Dear Judas,
I've finally realized all of my mistakes. Everything that I thought I wanted, that I tried so hard to get, is actually more of a nightmare than a dream. Someone once told me that a life without fame is a good life. But fame without a life isn't a life at all. I just there's a truth to that. Maybe a brutal truth but one all the same. I've been so busy that I've had no time to reflect on anything else. I suppose that it's better that way. Now that I've finally got a second to slow down, my head won't shut up.
Last year, a few months after I left the arena, your father and I relocated to a house more towards the middle of the Capitol. It made all the traveling easier. I was constantly in interviews, at parties and then there was the Victor's Tour around all of the Districts. You wouldn't believe what everything looked like. Mountains, land for miles to see and not a single bit of marble or gold to see. I actually fell in love with everything and coming home was more painful than I thought it would be. You see, I started to learn with the quiet of a world where people care, comes serenity. Where there is noise, bustling without a care in the world for other people, there is only sadness and a prison inside of your own mind.
Everything changed, more than I was prepared for. The world of fame is a dark place, Judas and no one truly loves you. They admire you for what you've done but when you turn away, their true thoughts come out and they whisper about your murderous deeds. They write you death threats and wish for your cold heart to break so you can finally join the rest of your demons in hell. They stalk you, watch you through your bedroom window and share the most intimate moments with the world. Your life becomes a show, a joke to them and you have no time to yourself.
The cameras seek out every bit of your life, squeeze the happiness out of you until you're just a wrung out shell of a human. I suppose this is what everyone told me when they said it wasn't worth it. I'm a star now and I no longer wonder what it's like to be blinded by stage lights. For a moment, in the brightness of those lights, you have a moment to yourself and the only thing you can do is beg yourself to stay strong.
Your father left me for a younger woman. It was all over the news and I guess I got him what he wanted. You were my scapegoat and I was is. Funny how those types of things work. It's a vicious cycle and it won't stop. I wish I wasn't a part of it. I wish I hadn't lost your father to some bimbo with rainbow coloured hair and cat eyes.
I guess what I'm trying to say here is that you were right. Fame isn't worth the life that you lose to get there. I want to go back, redo absolutely everything and keep you. I want to hold you close and tell you that I love you at every possible moment. I want to watch you grow up because those damned thirty pieces of silver weren't worth seeing you as a child and then losing you to someone else.
For a while, I hoarded my money and used it for self-medicating things like alcohol and all those drugs on the market. I guess I wanted to be seen as damaged. The attention made me happy but when I lost Keith, I started to realize how nothing is here forever unless it leaves the right kind of mark. I straightened up and I'm no longer seen as a woman partying with kids her son's age.
I'm trying to repair the damage I've done but its hard when all the damage is in your head, in a grave or miles away in some other woman's bed. I think, maybe now you'll be proud of me. I've started an organization that gives orphans a home. We give them education and health care as well as excessive training for the games. The donations are outstanding but part of me thinks that it's for the training. Still, it's nice to know that I'm giving back to the community.
I've named the foundation the Judas Center. It's the least I could do. The building is marble, one of the least expensive materials that we could use. An engraving of your face is on the door, along with our story. I told the truth this time, about us. How you were only trying to survive, how all you wanted was our love and approval and all we did was destroy everything in our path to get what we wanted. This all made it into the Capitol Daily and they asked for an interview. That was the first interview that I declined. I didn't want to be in the eyes of the public right then. It didn't feel right.
I'm trying to make everything better. And I've finally found time to keep my promise to you. I'm taking you to the house where you were born. I'm going to show you around and then I'm going to lay you where you belong. I'm going to Hell and you'll be in Heaven. But just know that after all this time, I've learned something things. Blood is thicker than water and I love you more than you'll ever know.
Your Mother Always,
Anna Smith
-
I've grown accustomed to the sounds of fame. A chatter here and there as I walk past a group of people, a single camera shutter from the bushes or a thousand of them at a red carpet event. This sound I haven't been used to. I haven't heard it since the last few moments in the arena. It is silence, the sound of a fragile mind breaking of the realization that it is finally over. Not a cough, not a wheeze from a crowd breaks this silence.
My hands are covered with dirt, a small pile upended next to a silver headstone and a tree. I've dug a small hole, just the right depth for a glass jar the size of a cup. The glass jar is open, lying in the grass between my knees. There are three things going in this jar: a picture, a necklace and my letter. They call this kind of thing a time capsule. Although I know I won't want to ever look at this again, I find this kind of comforting. I know he won't read it but I know that someone will and they'll understand. Maybe they'll forgive me for my crimes.
From the confinements of the picture, a nineteen-year-old Judas grins at me. His hair is wild, eyes bright and vibrant with excitement. His arm is draped around the two things I've become most jealous of since I set eyes on the photo. His adopted sister, Cannery and one of his tigers. The same locket that is in my hands is around his neck, the chain just barely visible beneath his shirt.
I'm jealous because he never smiled like that at me. He never once wrapped his arms around me and laughed at the world like a fearless child. I never got to see the joy that possessed him when he was among those who loved him. I was always the nagging bitch in the back of his mind, whispering that he was never good enough for me. I'm jealous because I had to beg his adopted mother for the picture and it isn't even the original photo. If I'd kept him, I wouldn't have begged. His smile would be for me and his father. His arms would maybe be around two younger siblings. He wouldn't be rotting in the ground below my feet.
I don't want to give up this locket. His blood has stained the hair and turned it a dark brown and rusted onto the thin paper beneath. His hair is still preserved beneath the cracked glass and if I look hard enough, I can see his face staring back at me. But it's time to give him up. I've held on far too long, much longer than I deserve.
My hands shake as I place the locket in the glass jar. The letter follows, the ink smears from caressing and alcohol infused tears. After that, the picture of my son is placed inside. I take a moment to place this inside, kissing the young and happy face before tucking the photo between the letter and the glass. I don't want to close the lid but I do anyway and carefully place the jar into hole I've dug. The dirt covers my sins but I know they're still there.
When I die, I'll still be trying to fix my mistakes. Remorse is the poison of life and it is eating me up.
YOU ARE READING
Writer Games | Masquerade of Martyrs & Family Ties
ActionWriter Games: Masquerade of Martyrs: last updated February 3 2015 Writer Games: Family Ties: last updated April 14 2015 Reuploaded with permission from AEKersey 2019