Together ~ A Clove and Cato story ~

Chapter 10: Goodbye

                    A plain black dress, one the belonged to my mother. How suitable that I'm wearing it in her honor. The garment is slightly too big for me; the ebony material crinkled, presenting me as thinner than I already am. I bring my hair up into a half-up-half-down fashion and slide on my shabby, uncomfortable school shoes, grimacing as the shoes that I outgrew five months ago pinch my toes. My coat no longer fits me, the sleeves too short, and the seams too snug, so I reckon I'll have to make my way through the frosted roads of District Two without anything to shield my uncovered arms from the bitter winter.

                      My father won't be coming with me, that I know for a fact. At this very moment, he's passed out on the couch, unconscious after consuming a little too much whiskey. But that's merely another day in the Kentwell household, am I right?

                      I wander through the icy streets, practicing caution to avoid the ubiquitous patches of black ice and trying my hardest to keep the frigid slush out of my shoes. When I arrive in the packed square, everyone pauses to stare at me, the uncanny daughter of the pitiable darling, Rosemary Kentwell. I recognize a few girls from school, but they simply point and giggle, hiding their relief that they're not the unlucky individuals in the limelight.

                       I understand what I'm supposed to do since I've been at funerals before. Most of them were ceremonies for fallen Peacekeepers, services where I was hauled along, seeing as my mother was obliged to support her fellow recruits. When I was younger, I'd simply doze off, slumping my head on my mother's shoulder and not waking up until I was laid in bed that evening. But as I began to mature and get older, I was expected to pay attention, keep a watchful eye on the grieving relatives, and take subliminal notes just in case I was to someday be in their shoes.

                         I hold my head down, operating through the dreaded movements and briskly stepping to the head of the circle and directly up to the open casket, sensing the numerous stares as if they are blazing a hole in the back of my head. I chew my lip as my mother's face comes into view. Her eyes shut, and a serene look on her face. Her sallow hands are converged at her ribs, her unmoving fingers folded over a corsage of crimson roses. A single tear slips down my cheek, and I softly arrange the crinkled piece of paper that I've had clutched in my hand for the entire morning, beneath my mother's hand, leaving her with the picture that I outlined a few weeks ago. A penciled portrait of one of my favorite photographs. A black and white image of me and my mother when I was three years old. It was summertime, and the two of us were relaxing on a plaid blanket outdoors. My mother's face was soft, wrinkleless, and laughing as I slipped onto her chest, my short coffee-colored hair tucked behind my ear, accompanied by a few wildflowers. My green eyes twinkled with youthful joviality as I grinned wide (obviously caught in a giggle), binding my skinny toddler arms around my mother's neck. Sometimes, I find myself enviously gazing at the photo, wishing that I could go back to those days when nothing else mattered but laughter or when I could find glee in the tiniest of things and not worry about a single thing. When my mother would laugh with me, tell me stories about when she and my father fell in love, and sing me lullabies about sweet dreams and counting sheep. I crave the days when my mother and father would get along, when they'd tuck me in and kiss me goodnight. But those days, those hours of sunshine, and creativity, and devoted parents, they're all terminated. All that's left now is the bittersweet remembrance of the peace that I once had, and the moments that have been ripped away.

                             A few more tears slip down my face, and I instantly draw my hands up to rashly rub them away, ashamed that, yet again, I've been shown crying in public. I turn around and locate a pair of familiar azure eyes in the crowd. Cato senses my gaze on him and starts towards the concrete steps, coming to my aid as he constantly does. I promptly step down, bustling over to him and thrusting myself into his arms. His arms coil around me, pressing me to his chest as I take a quivery breath, trying my hardest not to cry.

                           "I'm so sorry, Clove," Cato murmurs, his lips touching against my forehead in a comforting kiss.

                            "Thank you." My voice is stifled by his shirt; my tone is broken and dejected. "For everything."

                            "Always," Cato whispers into my hair, his voice calming and smooth. He looks up, an expression first of curiosity, then of hatred crossing his features in the time span of five seconds. "Your father actually didn't come?"

                           "I don't really want to talk about it," I mutter, looking up, my eyes stone cold. "Will you come up to the coffin with me? I don't think I can do this by myself..."

                            "Of course," Cato nods, giving me a sympathetic glance and seizing my hand, squeezing it gently yet firmly. "Whatever you need, I'm right here, always."

                             "Thank you..." My tone is quiet, my words nearly imperceptible. But I know that I got the message across to him and that he understood my gratitude because he gives me that soft smile of his that makes my heart melt. Not that I'd ever tell him that.

                               I lead him up to the casket, my heart pounding in my chest and my stomach twisting painfully, making me nauseous. I focus on Cato's hand, trying to stop the world swirling around me, the cold sweat spreading throughout me. His soft, still calloused fingers, the pattern he's tracing on my palm, the softness in the clasp of his fingers but at the same time, the comforting firmness in his grasp. He's got me. And as long as he won't let go, as long as he holds on, I won't fall.

                              The words said by my mother's instructor, praises about how brave, obedient, and strong my mom was, slip in one ear and out the other. It's as if I can't even understand them; they're empty to me.

                               Before I know it, Cato's gently tugging me along, lightly informing me that I have to go forward, I have to say goodbye. See, we have this tradition in District Two. Whenever anybody passes away, whether from old age, sickness, or murder, the members of that fallen citizen's family must give them what we call, The Seal of Cessation. You take two fingers, your pointer, and your middle, and press them against your lips, a soft kiss to the tips of your fingers before laying them on the lips of the dead. It's said to be the final stage of death, the signal to the soul of the deceased that it's ok, they can move on. That we'll be ok. That we'll move on too.

                               My fingers shake so hard that my hand visibly vibrates as I bring it to my face, pressing a kiss to my fingers before resting them on my mother's colorless, lifeless lips. The same lips that brushed my forehead in goodnight kisses, that kissed all of my cuts as a young kid.

                               "I'll miss you, mom," I whisper, my voice trembling. "I hope you go to heaven."

                              "She will, Clove," Cato murmurs in my ear, his breath tickling the sensitive skin behind my earlobe. "I'm sure of it."

                              I nod, my eyes still fixed on my mother's defunct face.

                             "Goodbye, Mrs. Kentwell," Cato's voice echos in my brain as he addresses my forever asleep mother. "Don't worry about your daughter. I promise to take care of her, no matter what."

                            I know my time up here is almost up. Soon I'll have to step back, go home and try to forget about this whole thing.

                            'Not much time, Clove...' My mind reminds me, the clock ticking with every passing second. 'Just get it over with.'

                            I take a deep shuddering breath. "I love you mom," my eyes drift closed. I can't bring myself to look at her, to make it permanent. "Goodbye."

                           Then I step away, my feet stepping one in front of the other. And I walk away, leaving my mother and my past behind me.