Writer Games: Never Forgive, Never Forget

Tell Me Where You're Hiding: Benjamin Stark

I knew that they would be bringing our loved ones into arena. There was just a small part of me that knew it would happen. Asking us on the Train who we cared about, who we'd give our lives for. And then again during Interviews, as if we would change our minds in the few days since we had arrived. And then they allowed our loved ones to have contact with us while in the arena. It is as if they wanted us to be prepared for our visitors.

I don't need to stop and think about where my brother would be. There is one place where we can both have an escape, where everything important happens. Without Watson at my side, it takes far less time to reach that special place. Still, there is much land to cover.

After the feast, I had hidden myself only a few hundred feet away from Cornucopia. I could hear the others milling around. Someone even ran past my hiding place. When I heard Prometheus say they were bringing our loved ones in, I tried to reason myself into staying where I was. It didn't work.

I made myself get up. I made myself run until I could feel my heels breaking out with blisters and I kept running until the blisters popped, spilling hot liquid down into my socks. Even now, even when I know I am only a couple yards away, I run until I reach it. I had not seen it until now and my chest swells with pride to see it still standing there.

Our house is a two-story thing that sort of leans a bit to the left. The porch is old, the steps split almost directly in half. The old screen door is barely in shape, the screen starting to tear apart in large chunks. There is a lot of bird shit on the railing and the old whicker rocking chairs are missing pieces of the back and seat. There is hardly any paint left on the outside, the few bits that are left are peeling off in giant chunks to expose the white pocked wood beneath it.

The inside is even worse than the outside. Our house is barely furnished and the floor is giving way to what little furniture sits upon it. The kitchen has a shabby old table and four chairs. One of them is missing a bit of the leg and sits upon a stack of cookbooks. In the living room, there is a ratty old couch, dented from where we have sat for so many years. The telly sits on a little table in the corner of the room.

The stairs creak when you walk up them. It is amazing how well the Capitol has replicated my home. The creak accompanies me as I walk up the steps; it is like I'm at home away from home. The sheets on my bed are still crumpled up at the end, the blanket thrown over the whole mattress as if I were actually attempting to make my bed. I've always made it that way.

Zach's room is across the hall, next to the bathroom. His bed is neatly made, like always. The stack of books on his nightstand are in alphabetical order. The window, which he usually keeps propped open during the summer, is now closed. The line of dust has been disturbed recently, which says someone has been here.

I go straight to our parents' room. Their bed is made, the pillows thrown up against the headboard. The closet is empty and my father's desk is undisturbed. The light bulb in their bathroom is on. I can hear the faint click of the fan as it turns in lazy circles. I push the door back.

There is something about someone that tells you they have lost the naivety that comes along with youth. For a while, you don't see it but it comes in little bits; the way they start to talk, the way they carry themselves, the way they look you in the eye and tell you what they really think. Watching that sort of change happen in someone hurts, especially with someone you love. What hurts more is having that person show up and suddenly has changed.

Zach used to have a bounce in his step, a bright shine in his eyes. The corners used to crinkle when he smiled. Now, he merely sits on the closed toilet seat, a bloody piece of rope in his hands. His eyes are relatively blank, staring at his moving fingers while they tie a noose over and over again.

He sees me, eyes brightening just a little. But for some reason, he doesn't say anything. I cannot; the words only stick to the back of my throat in a thick lump. The only other movement Zach does is looping the noose around his neck. He jerks at the end a bit and makes a face. Then he takes the noose off and goes back to tying the knot.

I slide to the floor and I laugh, but not because it is funny. I laugh because it hurts so badly to think of our mother. I laugh because the Stark name is cursed. Although all men must die, we die before our time. If the others do not get us, the noose will.