The Unspoken Trio{Zoe, Kendall,Colti}

Whispers slipped out of my mouth like the breeze that guided my loose strands of hair to flutter around my head, crashing in my ears. My eyes remained fixed to the ground with each step I took, numbers escaping my lips every time I travelled over a crack in the pavement. Forty six, forty seven, forty eight, forty nine... I breathed, hopping over tile after tile as I crept away from school, disestablishing myself from the other students like I always used to. Counting was the only thing I was ever good at, really.

Continuing down my path with breaths of almost-subconscious counting, my mind began to drift. I thought of the Games, and how many fallen tributes I'd counted since last. "Twenty, twenty one, twenty two." Two tributes left, one to eventually go home. It saddened me to think that another life had to be lost, but selfishly, I was thankful that it wasn't me. Not that Aunt Emma would care, anyway - it was clear that I was practically invisible to her - but I valued my life, as everyone else in Panem did: be it Capitolite or Twelve resident. Everyone feared the Arena - except the bonkers Career Volunteers, but even they have traces of terror on their faces as I watch them, plastered against screens around Two for all to see, killing or being killed. With a shudder, I pushed the memories of dying faces out of my mind and continued forwards: boots tap, tap, tapping the pavement below me.

By now, I'd completely removed myself from the trails of teenagers who wandered out of the school down similar paths of my own. Instead of heading home, I decided to wander around for a bit instead. My counting of cracks stopped, and in it's place began window-counting instead. Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneight... I started, eyes darting over the surfaces of the buildings, offices and factories that I passed - each glassy square another point to the tally in my head. Gnawing at my lip and digging my hands into my jacket pockets as I did so, time seemed to exist in the flutter of birds wings as they flew over my head in the sky and the rhythmic thudding of feet, passing slowly. Eventually the window numbers became smaller and smaller until they disappeared altogether and my counting stopped (Four hundred and fifty eight), and I began to count the people I passed in their place. A smile appeared on my face as my finger bounced in curves in their air in front of me, checking off the people that walked down the sides of the footpaths on the opposite side of the roads.

One, two, threefourfive, six, seveneigh-

Before I knew it, I'd connected with something solid, quite possibly a wall - but it was too.... warm for a wall. In a shocked, instinctive manner, I jumped back to find two boys looking quite startled at me, guessing that I'd just walked into one of them. "S-Sorry" I stammered, numbers swept from my mind in an instance. "I... I wasn't watching where I was going. Sorry" I apologised again. It wasn't like me to apologise so often - but perhaps my recent thoughts had left my mood a little dampened. The last thing I needed was an unnecessary fight between two guys who could easily hurt me. When it came down to it, all the hurtful words in the world couldn't help me - in the Arena or not.

charla moss district three

describing [522A30] thinking [AB9397] talking [7D3B55]

To my surprise, the boy who greeted me did not seem to be offended. In an act of uncertainty I loosened my hunched, defensive posture - but only slightly, letting my shoulders bob down a little and arch my neck. Never, ever seem vulnerable. It was my way of life, how I’d survived all of these years. Let your guard down enough to get a good look, but pull it right back up before anyone could get a good look at you. Who you really were. A poor little orphaned girl who no-one wants.

Scraping my boot laded feet against the pathway below me, my words crashed into an awkward pause as the two boys began to speak. I was used to not saying much in conversation, but at least around my friends, I felt comfortable enough. Strangers were a different story altogether. Although a slight degree of it, there was some form of trust, concreteness, between myself and my friends. I’d gotten so used to being with them that they’d assured me I was welcome with them. Perhaps they’d just heard my story from whispered rumours that flew around school, or maybe they understood themselves – but everyone knew I was abandoned. Kicked around from house to house until I ended up hidden away on a shelf in a too-big house for a too-small girl, collecting dust – Aunt Emma grown bored of me a long time ago. Yeah. Probably felt sorry for me.

In my own assemble of thoughts, I almost missed entirely the question directed at me by the boy I’d walked into not a moment ago – Rex, he’d introduced – with a smile and an offer of a handshake. I returned it with a stiff hand and an odd gesture that was supposed to be something of a smile, forming words with my mouth. "Charla," I almost barked back. "Charla Moss." If only I could find ease in meeting strangers. It seemed so much easier when I watched others do it. How natural it came to them. With me, I was robotic and bland and would not come out to play from the shadows of my walls. Time and time again I’d told myself before I fell asleep that I would try harder, be better, make more effort – but such big ultimatums they were; and with creaks of the walls around me I would shiver, from not just the cold, and wonder if I would ever achieve these expectations of myself at all.

Rex had turned from the other boy and now looked back at me with another grin, something I was hardly used to obtaining from people I did not know so well. Usually it was looks of pity, or curious puzzlement, or a bit of both. He asked me if I came here often, and I answered back honestly with a light shrug. "Not really" I began, unsure of whether or not I should continue. Automatically I assumed that nobody really cared about my opinion except my friends. No-one really cares about me at all. But I answered regardless, pausing slightly to conjure up a reply that didn't make me sound odd.

"I just felt like a walk" I answered truthfully. Nothing too revealing, but it was an honest answer in itself. But didn't most just feel like a walk? Perhaps my choice of answer was a little cliche, but there was no point in changing my said. Often I wished I could snatch back words quicker than they'd left my tongue, but not now. I could be content with the truth this afternoon; though I never brushed with truth too often. Truth tended to want to hide from me, and I was determined to end that.