Cobalt Gorrson: Just Another Day [No longer open!]

Voices still raged as the front door slammed, the sound reverberating and echoing slightly in the afternoon air. Sun was out, little white clouds fluttered across the sky, lazy and peaceful. Screw that. He took the steps down two at a time, his shoes tapping a light rhythm as he moved easily down the winding stairs. He shook the sleeves of his shirt off his elbows and used the wrist section of his left sleeve to dab at the blood that was flowing freely from his nose. The blood was dripped onto the front of his shirt, and it was clear as sunlight that once again- his father had kicked his ass. It would probably bruise leaving the bridge of his nose black and purple - just lovely.

Let him rage, let him drink himself into a coma, Rowan seethed as he took a seat on the bottom step, his knees bent almost to his chest. Lyle had come home drunker than usual, he'd screamed something unintelligible at Ruth and made to move towards her. Rowan was getting faster, he'd crossed the space in half the time and landed the first punch - square in his father's jaw. The man had reeled for a moment, stunned that his young, weakling of a son had landed such a blow against him. His knuckles were still throbbing. Then Lyle had roared and lunged at the boy. They went rolling along the floor, and Lyle had been sure to land blows on Rowan's face and especially on his bad shoulder. He was starting to get used to the feeling of pain, but those little shards of glass still ached as they dug into the muscle. Rowan had wrestled to his feet and been greeted by a fist in the face. It had sent stars through his vision.

"You'll never be nothin' boy! The drunkard had roared, stumbling towards his son on unsteady feet, his eyes wild with spirits, "You ain't no son of mine! You ain't worth nothing boy!"

He roared again as he lashed out at the concrete step, sending more sharp pain through his fingers. He swore loudly and then just glowered at the street. He hated Sundays, hated that he couldn't be in the workshop, hated that his father wasn't at work, either way he'd have peace and quiet. He could either work on his assignment or he could have worked on his own little inventions - especially the automatic can opener he wanted to complete for his mother. Sometimes she had difficulty opening them - he just wanted to make life easier for her. That's what all of his inventions did, made things better. If only you were still here, if only you were sitting across the street, smiling at me like you always did...

He couldn't stop the sorrow that welled up in his chest, couldn't stop the tears that threatened behind his eyelids. He wouldn't cry out here, in the open where any passerby could see. Rowan had spent too long being weak, too long being looked down on. She'd been the only person to see worth in him, the only person to lay back and look up at the clouds with him, the only other person - it seemed - in all of District 3 who dreamed like he did. God how he missed her, how he wished she was here. Why hadn't anyone else volunteered? Why couldn't someone else's name been pulled?

Pulling himself together, Rowan looked up, the chilly breeze ruffling his black hair, though his customary knitted black hat kept the cold off the tops of his ears. He scanned the streets, mostly empty now, but he saw somebody he recognized. He knew the kid from school - or at least he thought he did. They were in the same class most of the time, and this guy had been one of the few who'd never been mean or vicious towards Rowan, and there were only a handful of people that could fall into that category. From the look on his face, it looked like it hadn't been an easy day for him either.

"Hey," Rowan called when the guy was within ear shot, feeling slightly awkward once the words were off his lips, they weren't friends, not really even acquaintances, but he's already initiated a conversation. He could feel the dried blood under his nose and slightly on his lips, he must have looked like hell, "Rough day for you too?

I used to be quite resilient
Gained no strength from counting the beads on a rosary
And now the wound has begun to turn,
Another lesson that has gone unlearned
But this is not a cry for pity or for sympathy


"I've seen you before. What's your name again? Riley or something?" Rowan had to admit, he was pretty impressed, the guy got the first letter right at the very least. Most people just called him some type of bird, which would piss him off and would lead to him attempting to walk away which always just ended in him getting his ass kicked again - and he'd already had one beat down today. How could another one hurt? This guy acted like a career, but it wasn't just brawn that survived in that arena - it took a hell of a lot of brains too.

"Rowan actually, but you were close enough," He shrugged nonchalantly as he dabbed at his nose again, it had pretty much stopped bleeding by now, the clot forming. He was amazed his damn nose hadn't broken by now, it'd been hit enough times by enough people at enough different angles. The silence that passed between them then seemed a little awkward, and he couldn't help but filling it. "Sucks about your wrist."

Don't be shy, you can't be alone forever, Row, Her voice whispered in his mind, and it wasn't the first time this had happened to him. She always seemed to be with him, even if she had been destroyed in the Capital's madness. "Your name's Cole or something, right? One of the guys who likes to think he's a career?"

Probably not my smartest choice of words...

"The Careers? Those twits don't get that they're going to die; that they're training for their deaths. Unless they're ridiculously lucky, but they're usually not." He desperately tried to hold in the small snort the always accompanied his laughter, but his attempt failed and sent blood spattering slightly onto his shirt front. He cursed slightly and held his sleeve back up to his nose as he shook his head. His laughter was slightly hollow though. The Games almost seemed made for the careers, because in the end, the people who had the most amount of supplies almost always won. Not to mention the fact that traditionally career won the whole damn contest - even if they didn't win they typically had the most amount of kills. Rowan frowned at his next statement. The world's only cruel to those who lay down and accept their fate.


"You want to go see those ridiculous Careers chop each other into pieces?" Rowan saw the regret cross Cobalt's face the moment the words were out of his mouth. At least the guy has some humanity. Rowan took a minute to think,Do I want to watch the games? I haven't seriously watched them since she was in them. His chest tightened slightly as he thought once again of how she'd been taken from him, whisked away to the capital, put on display like a doll and then thrown out to the wolves. She'd deserved better than that, she'd deserved more than those pigs had given her. He felt the anger rising in her chest, and he grabbed his sore nose slightly, wincing as he redirected his anger and turned it against his father.

Stop being so afraid. You can't live your life in fear, that's what they want...

"I'm not usually one to watch the games, and I don't usually care who wins because it'll never be someone I know," Rowan said pointedly as he eased himself off the step and stood, stretching his bad shoulder. It was aching terribly, and a fiery pain was emanating from the little shards of shrapnel that were still buried under his skin. "I just don't want that creep Julian to win, I don't want to pretend that I like him on their stupid victory tour."