My Own Personal Hunger Games

Leaves poke their heads hesitantly through the tree bark like Punxatony Phil on Groundhog’s day. There was still a chill in the air, but it's been sweetened with pollen and honey. The branches rustle making the static in my head audible to the world. I thought my thoughts were tethered to home but no--they’re tethered to me. 

I used to read a lot when I was a kid. Harry Potter, the Hunger Games, all the Y.A. classics. Books helped me fly out of this world and into another. Now, they have the opposite effect; books ground me. They root me to the Earth like the trees their pages came from. 

It’s been too long since I’ve read a book. 

The leftover snow crunching beneath my Columbian snow boots takes over the wind as the most dominant sound as I pick up speed. My theory is the louder the world is, the quieter I will be in relation. Just like the relationship between the Earth’s gravitational pull on me compared to mine on it: my mass is so small and insignificant. Even right now as my brisk walk turns into a jog, the Earth doesn’t move to me to meet my feet. I am not the center of the solar system. I am not the sun. 

I am a daughter. I am my mother’s daughter, leaving like this. My own daughter is at home sitting in her father’s Laz-E-Boy chair rocking herself for comfort. I can picture her with my cardigan around her shoulders, the landline pressed to her ear, the police on the other line asking when she last saw her parents who she says are missing. 

But I’m not missing. Because I don’t plan to be found. 

I have food for when I get hungry and water for when I get thirsty. One thing I didn’t consider on my voyage through the woods was getting bored. Gosh, I wish I brought a book. Not the most practical but maybe it could double as a pillow when I finally set up camp. 

There are plenty of places to build a camp like the clearings between trees but that is far too obvious. Anyone who is following my prints in the mud would be led right to me. My dear Katniss inspires my next move. 

I scope out a thick tree with a relatively low first branch and walk twenty or so paces beyond it. Then, with caution, I walk backwards in my exact tracks all the way to the trunk. Now the prints appear to just stop like I vanished in thin air. A smile across my face at my own cleverness. Of course this idea was not an original but borrowed from the end of The Shining where the boy's father is chasing him through a maze with an ax. 

With a sharp exhalation, I hoist myself on to the low branch and scale the tree. By the time I reach a high enough point, my hands are covered in blisters. Maybe if I’m amiable enough enough my sponsors will send me some ointment to prevent infection. 

I smile at the cameras in the trees. I hope our show gets a good rating on rotten tomatoes. I think it deserves at least an 80 as of right now. Should I try to appeal more to the critics or to the public? Trick question: both. 

I love trick questions. And riddles, and words puzzles, and even witty banter. And puns. Puns are my favorite! Have you ever played Scrabble? I’m a serious boss at Scrabble. Maybe Oprah can have me on her show after this and we could play a little Scrabble. Maybe Ellen will buy me a life-sized Scrabble board. I’d probably have to reject the gift though. I can’t stand Ellen. 

I also couldn’t stand my husband either. That’s why I’m still standing and he’s lying in a grave. Well, is it still considered lying if your limbs are dismantled from your body? 

The Shining guy taught me some good ax wielding techniques. 

Being a law secretary, I don’t use those kinds of outdoorsy skills on a regular basis. I wish I took a gardening class. I could’ve had a real knack for it. Oh well. Being in the real world is life’s best education. And now I’m in a world as real as it can get. No more getting coffees… no more coffee at all (unless of course I stumble upon a coffee bean tree… do coffee beans grow on trees? Maybe I should’ve read more science journals and less science fiction). 

Sometimes I wonder if I’m a fictional character. I can’t fathom how my life choices are choices of my own. It always feels like there's a feather quill pointing the way, nudging me this way and that. A manuscript, a game plan of sorts that has my course already planned out. A map that has a twisty line connecting point A to point B with a big X marking the spot. 

If I was a fictional character, that would explain why there are always eyes on me. Always watching. That would also explain my husband’s attitude. Maybe I’m on the Truman show and he was just an actor that wasn’t getting paid enough to deal with me nicely. That’s okay. I dealt with him. 

And then comes the blame game. 

Is Truman’s father to blame for producing the show? Are the viewers to blame for supporting it? Certainly Truman is the victim. He was put in this situation as a baby without a voice, without knowledge, lied to and manipulated and put on display for the world to see. So if Truman committed a crime, per se, I wouldn’t consider that his fault. Merely the fault of his situation especially the fault of those who orchestrated his artificial situation. 

But my situation isn’t artificial. It's as real as the branch beneath my bottom and the trunk pressed against my back. As real as the wind in my ears and the snow on my boots. My heart is beating double, one beat for me and one beat for my husband. Maybe this is his revenge. Maybe I will have a heart attack and fall out of this tree. I wouldn’t mind that. Because then my blood would be on his hands as much as his is on mine.