They say that home is where the heart is, but as far as I'm concerned, there is no heart in this house. There is good people, but there is no heart. There's hardly any home. Even on the brightest days, I can't seem to pull myself into the beliefs that this is where I'm meant to be. This can't be where I'm meant to be! I don't want it to be. Area 16 is full of many kind hearts, but there are bad hearts more so than there are good. Everybody here is broken. Every living soul in Area 16 is shattered into dozens of pieces on the ground and refuse to put themselves back together. We all share the same emotions... guilt, regret, sorrow, self pity... nobody is happy here. In fact, I don't think anybody has or ever will be happy in Area 16 - especially not me. But, like the rest of my family, I must tie myself together with a smile and go about my day. Like I am right now - tied together with a smile, struggling to drag myself through my life. But it doesn't matter how I feel, it never will matter how I feel. It only matters how the Protectors of the Peace feel. If they are satisfied with the Areas, we have to be satisfied too... or at least act like we are. If they are not satisfied, then they can kill off an entire Area. Luckily, that hasn't happened in the last fifty years. But they have killed off thousands of lives recently. In fact, the Protectors of the Peace are credited with over two hundred assassinations within the last ten years. They may say that they are all about protecting the fragile thing that is peace, but all they do is destroy it. I wish everything could be different. I wish that I could just escape the society and run away to a far, hidden land. But sadly, that will never happen.
I inhale the thin air, and as I exhale, I approach the dining table. My eyes shift in every direction because deep within my heart, this doesn't and never will feel like home.
"Good morning, Briar." Avril tells me.
I fake a smile, "Good morning," I tell her, even though it's a horrid morning.
I sit down at the table with my legs crossed and my hands in my lap. Every once and a while, my eyes glance towards Avril, but then shift away when she notices.
"You don't have to do that," she assures me.
"Yes, I know," I tell her, "but you know that I'm shy,"
"Yes, I know," she mimics and then watches mom poor the tea into the glasses. The tea is hot. The steam floats in a rapid motion above the cup. Mom sets the scorching teacups onto her fine china tray and carries it to the table. She places it right in the center and Avril sets the little bags of sugar next to each up. The oatmeal looks hot as well, but when the spoon comes in contact with your mouth, it's nearly warm.
My father paces around the stairwell hallway and straightens his tie. He kisses my mom on the cheek and takes his place at the dinning table. We all join hands and bow our heads in prayer.
"Dear Lord," Avril starts, "thank you for blessing us with life and shelter. Thank you for taking care of us a watching over us with your tender hands. Please bless the food and the nourishment of our bodies, and in Jesus' name, Amen,"
"Amen," we echo. We release grip and we hover our napkins over our laps. We grab our teacups from the china tray and we take a few sips. We pick up our silverware and dip our spoons into the oatmeal; well, all except for me. I gaze outside the window, the teardrops of the clouds are still pounding hard against the pane, but the grey is clearing up. You can almost see sunlight. Almost. I shift my eyes away from the windowsill and I play with my food.
"What's wrong, Briar?" my mother asks, "did you dislike the meal?"
My father and Avril stare at me and I exhale. "No, the meal was satisfying," I start, "I'm just not very hungry at the moment," I say.
