is likely that many people already know. They already know what I am going to do. Perhaps this is why so many eyes linger on me with a sort of desperation. Perhaps this is why so many hands press against my own. Perhaps this is why so many people tell me, a little forcefully, a little painfully, that they are happy to see me and I am always welcome in their homes.
I wonder, faintly, if what I'm about to do is cowardly. Well, if it is cowardly, let it be cowardly. I've been brave all my life. I've been braver than anyone should ever have had to be, and I have faced more horror than anyone anywhere should ever have had to face. I have taken it and taken it and taken it and taken it. I have kept going and kept going and kept going and kept going. And now I cannot take it anymore.
If I am a coward, let me be a coward. But let me have peace, safety, softness in the arms of my beloved. Let me have the one thing that at least is my due in this existence. Let me have freedom. Let me have Herb.
"You look happier than usual today," Oak says to me, concern bared in his low voice.
"I'm just, I'm just glad that I have all of you to get me through this. I'm focusing on what I have, and not what I don't have." This is not a lie, not really. But I guess it's a lie all the same. For the way in which I mean for it to be interpreted is not at all the way in which I mean it.
"It's okay to be sad, Breezy. It's okay to grieve." Sparrow's voice is tender and caring, and it is laced with an empathetic sort of melancholy.
"I know, I know," I reply. "But it seems that all life is is grieving. I can't grieve forever. I have to take happiness with my own two hands if I want to have it and hold it. I have to look at the bright side." I wonder if my response was too easy to see through.
"I guess so," Meadow responds. "Do whatever you need to do to heal. We'll be with you all the way." Meadow's words make me almost cry inside. But I smile at her. And I thank her dearly.
Somebody passes me a baby, a tiny girl named Dawn. I hold her close against me, all warm and soft and sweet, incredibly sweet. She coos in my arms and it's the most beautiful thing ever. And this is what finally causes me to break down. This is what finally causes me to start crying uncontrollably. The baby in my arms who will never ever know freedom for the entirety of her life.
Hands come to stroke me and voices move to calm me. But I can barely hear any of it. I can barely hear it and I can barely see anything except for the precious tiny life bundled in my arms, it's too much to bear. To much, too much, too much. I wish I could give her something, anything. But I can't.
I'm too weak to.
I make my rounds to all the other huts in my community and all the other children playing outside in the bright summer weather. The cheeriness of the day's weather seems to be mocking me, seems to be saying to me that everything about this world will forever be out of my control.
Finally it is nighttime and all the people are asleep. I lie next to Amber, and I pretend to be asleep myself. I wait until everything is quiet, everyone is still. I wait until nobody will notice me slowly getting up and softly padding my way towards my own house, where all my tiny, meagre possessions are kept stored away.
I go to my hut and take all of my savings, portions of my wage that I had set aside for the buying of food. Well, whatever, I won't be needing food anymore. I won't be needing any of the horrible things that keep me chained to this life and that keep me chained to years of servitude under the Capitol's boot. I won't be needing anything I do not want to be needing.
I then go to the peacekeepers quarters and stride up to them, all terrible confidence and bitter resolve. There are two peacekeepers sitting on plush chairs outside their station, the harsh white light of the station illuminating them as if they were sitting in the daylight itself.
"What are you doing here, girl?" The man has graying brown hair, he has a pale face and pale eyes. He has a rough and grating voice.
"I was wondering if I might be able to buy some of your rope. I have money, and I will pay." It's a surprise to me that I keep my voice even as I say these words. In order for my plan to work I will need good, thick rope that can support the weight of a person and does not break. I will need the peacekeepers' rope.
"What do you need rope for?" A younger peacekeeper with blond hair asks me with a hard tone.
"I need to kill a dog that's been going into my house and eating my food," I lie. "I have money, and I only need one yard of rope."
"Alright," the older peacekeeper replies, and he goes to get me a length of the white, Capitol-issued rope.
"Thank you." I hand him my money.
I do not tell anybody about my plans. I avoid the Seam entirely as I make my way directly to the meadow. I walk through the darkness and the shadows, using the pale light of the moon to guide my way. And when I am at last safe within the grasses and wildflowers and herbs of the field, I go directly to the tree where Herb's body is still hanging.
Looping the rope around my shoulders, I climb the tall tree and sit on the large branch that holds my true love. I sit there for a little while, allowing myself to ponder if I truly want to go through with this.
But I do. Of course I do. I cannot stand to be without Herb for another moment.
So carefully, oh so carefully, I tie the rope around the branch and I tie the necklace of the noose, slipping it over my head.
"I love you." I whisper as I push myself off the branch.
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