zero - arctic/frisson

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Zero was my favorite number. Often over looked on the number scale, always adding nothing to others or multiplying them down to nothing. That definition equated almost word for word to mine. And, to be less eloquently phrased, it was the number of how many fucks I gave.

I woke to springs whining underneath my weight. Cursing the old mattress beneath me, I rolled over as the squealing noises slowly loudened. A groan escaped my mouth and was pushed into my pillow; I was too tired to do anything but lay there until a hand touched my shoulder and a voice rang in my ears. "Honestly, Harper. Get up," Isaac whispered. "Mom and Dad will get mad again."

"Mom and Dad are always mad," I grumbled, but obliged. Tossing off the scratchy, thin blanket I cocoon myself in every night, I pushed myself into a  sitting position. Isaac glared at me, trying to look as angry as he could at me with his giant doe eyes. I had seen that look in my brother a thousand times, and it was no less laughable now.

"They wouldn't be mad if you would actually do some work. You know, sew? You can't just steal from people for the rest of your life."

"I do plenty of work, they just don't like it. And it's not stealing," I stood up, my feet making the weak floor boards creak. Isaac rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, and walked out of the room. He was already dressed, of course; He was probably awake two hours ago. Another example of how perfect he can be.

I pulled myself into my clothes with extreme and almost embarrassing lethargy. By that time, the sun was shining in through the window, washing the room in a bright yellow. As I brushed my hair mercilessly, I could pinpoint every speck of dust that freckled the air. I tried not to wince at every snapping sound that resounded from the teeth of my brush. Eventually, as I often did, I pulled my hair, half tangled and half untangled, into a bun.

"Are you going out stealing again?" My mother spat out stealing like it tasted horrible in her mouth. I shot her a look before continuing to eat my breakfast, which was some mush from the rations I took. Chewing it aggressively, I nodded. The horrible thing was, I didn't feel shame for admitting it. I felt shame for not feeling shame about pickpocketing. I did my best to ignore the you're-better-than-that look I got from my mom on a daily basis.

I exited the house feeling my father's eyes boring into the back of my head as he sat with a needle and thread in his hand. The air was warm and sticky, already forcing me to peel off the jacket I had put on. I was reduced to an overly large t-shirt. 

I was a wolf. The people were sheep. I stalked the edges of the town square, eyes darting from person to person. As I scanned through the citizens, I was sure I had found my pray.

He had a shock of brown hair and a wiry frame and looked harmless enough to me. I ran up to him in a panicked fashion, putting my hands on his shoulders. "Can you help me? I-I lost my brother and I can't find him," my voice dripped with practiced desperation. I slowly shuffled my way to a position an inch behind him. "Please! He was over there, and-and," I trailed off, my finger pointing in a random direction. My eyes flew to his back pocket, and saw a coin outlined. Excitement pounded through my veins as I bumped into him and slipped my hand into his pocket, closing it around the metal. "Wait, I think I see him!"

I knew I did it wrong the moment I started running after imaginary Isaac. There was no way in hell he didn't feel me reach in. I sprinted across the pavement, muttering, "shit, shit, shit, shit," under my breath.

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WORD COUNT: 670 words
NOTES: sorry there was absolutely no muse that went into this post. also sorry that it's kinda long, I kind of just slushed my way through it for PAT
TAGS: marcellus rhodes 11b arc