Northen Winds(South)

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I find myself wishing that I'd had the forethought to bring a jacket the instant I step outside the doors of the Training Center. Even though it's March and Springtime is supposed to be right around the corner, the night air is freezing as it whips across my body, the skin exposed by my simple training ensemble of khaki cargo shorts and a black tank top erupting into a plethora of goosebumps. The frigid wind cools the sweat that still lingers on my body and in my hair, serving only to make me even colder. I'll have to cut through the woods to get home, because I'll surely get sick from exposure to the chilly wind if I take the long way.

It's been a bad day. This is all I can dwell on as I shuffle down the wooded path towards home, stray branches snagging in the messy bun of brown curls piled on the top of my head. An unacceptable grade of B+ on my last Psysics test had invoked my parents' displeasure this morning, resulting in them withholding my medicine for the day, a punishment which is becoming steadily more frequent. While I haven't had any seizures (a fact that is a miracle in itself), the other side-effects of my epilepsy, the horrible headaches and the slight disorientation of thoughts, have been hitting me hard. My head was throbbing when I got out of school, and it only got worse once I got to the Training Center. I tried my best to deal with the pain and dizziness all evening, but all of my sparring partners had noticed the change.

"What's the matter with you, Corinne?"

[/b][/color] they'd all said, looking at me questioningly but clearly not concerned for my welfare. As it should be, Careers aren't supposed to give a damn about anyone but themselves, and I was only holding them back by putting up a substandard fight. "You're not at the top of your game tonight. You sick?"[/b][/color]

It was obvious that I couldn't tell them the truth, that I was in fact feeling a little under the weather due to the fact that I have a disease that gives me horrible seizures and my parents frequently deny me my medication as punishment for my imperfections. If anyone were to find out that the youngest Brightman child had such a debilitating disorder, it would ruin my family's spotless reputation. I was expected to leave the room if I ever felt a seizure coming on, go find a private place to suffer in silence. It had always been difficult to do this is school, but I'd made it work, a small sacrifice to preserving the Brightman legacy. The Brightmans don't produce imperfect children. Just look at Neva, the flawless little Victor with her pretty face and endearing charm and vicious fighting skills. How could her parents possibly create a failure?

Gritting my teeth at the thought of my arrogant and obnoxious sister, I stomp up the path with a bit more force, knocking overhanging branches out of my way as my watery green eyes narrow slightly in a spitefulness that punctures my usually emotionless facade. It's Neva's fault I have to live like this, Neva's fault for setting an impossible standard of perfection that I can never match up to. Neva's fault that my parents will never truly love me, the second-best child, their eternal disappointment.

"Corinne, these grades are pathetic. How can you be so lazy as to bring home a B? Neva never had a B in her life."

"Corinne, go put on some makeup for God's sake. You're not Neva, you can't just walk around and look pretty without trying. When you have a substandard amount of beauty you have to do something to make yourself presentable."

"I don't care that you just had a seizure, Corinne, you're going to training. Your weapons instructor tells me that you've fallen short in your progress with throwing knives. That's how Neva won the Games, you can't fall short in something so important."

"Why can't you be like your sister, Corinne? Why must you disappoint us time and time again? You're a disgrace."[/b][/color]

My teeth are chattering with cold and barely-concealed rage as I break through the densely-wooded trail into a large clearing with a single tree in the center. The bare branches make quite a clatter as I crash through them, but I can't bring myself to notice. I'm almost to the other side and back into the woods when the voice pierces the clear night air. "Hello?"[/b][/color]

I freeze for a moment, shock and uncertainly making me temporarily catatonic. Finally, my training kicks in and my hand flies blindly to the thin leather holster strapped to my hip, quickly removing one of four fine throwing knives and gripping the blade firmly. On your first day of Career training, one of the bigger boys walks up to you, smiles and converses with you jovially for a few minutes, and then sucker-punches you in the stomach so hard that you can't breathe no matter how hard you try to. He then backs you up against the wall and snarls in your face "Rule number one: Assume the worst in people. No one is really your friend, and they are looking out for themselves. Disregarding this simple fact will be your death should you ever go to the Games."[/b][/color]

It's a lesson that no one ever forgets, especially me, who lives through that fact every day in a family that is more concerned about their appearance than my well-being. The other person in this clearing could be harmless, or they could be a mugger or a murderer or worse. As long as I place my bet on the latter and keep my guard up, I will be safe. I breathe in deeply, the words flowing over my lips in a puff of white vapor, crystallized by the cold air. "Who's there? Show yourself!"[/blockquote][/color][/size]

"I’m sitting under the tree, you ninny!"

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A small scowl works its way onto my face, and I grip the blade of my knife a little tighter. I’m used to insults, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy them. Forcing my expression back to its default emotionless mask, I cautiously take a few steps toward the shadowy figure emerging from the large willow’s leafy embrace. He looks slightly familiar, a bit taller than me with blondish hair and eyes that glint through the surrounding darkness. Perhaps I’ve seen him at school or the Training Center before? Throwing the boy a wary look, I still hold my blade in a position where I can fling it easily.

He draws a bit closer, seemingly brushing off his earlier snappish remark. "I'm sorry, you'll have to forgive me, I can be quite mean at times. I just spit out the first thing that comes into my head." [/b][/color]

"I don’t have to forgive you for anything," I reply dully, fixing him with an unfeeling gaze. My voice is flat, emotionless, and soft, the tone lying somewhere between soprano and alto, so quiet that I’d be inaudible if it weren’t for the eerie quiet pervading the clearing. Despite my less-than-kind retort, I deem that he’s not enough of a threat to require me to have a weapon on hand, so I quietly slip the throwing knife back into its leather sheath. I don’t even want to be having a conversation with this boy right now, the best course of action would be to turn around and head for home. A snap of especially cool wind serves as a testament to this judgment, making the remaining sweat on my bare shoulders turn even more clammy and uncomfortable. I’m just begging to catch a cold the longer I stay out here, and I know that my parents will make me soldier through school and training, sick or not.

I’m just beginning to turn around and walk away when he speaks again, his voice louder and more grating than my own hushed tones. "Where are my manners? My name is Markus. May I ask what your name might be?"

I quirk a dark eyebrow at him, taken aback by his abrupt switch from insults to pleasantries. Briefly, I wonder if he might be bipolar or something of the sort before I remind myself that I shouldn’t care, seeing as I’m about to walk off and never speak to him again in all likelihood. Still, common courtesy dictates that I can’t just snub him all together, so I turn back toward him and offer my hand.

"Corinne," I say cooly, meeting his gaze with my own unfeeling one. I don’t bother to mention my surname; he didn’t give me his and I’d rather not go around telling every person I meet that I’m a Brightman. The statement would inevitably be followed with a reply of “Neva Brightman’s sister?” that would only serve to make me irritated, a slight flinch or frown working its way through my neutral façade against my will. No, it’s just best that we leave things on a first name basis.

"Sorry for almost knifing you." The apology is flat and toneless, but sincere. He obviously doesn’t mean to do me harm, that much is clear if we’re exchanging somewhat friendly introductions. That said, I go to turn around again, setting off at a brisk pace across the clearing. "Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s cold and I need to be getting home."

I’m almost on the other side of the clearing and into the woods when the sensation hits me, an intense nausea gripping my stomach and oppressive pressure bearing down on me from all sides. It’s the age-old precursor of a seizure, and the realization that I’m in close proximity to another person who has the potential to discover my secret roots me to the spot in terror. Fighting the tremors that are already starting in my hands, I take off into the foliage with as much speed as my deteriorating body can give me. I only make it about fifty feet up the path before my legs collapse and my body fully succumbs to the seizure, my consciousness slipping away as my entire being shakes uncontrollably. The last desperate thought I’m able to muster before everything goes black is half-formed, the plea echoing in the silence of my own mind.

Please… please don’t let anyone see me like this… [/color][/blockquote][/size]