X/Blind, undaunted hope/X {Sarella}

SUZANNE LORENSE

[/font][/size][/center]

Looking down from the roof of the District Hall onto the square below, I get an idea of how my father feels as he makes his speeches. If I were to stand up now and shout down to the market, undoubtedly every single person would look up and listen. The tiny, bustling figures seem so inferior from up here, insignificant and unrecognisable, and I am instilled with a proud sense of command that runs down the Lorense family. But that’s not why I’m here. I’m not looking for respect, not making and announcement; I am not my father. I just sit behind the elaborate, yet crumbling, architecture of this building, in the shadows, and wait for the crowds to thin below me.

The irony of this hiding spot often draws me here before I go to get supplies for Mother: while the citizens go about their daily life, they unconsciously hope to see someone worth seeing. I, however, always hope to remain unseen, but stay clandestine somewhere I could so easily be sought. They must be blind not to find me here. I kneel up, balancing myself precariously behind the head of a pillar, and sneak a glance at the shops below. Most of the crowd is dispersing, heading home at the end of another standard day in District Seven. The whining of saws from the Woods has dulled considerably, replaced by the occasional thump of an axe, wielded by a desperate lumberjack hoping for a bonus. If only they could hear what my father says about them, I think, grinning as I recall the way my father regards such ‘hooligans’.

I notice a reasonably empty part of the market, and immediately start to shuffle towards the back of the Hall. Gripping onto tendrils of vine that are not uncommon on old buildings like this one, I swing one leg over my ledge and fumble blindly for a moment as I try to find a foothold. Succeeding quickly, I lower myself down cautiously to the highest window sill, knuckles white with the stress of clinging the worn bricks of our beloved District’s Hall. It wouldn’t look good for Mitchil Lorense’s daughter to be found, broken and bloodied, in a heap on the ground. I take extra care descending, when it is difficult to see what I am doing.

I found that I could scale the Hall when I was twelve, and the first Reaping had lead me to really realise how alone our family was. Spare my sister, Angel, everyone stared as the next Lorense girl faced the dangers of chance. Not even when the female tribute’s name was called did anyone take their eyes, or subjects of conversation, off me. My father and mother looked severe and cold when curious parents asked them how it felt to have all this attention, but my father’s dignity was still intact as he gave the same neutral answer to each person, as he had for all of my elder siblings in turn: ”It would be an honour to have a Lorense in the Games. Suzanne would surely make us as proud as any of our children would.”

[/b] But did anyone external come to comfort me when I cried into Angel’s dress as our Escort stepped onto the platform? No, the Lorenses remained an island, superior to everyone else, connected only by the fear of death that lurked so close on Reaping Day.

And so I found my next secret place, where no one could intrude like they did in my glade, and stayed up there until all my tears had gone.

Now, when I have faced wide eyes and false compliments as part of my daily routine, I use it as a way of spotting holes in the crowd, where I can slip into shops unnoticed, like I plan to do today. Shimmying down the final drainpipe that leads to the solid earth, I snap back out of my thoughts and edge round the side of the building. Now is my chance. Head down, shoulders hunched, I walk briskly out of my hiding spot and into the bright evening sun of the District Square. This way, though I am blind to where I am going, I am able make a beeline to the first shop I can visit, on the other side of the market.

However, no sooner am I heading swiftly towards the promising emptiness I have spotted, then I have collided head first with someone too blind to see me, and am sprawled on the ground like in all my fears. Scrambling to my feet again, and cradling my scratched palms, I scowl at the girl who still lies in front of me.[/font]

”Watch where you’re going, moron. Are you blind?” But as my squinted eyes travel up her face, and meet her milky, clouded irises, I know I shouldn’t have said it.

For there’s nothing I could have said that would be more accurate.[/font][/size][/blockquote][/blockquote][/justify]