.

xi. forsaken
✦ ✧ ✦
to be renounced or entirely turned away from

shiloh bailey
seventeen / / district nine
—

He wakes up to pure silence and a rotting smell. That's… unusual, to say the least.

Normally, Shiloh awakens to his mother's hoarse coughs and somber sighs of agony and the house doesn't smell like anything in particular. He walks into the shack's living room, moldy walls in all their glory, and there's no shout from Mother, who beckons him into her room to help her with Lord-knows-what.

(He knows what this means, even if he doesn't want to outright admit it.)

"Mother," Shiloh calls, waiting outside the door to her bedroom. "I'm awake if you need anything."

No response, just the smell of meat left out of the fridge for too long, putrid and musty and now intensifying. He pinches his nose and sighs before carefully opening the door and tip-toeing inside.

He was right. He did know what this meant.

Even though Mother's tucked beneath her bedsheets the same way she was when Shiloh bid farewell to her last night, her posture is rigid, and her skin has rich undertones of yellow. There's blue and purple underneath her eyes, and her hair is all messed up.

He wonders, did she have a final struggle that he didn't hear before death washed over her? Was there something he could've done? If there was, would he have actually done it? So many questions that Shiloh will never know the answer to, some of which he doesn't particularly mind.

There are also many things he now does have the answers to, though, if he cares to seek them. Mother always said that when she died, the tomatoes in front of the house would turn from red to black and that it would be all because of him.

He ambles outside to the front garden, slight drizzle in the air falling onto his nose. Carefully, he makes his way to where the tomatoes are planted, eyes peeled wide. As he traverses the dirt, he dances ever so slightly. Mother always said that his dancing was "demonic," but she can't see him now.

She also can't see that the tomatoes are just as red as they were the day before. Shiloh falls to the ground with a loud exhale, tears flowing from his eyes before he can command them not to.

Everything Mother told him was fake? What on earth is Shiloh supposed to do now?

—

Shiloh Bailey was born cursed, or at least that's what Mother has always said to him. At twelve years old, he has no choice but to believe her.

So, when she tells him, "You were supposed to spin around twice before coming inside the house—go outside and do it again," Shiloh obeys without questioning a thing.

"I'm sorry, Mother," he says, his voice quivering. "I'll do better next time."

"Yes, yes you will," Shiloh hears as he walks outside and shuts the door. After waiting a few seconds, he opens the door again and turns around twice. Mother smiles at him, or at least she does the closest thing to smiling that she's capable of. "That was much better."

"Thank you, Mother!" He unlaces his boots and puts them on the wall to his right.

"Don't make the soles touch," she reminds him, shaking her fists. "You know what'll happen if they do."

Shiloh sighs. "I would never do that. Please don't tell me that whole long story again."

A few months ago, the soles of his boots were too close together, and Mother went on a whole rant about how he was "inviting the demons" to invade their house and tear off their skin, to put it lightly. He didn't understand what she meant but shook his head and listened.

From a young age, he learned that it's always best to not ask Mother questions when she rattles off all their rules. After all, Shiloh's why there must be so many of them in the first place. If he hadn't been born, Father never would've died and started cursing Mother with a terrible illness.

Four generations of Bailey men have lived on this land, and even though they're gone, their souls won't rest until misfortune eats Shiloh and his mother whole.

Or at least, that's what Mother always says.

—

"I'm back for the day!"

After spinning around twice and arranging his shoes in the proper position, Shiloh skips into the shack with his basket of bread.

He worked tirelessly for it, wandering for half an hour before he found another farm and then spending the whole day fixing things for the owner and helping him with his crops. Shiloh thinks he did a good enough job that he'll perhaps be invited back to help another day. That would be a miracle — any day where he can get out of the house for an extended period of time is a great day for him.

Shiloh doesn't even reach the kitchen table before his mother hisses at him. "Don't skip! You're waking up the demons in the floorboards!"

Of course — how could he forget? In the past few years, his mother's sickness has only worsened as a punishment for Shiloh breaking so many rules. His ancestors are punishing Mother for creating a wretched creature like him, and he's not doing anything to make things easier.

Yes, he tends to the crops all by himself and gets work whenever he can, but it's not enough to take care of her. Every day, he messes up somehow, and it just makes her worse. Shiloh used to think that he'd do good if he were placed in a real schoolhouse somewhere, but now he knows the truth.

He's completely and utterly useless and the world would be a better place if he was never born.

"I'm sorry," he says with a sharp exhale. He knows better than to set the breakdown on the table too. Instead, he rests it on one of the cracked wooden floorboards, one of the few without spiderwebs, and blinks six times.

"Please purify this bread from the sinner who bore it," Mother whispers. She's hunched over on the table but still glaring at Shiloh. "Let it be balanced, even, and divine."

"I am sorry, ancestors, for tainting the bread with my unholy self," Shiloh whispers. "Please, spare my mother when it is time for her to dine and nourish her so she can get closer to her health goals."

He keeps his eyes wide open, afraid to blink because doing so would mean blinking seven times in less than a minute, summoning the ghost of his father, and giving Mother a terrible cough all night. She doesn't deserve to struggle, especially not because of Shiloh.

She licks her lips and claps once. "The bread is ready. Go wash yourself if you want to enjoy some."

He nods. "Of course."

While it would have been nice to eat at the same time as her, he did commit the sin of talking to somebody besides Mother when he helped the man who owned the other farm. Even if he sinned for the greater good—now, Mother has food—he sinned nonetheless.

As Shiloh turns on the creaky faucet for the bathtub, a few tears start to form in his eyes. Oh, how he wishes that he was born pure and holy. How he yearns to exist as a real person and not a harbinger of ailment and dread.

It isn't fair that his very existence brings sickness to Mother. It isn't fair that he has to take so many extra steps, yet she keeps getting worse, and sometimes, the plants outside don't even grow. He used to hope for a positive future, but now Shiloh knows better.

As long as he lives, he will be a curse.

—

He doesn't even know what he did wrong this time.

Shiloh hasn't spoken to anyone but Mother for two weeks, nor has he even left the property, instead making do with their meager harvests, but it didn't even matter. Every night, Mother screamed in agony, cursing his name again and again.

She's more sick than ever, and his mere existence was the sole catalyst.

Shiloh hates seeing her like this, unable to leave the bed with her skin taut around her bones, knowing it's all because of him.

"I brought you soup," he says. He takes extra care to ensure he doesn't spill any on the floor — that'd be provoking one of the demons — and sets it down on the crate by her bed. Mother simply stares at him whilst he trembles and eventually is able to back away from her. "I hope that you enjoy it."

"What's it matter to you?" Mother sneers, her voice slightly hoarse.

Shiloh takes a deep breath, but he doesn't feel strong or brave or anything. "I want you to enjoy your food because I worked hard preparing it, and I feel terrible that you're sick."

"You clearly don't feel terrible enough." She coughs, phlegm comes out of her mouth, and it drizzles onto her bedsheet. "If you cared, you wouldn't have done so many things to cause this illness."

"I didn't mean to." Truly, he didn't, but every day Mother adds a new rule for him to follow, and at times it's difficult for Shiloh to keep up with all of them. Already, she won't let him sleep for more than four hours at a time because he needs to be alert in case the spirits come since when she isn't yelling at him, she's sleeping, and that's when she's most vulnerable.

She's constantly screaming at him, telling him that the monsters are in her room and he has to "stun them" with his presence, but it's hard to do that when Shiloh doesn't see anything in the room besides his mother, her bed, and her crate.

"It doesn't matter what your intention was," Mother groans. It looks like her eyes are about to bulge out of her skull. He worries if they do, would they just tear themselves out of Mother's face? "You're the reason I'm like this." She twitches a bit, then glances at the far corner of the room. "There's another demon — can you get it?"

Shiloh nods, then stomps to the corner of the room and jumps up and down like a rabbit. After thirty seconds, he asks, "Is it gone yet?"

"Yes," his mother says, much to his relief. She takes a sip of the soup and sinks into her mattress a bit with an uncomfortable squish. "Now, please leave me alone. I don't want you to further ruin this meal."

"Of course, Mother." Shiloh drags his feet across the floor until he's out of her room, then collapses onto the floor. He puts his hands over his mouth and lets out a silent scream.

A part of him wants to bang his head against the floor so hard that his skull shatters, and he bleeds out. Maybe that'll put an end to the demons once and for all, and Shiloh won't have to burden Mother with his existence for yet another day.

Alas, he doesn't. Because then she wouldn't have anybody to take care of her, and as much as she claims to detest him, Mother needs him. He's the only one who can put up with her, and it's what he deserves since he's the reason she's like this.

—

Mother's been dead for two weeks, and Shiloh still doesn't know what he's supposed to do.

Shiloh always feared that if his mother died, he'd be soon to go since his only purpose was to serve her and curse her at the same time, but he was completely fine. If there's anything that burdens him, it's the boredom that comes with not having to work his butt off trying to take care of her.

But beyond that, the world is still spinning, and maybe someday, Shiloh will even get the chance to see more of it. He's not tied down to any one place anymore; there's so much for him to explore, and he'll get to do it without burden.

It seems too good to be true.

Regardless, it's nice being able to exist without a million rules. For the first time in his entire existence, Shiloh Bailey knows what it's like to have hope.

corvina nyx
sixteen / / district eight
—

"Okay, now you need to be super duper quiet."

Cora looks at her big brother, Jasper, with wide, trusting eyes as he lunges, his knees dangerously close to brushing against the concrete. In front of him, a teensy-tiny pigeon picks at debris on the ground with its itty-bitty claws.

"I'm being quiet," she whispers, starting to lunge too.

The sun is only halfway in the sky — soon, Momma and Mommy are going to call them inside for supper, and they won't be able to play again until tomorrow. They say it's dangerous to go outside at night. Once, Cora asked "why," and they wouldn't give her a reason; instead, they said that she'd "figure it out when she's older."

"Now, raise your hands over your head," Jasper instructs. "Copy what I do."

Carefully, Jasper inches closer to the birdie, a devilish look in his eyes. Once he's less than a foot away, he thrusts his body at the pigeon, his hands wrapping around its throat as it tries to flap its little wings. His forearms skid against the ground, so when he holds the birdie up, there are splotches of blood dripping off him.

Jasper doesn't seem to mind, however. His smile is so big that Cora can see all three of his missing back teeth. It makes her jealous—she's only lost one tooth so far, and it was toward the front of her mouth.

The bird continues to struggle in his hands until he finally lets go, and it flies away. Meanwhile, Cora's still in the same position Jasper was in before he pounced, and she asks him, "Can I go after it now?"

"It's a bit late for that." He points at the bird, now so far away that it looks like a tiny speck of dust. "But that's okay! We're going to find another pigeon just for you!"

"Hooray!" Cora waves her hands in the air.

However, before she and Jasper can find a bird, she hears Momma's voice from one of the windows. "Cora! Jasper! Come inside!"

Oh well. That just means she'll have to wait until tomorrow.

—

Jasper isn't there when she gets home from the schoolhouse the next day.

Instead, Momma is sitting at the kitchen table. That never happens — usually, she's at work until just before supper. The table isn't covered with her and Jasper's toys, either, and it's not like Momma to put them away for them.

Hesitantly, Cora walks toward her. Momma looks so sad. Her eyes are red, and her face is all swollen and puffy. Was she just crying?

"Cora, I need to talk to you about something serious."

Her heart drops. Is Jasper… well, Cora doesn't know the word for it, but it's when somebody's heart stops beating, and their family has to put them underground. That's for older people, though, Right?

"Yes, Momma." Cora's voice trembles.

"Mommy and I aren't married anymore."

The world around her shatters like glass. "What do you mean you're not married anymore?" Cora thought that when two people love each other and have babies, it means they have to stay together forever.

"We used to love each other, but now we don't," Momma explains. "So, she's moved off somewhere else with Jasper, and I'm staying here with you."

Whaaattttt? Since when is that a thing? That's absolutely crazy — it makes no sense at all. She was playing with Jasper yesterday, and he promised they would play with each other again today. Tears start pouring from Cora's eyes. "Will I ever see them again?"

Momma gives her a solemn look. "I don't think so."

—

Cora knows better than to play with Dory.

Yes, she knows that the smaller girl isn't going to be there forever, but that doesn't change the fact that she's the most annoying person in the world. Dory's always going through her stuff, stealing her pencils and markers, drawing all over her notebook, and sometimes the walls and her art isn't even that good — it's just scribbling.

Cora sure hopes she wasn't like this back when she was five.

Every day, Cora asks Momma when Dory's mom is going to pick her up and go home, but she never has a solid answer.

"Wanna see some art?" Dory taps Cora on the shoulder while she's clearly very focused on her homework. She learned about long division today, and it's really serious business. She can't be distracted.

"No," Cora hisses. "Can't you see that I'm busy?"

And then Dory cries because that's all that she does. Cora doesn't know what she's supposed to do about it. When she was five, and Jasper was ten, he was always able to stop her from crying, but he must've been some sort of a magic wizard.

Ugh. Cora misses him so much, even if she never tells Momma, because it makes her all sad and weird. She can't help but wonder, though. He must be almost sixteen now, so he probably has a super cool job in a factory!

"No, you're not," Dory says through her tears. "Not busy! Not busy!"

"Yes, I am!"

"Wanna see my art that I drew?"

She's getting absolutely nowhere with this kid. Maybe that's for the better, though. If she gets close to Dory, she'll only get hurt in the end. That's what happened with Jasper, and she hates history repeating itself.

Or at least that's how Cora feels until Dory asks her, "Do you want to catch birdies?"

—

Cora isn't surprised when she gets home one day, and Dory isn't waiting for her.

It's the same as it was six years ago. Momma is sitting by the kitchen table, all alone, and she looks upset.

"Did Dory die?" This time, Cora knows to be straightforward.

She really, truly hopes that Dory's fine — they're best friends now, after all. Cora was super cool and decided to be the bigger person, and they've been having so much playing together ever since. It makes her miss Jasper a lot less, which is a great benefit.

(She still misses him with everything she has. She doesn't think she'll ever stop missing him.)

"No, sweetie." Momma leans back in her chair, and Cora lets out a huge sigh of relief. "But her real mom is finally ready to take care of her again, so she picked her up."

"She what?" Cora feels herself getting super sweaty — that happens when she's sad now. Her face is all warm, her stomach is all swirly, and she's shaking a whole bunch. Suddenly, she doesn't mind all the messes that Dory made everywhere.

"I told you, we were just taking care of Pandora while her mom took care of some things."

"And she took care of them?"

"She did, yes."

Tears form at the corners of Cora's eyes. "Does that mean I'll never see Dory again?"

"Do you want me to give you an answer you'd like or the real answer?" Momma reaches toward Cora and wraps her in a warm hug.

"Real answer," Cora mumbles, trying to not get her tears on Momma's sweater.

She already knows what to expect, so she isn't surprised when Momma says, "I don't think so."

That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt like a knife being twisted into her gut. Momma kept telling her that she had to give Dory a chance, and when she did, this happened. It's just so unfair!

"I hate the world," she whispers. "Why does it take away the people I love?"

"That, I don't have an answer for."

But at least Cora can say that she learned something from this. Loving Jasper may have been a mistake, but she didn't know any better. Loving Dory, though? Cora should've known this would happen.

From that moment on, she swears that she won't love anybody else, not even Momma. The only person Cora can rely on is herself.

—

"Would you do me a favor and shut the fuck up already?"

Cora's finally home from a long day of sewing buttons on pants, only to be met by Maverick and Erin's nonstop bickering. The sound ricochets off the walls, piercing Cora's ears like they're bullets from a gun.

"Why would I do that, thimble-head!" Maverick sneers

"I already told you I'm tired." And as petty as it sounds, Cora fucking hates being called thimble-head. What a stupid nickname.

She knows that her mom has been happier than ever since she got married to Anthony, but she wishes he hadn't come with those carrot-haired brats. Yeah, he's got a decent bit of money — they finally got to move out of the apartment. The new townhouse is made from real bricks and has a fully functioning fan in the living room that Cora could stare at for hours, but that doesn't change the fact that Anthony's kids are annoying as shit.

"You're just being sensitive," Maverick says, which is honestly bullshit. Anybody would be pissed if they were in her position.

"Yeah, don't you want to get along with your brother," Erin adds.

"He's not my brother, for fuck's sake!" Because he isn't. That's Jasper! And Erin isn't Cora's sister either; that would be Pandora. Cora knows it would be weird if she did this, but she really wants to… scratch them or something. It'd probably get them to leave her alone. She drops her green nylon satchel by the door, and almost immediately, Maverick tries to dig through it. "Hey! That's not yours!"

"It's property of the family," he replies. "Last I checked, you got this from our father's company."

"He doesn't even own the company!" If he did, Cora wouldn't be stuck at her dead-end job in a factory room that smells like mildew. "He's just a factory manager."

"Close enough!" Erin shouts. "It's definitely not your company, and that's what matters!" She reaches into the bag and grabs the turkey sandwich Cora ate half of for lunch. Before Cora can chase after her, she stuffs it in her mouth and says, "Which means this is—"She stops chewing to unleash one of the most foul burps in Panemian history. "— my sandwich!"

"I was going to eat that!" Cora swipes at her, desperately wishing her fingernails were allowed to be sharp at work so she could actually deal some damage to the idiots. "Why are you so mean to me?"

"You were mean to her first, thimble-head," Maverick points out. "We hadn't even known you for a week, and you were already picking on us."

Well, yes, but what was Cora supposed to do? If she treated them the way she treated Jasper and eventually treated Pandora, she'd be screwing herself over. Everybody leaves eventually, so she might as well soften the blow for when Maverick and Erin do too.

It's great, actually. When the fated day comes, Cora won't miss them even a little bit.

"That doesn't mean you had to pick on me, too," she fires back, her brows sharply pointed downward. Don't try to fix up your act now—what's done is done!"

She storms out of the living room before Maverick or Erin can come up with a comeback and into her bedroom. That's one of the good things about Anthony. Cora finally has her own space, even if she really doesn't mind sharing a room with her mom and anyone else living in the apartment. Even better, Maverick and Erin have to share a room with each other like losers.

Cora plops onto her mattress and grabs the friendship bracelet she was working out of her pocket. She weaves the strings together and ties knots with a sense of satisfaction that instantly calms her down.

(Briefly, Cora wonders what it'd be like if she had somebody to give the bracelet to once she's finished. As if.)

Because she was built to be alone at the end of the day. After all, it makes everything easier.

perry kusuma
eighteen / / district eleven
—

Perry Kusuma knows what it's like to be in love.

She feels it in every bone in her body, every muscle, and every tendon. It makes her heart bloom, soaring into the night and sprinkling stars up in the sky. Never mind the fact she's only fourteen, she knows that her soul belongs to Luanne and that nothing will ever change that.

"We should put this in your hair," Annie says, holding up a camellia from her garden.

The sun is setting on another long day in Eleven, hues of purple and orange lighting up the world. Even if the autumn breeze is turning the leaves brown, threatening to take the crops and flowers with it, Perry couldn't be happier. After all, she's with the love of her life, who so gently pushes back some of her hair and tucks the flower just above her ear.

She giggles. "How does it look?"

"Adorable." Annie's cheeks go flush because that's the wonderful thing: she loves Perry just as much as Perry loves her, and she's vowed that that'll never change.

As Annie takes Perry's hand in hers, as delicately as she held the flower, everything feels right in the world. Her parents were wrong — Perry is somebody worthy of being loved, not just another responsibility.

Even if nobody in her family has said it outright, Perry knows she ultimately means very little to them. Her eldest sister Ivelle has been out of the house for two years, and her other older sister, Novalie, doesn't know how to express anything that resembles affection. But that's completely fine now that she has her Annie.

"What are you doing tomorrow?" Perry asks her. She should probably head home now, after all. Even if Mandevilla is basically the District One of District Eleven, it's dangerous to be alone at night anywhere. Crimes have worsened in the past few years, and she doesn't see things improving. Luckily, it's not a far walk back from Annie's house, and she always walks Perry to the door like a real gentlewoman.

"Whatever you're doing," Annie answers. "Unless you're finally sick of me."

"I could never be sick of you!"

"I know, I know. I'm just teasing you."

"I know you're just teasing me." As Perry's house approaches, she grips Annie's hand harder, like it's the anchor to her boat. "I'll see you tomorrow, my l—"

Perry sharply inhales. That was a close one. The thing is, even though she's been dating Annie for just over a year and a half, she's yet to tell her that she loves her. It may be obvious that the feeling is mutual, but what if Annie isn't ready to say it back? Their relationship is the best thing that Perry's ever had. She can't afford to risk it.

"Your what?"

"My lady." Perry presses a kiss on Annie's cheek. "Thanks for walking me."

"It's my pleasure." Annie lets go of her hand. "See you tomorrow, my—" For a brief moment, Annie hesitates, and Perry wonders, is she going to say the infamous l-word? "My lady — yeah, that sounds right."

Apparently not, but that's completely fine. After all, she and Annie have the rest of their lives to say "I love you" to each other. As she slips her key into the house's lock, Perry's already excited to see Annie once more.

—

It all happened so fast.

One second, Perry was enjoying a quick breakfast of raspberry jam and toast. The next, the smoke detectors in her house started blaring, and her mother started shouting, "Run!"

The whole neighborhood was ablaze, people running out of their houses screaming Bloody Mary as fire hopped from house to house. Perry screamed too. There wasn't much she knew, just that she had to go as far away as possible.

By the next morning, she found her way to the next village over and now sits dejectedly on a park bench with a newspaper in her hands. The biggest headline reads: Wildfire In Mandevilla—No Survivors.

(She should've checked back to see if her family got out of the neighborhood safely. She should've checked if Annie was okay too, but her house was from the same direction the flames were coming from.)

(Perry should've done anything but run away without looking out for the people around her, but she didn't, all because she wanted to survive. Tragedies bring out selfishness, don't they?)

She doesn't get why she has to be the only one left. There's nothing left for her, not even her and Annie's garden. Oh, Perry's going to be sick. Even if this park's natural beauty has been completely untouched, freshly planted flowers and towering grapevines, it all feels wrong without somebody to share it with.

The camellia Annie gave her is still in Perry's hair, now the only proof that she ever had the experience of being loved. But within the next few days, it will rot, just like everything else in her life.

—

The maggots must've gotten to the apples overnight.

A basket looped in her arm, Perry carefully stands atop a step stool and twists one off the tree. Parts of its skin have turned brown and wrinkly, and there's a small hole running through its left side. She sighs and tosses it to the ground, then brushes through the trees, only to find another rotting right to the core.

She doesn't get it. Yesterday, she sprayed down the trees with pesticides, just like her boss told her to. Perry has no idea what was in that spray bottle, just that it clearly didn't work. It's annoying and inconvenient, but she's not that surprised.

The past four years, ever since the wildfire, it's felt like there's something out there playing tricks on her. Nothing ever goes her way anymore, and it's getting exhausting. Still, Perry can't find it in herself to be fully discouraged — at least she's alive, right?

Perry knows that's a really pathetic way of viewing things, but it's the truth. The fact she's alive is just about everything she has, even if she wishes more than anything that she could have something more.

The fields could definitely be worse, though. Normally, Perry doesn't need to spend that much time on her knees, and all of the trees make for plenty of shade. The skies are almost always blue here, even as summer comes to a close.

As she runs around the tree, getting rid of the bad apples (no pun intended), she's able to fade into a comfortable monotony. Everything is better like this — Perry doesn't have to think.

(Because whenever she does, she sees the same things over and over again. Mounting flames interwoven with pictures of Annie's face and that toothy smile she thought she'd get to see for the rest of her life. Her family utterly terrified as they realize they're going to die and their unplanned youngest child won't.)

Minutes fade to hours when she's in this mindset, and before Perry knows it, she feels someone sternly tapping on her back. She turns around, and it's her boss, Mrs. Stamen, who asks, "What'd you get done today?"

"Um—" Slightly startled, Perry grabs onto the tree. "Hi, Mrs. Stamen! H-how long have you been there?"

"Only a few seconds," she replies, a cheery look on her face. Perry doesn't understand how an old lady like her could be so happy even after living through an entire war, but she doesn't dare question her and her wrinkles that look like smiles.

"Hi," Perry repeats herself.

"Yes, hello." Mrs. Stamen sighs the tiniest bit. "I asked, what did you get done today?"

It's gotten increasingly difficult for Perry to socialize, but that really isn't her fault. It's just sort of what happened when she moved out of the community home she spent her first months after the fire in and started squatting in different houses until she proved herself to be a valuable enough worker that the field owners assigned her a small shack to call home. Now that she lives alone, she doesn't have much of a reason to talk to anybody, and she honestly prefers it that way. It's not like she could actually speak to the people from whom she wishes she could hear from once again.

Perry shows Mrs. Stamen her basket, now overflowing with all the ripe apples she was able to find. "A lot of other apples were rotten with maggots."

"Didn't you spray them down yesterday?"

"I did, but this happened anyway." Perry nods. "I don't know why."

"Eh, that's what happens when the Capitol stops sending us their good pesticides," Mrs. Stamen says with a shrug. "They complain that the fruit and veggies taste bad, even though their stuff caused it. I tried to make a natural version, but it clearly didn't work."

"I'm so sorry to hear that." Stepping down from the stool, Perry balances herself and extends a hand toward her boss. "You deserve better than this."

"You don't need to tell me that."

"I know, but I still said it. I want you to be happy." Perry puts her hand away since Mrs. Stamen doesn't seem to want anything to do with it. "If you ever need somebody to talk to, I'm here for you."

"You've made that very clear, Perry, but quite frankly, I think you're the one who needs somebody to talk to." A fair observation, but who would that even be? "Are you doing okay?"

Probably not, but again, at least she's not dead.

"Of course," Perry says. "I'm perfectly fine."

"That's what I like to hear." Mrs. Stamen smiles. "I'll see you tomorrow.

—

Her new garden is hardly anything compared to Annie's or her parents'. The planters are basically made of cardboard, and she doesn't have a good variety of seeds, but at least it's hers.

As the sun rises, Perry trims the leaves from her newest batch of camellias. Even if the soil she uses hardly has any nutrients, they still blossom beautifully. Annie taught her that anything could grow if given enough love, and even if "love" means having to use some of her hard-earned water, it's a sacrifice Perry is willing to make if it means making the world a little bit more beautiful.

She sighs — damn, she misses Annie. She would know exactly what to say to get Perry out of this everlasting mental rut, but it's been so long that she doesn't fully remember what the other girl's voice sounded like. At this point, she'd even take her parents over being alone.

Perry knows she's written a self-fulfilling prophecy by isolating herself, but it's still not something she's happy with. There's just… so much that she dreams about, and none of it will come true. After all, she thought she had a love for the ages. How does she live without it?

She uses a clothespin to poke a small hole in the top of her water bottle — she only gets ten a week, and her house's only running water is in the bathroom. Occasionally, it comes out brown. If it's not good enough for her to drink, it's not good enough for her flowers.

Carefully, she squeezes the bottle and sprays at the roots of the flowers. She pats the soil and starts to hum a soft melody. That's what Annie did, after all.

Sometimes, she thinks she's being ridiculous for being so strung up on a relationship that began when she wasn't even a teenager, but she knows that it was still meaningful. After all, Perry was built to be in love, not just with other people but with the world itself.

So, even if her world feels so unbearably gray from time to time, she's still determined that she'll one day find the good in it. If she doesn't, she might as well have died in the fire. But she didn't, and that has to be for a reason.

Omg can't believe Thana came back from the dead to inconvenience the next D11F I write. Jk it was a wildfire, probably.

That was the sad chapter. Hope you were sad. Thanks to Xavi for Shiloh, Cora for Moose (I'm not going to correct that because I laughed), and Jamie for Perry.

For the next two weeks, chapters will have 4 intros each. Cool.

Q: What's ur plan to vote if you're American. If you're not, how will you make fun of America on tuesday?

Linds. Laugh. Love.