Esther Carter | District Three | Fin
Apr 11, 2016 16:51:17 GMT -5
Post by ali on Apr 11, 2016 16:51:17 GMT -5
.:: Esther Carter ::.
.:: Seventeen ::.
.:: District Three ::.
Your tale begins in the disapating smog in which your mother and father found you. Their work at the factory meant that they often found themselves walking home when the sky was shades of pink and the sun was rising from its slumber, enticing the silver moon to it's bed. The day they found you was no different, hand in hand they walked along the edge of the canal when they heard your wailing. At first, they thought it was just the wind passing under the bridge. The sound had been quiet afterall, but then they heard it again, and again. A babbling cry, quiet, threatening to be washed away by the morning breeze. Looking around, it was the bright red tuft of hair you sported ontop your tiny head that they spotted first and when they saw the bundle of cloth you were wrapped in at the river side, they knew exactly what you were.
A baby, left alone on the cold hard concrete pathway which ran by the canels edge. Perhaps your birth mother had hoped a nights rain would wash you away, washing away your existence from her past but you will never know if that is what she wanted. You had not even realized you mother was not coming for you, as you wailed loudly into the morning light, like a little robin singing its song. You were hungry and cold, you desired food and warmth but you had no idea your birth mother was not coming to comfort you. Instead, you soon found yourself in the arms of someone else, the person you would designate as mama, rather than your blood deciding that for you.
Your parents cooed and hushed you the best they could but they were not adept at caring for children. Both were only children themselves, 20 years old, young and fresh faced in the dark world you live in; they did not know what to do with you at first, the screaming firery red child cacooned in long forgotten rags of a coat labelled "IF FOUND PLEASE RETURN TO ESTHER". They knew that they could give you over to the state, but being good people, they decided against that; many children who lived under the hand of the government scarcely made it past their 5th birthday and despite the fact they knew your odds would be only a fraction better if you stayed with them, it was enough for them to take you home with them.
Once in the warmth, your father lit the little fire oven, while your mother warmed you some milk- which you gulped down eagerly- before she rocked you gently to sleep alongside a soft lullaby which your father sung. They looked upon you fondly as they set you into your bed- a drawer in their dresser, pulled out and filled with clothes- and found themselves smiling when you smiled gently in your sleep, a gurgle passing through those cupid lips. They'd not seen children in their future, and while settling themselves down for bed they did consider finding you a better home but perhaps tomorow when they were less tired and the call of sleep did not cloud their thoughts.
Except, the next day came and the next and the next and still you remained with them, sleeping in the little drawer near the fire so you could keep warm. The next day came and they still fed you the rations of powdered milk they had, the next day came and you sat snuggly in your mothers arms as your father left for work. The next day came and they had decided to name you Esther, after all it was the name in the coat they found you in. The next day came and the next day, you stayed with the couple you would soon be calling "mama" and "papa" and each of those days you grew and grew, your little personality flourishing in front of their very eyes. You have always been happy, there wasn't a day where your mother has not seen you smile, not even the day you grew too big for that drawer and had to sleep alongside mama and papa; most children would have kicked a fuss from changing sleeping arrangements but not you.
No you just smiled as a laugh bubbled from your chest. Yes you did cry, all children do. You cried when you fell and grazed your knee against the cobbled pavement outside your house, but Mama was there to kiss it all better so you were soon smiling again. You cried when the big kids called you dirty because of the uncountable number of freckles scattered across your skin, but Papa was there to make it all better with a joke and a laugh. Regardless of the sad days, you grew up happy even though your parents had little money to spare, working day and night shifts at the factory.
As you grew, so did your mind. They say the cleverest of people in Panem come from District Three and you are no exception to this. Your mind flourished the moment your mama and papa taught you how to speak, your eyes grew wider at everything as you tried to take absolutely everything in around you. You learnt the alphabet, you knew what an apple looked like and you knew P was for powdered and M was for milk and somehow your mind used those two words to learn how to read the tin of the Powdered Milk. Your parents had a low reading age themselves, and so were surprised when you could recite "produced in district ten" your litte voice squeeking as you did, beaming.
When it came to school, you excelled. At 5 years old you were eager to hurry off to learn all the things you could cram into that little brain of yours. You were attentive, you always tried to answer questions and when you didn't know the answer, you listened to those that did and learnt from them. You learned to read properly, taking those capitol approved novels from the library to read over the weekend, you also learnt to write. You hand writing was neat and delicate, and your love for learning drove you to teach your mama and papa to write too; they were slow of study but they got better as you got better.
It was at school that you met your best friends for life. The housewives, you called yourselves in kindergarten. Playing in the little house of cardboard, pretending to be just that; when you grew out of pretend games, the name stuck and so did your friendship. There were 5 of you, and you were all thick as thieves, there hasn't been a day where you lot did not see one another; there was nothing that could tear your apart. You enjoyed the days where you would listen to Andy's dreams and days you would enjoy smoking with (druggie) behind the bikesheds. Those friends were your saving graces.
Then there your demons, the people who bullied you tirelessly for your vibrant red hair and speckled face. You would never cry, your mama said that'd fuel the fire but sometimes it was hard; there were days you'd walk into the girls bathroom to find your eyes red and tears streaming down your cheeks with a smile on your face. Angirly, you'd wipe them away and pretend it didn't happen; you didn't cry. You were Esther, Papa's happy little fire cracker with a brain bigger than anyone elses in the whole of three. There was nothing that could bring you down.
Then Papa died in an explosion at the factory. When you heard the explosion, echoing over the whole of three, you didn't want to believe it, you tried to hold back the tears which welled in your eyes as you stared out the window at the distant billowing smoke; it was no use though when they pulled you from maths class to tell you what happened. Your knees gave way and you screamed, wretching out a sob as tears streamed down your face, your body shaking in the shock which gripped you tightly like a vice, choking you on the fresh air you should have been able to breath.
He was dead, boom, gone within a fraction of a second the man who made you smile most went up in smoke and was reduced to nothing but ash. There were no bones for you and Mama to bury, not charred body to mourn over as you tossed dirt onto the coffin being lowered into the earth. There was only a plaque in the graveyard, an empty grave with no one to say goodbye too inside. You cried the day you said goodbye to nothing, a silly action; it wasn't logical to cry at something that just wasn't there but the tears came anyway against the will of your logic.
Your Mama slipped into a deep depression, and though she worked, her hours grew smaller for a long time after papa's death. You would often hear her crying during the middle of the night, when she thought you were sleeping in the single bed you thre- two shared. You would often find yourself, outstretching on the empty canvas of the matress, finding your mother had gotten up in the middle of the night to go on a walk. Your mother tried to hide it, but you would also find the moonshine hidden beneath the floorboards when your stomach screamed for food.
You were starving, like the baby they'd found at the docks, you were starving and there was little you could do at first. Your mother was spending all her wages on keeping the house and keeping her soberity drier than the canal during summer; there was little left to keep you fed and though the terresae and friends allowed you to eat, it would only go so far. So when you turned 16 years old, you became and apprentice hat maker.
Your mother had known how to sew, and she tried to teach you but it was all far too fidly for you. Your fingers may have been nimble but your mind worked too fast to remain patient for long with a peice of thread and cloth. It is why, you assume, that hat making took your fancy; there was a degree of patience needed but never as much as sewing. You loved making hats, of all colours, shapes and sizes. You liked making top hats for men who were attending a wedding or a funeral and you liked making summer bonnets for little girls who were going to dance in the spring festival; you really had a knack for hat making.
It is just a shame it drove you mad.
You knew mercury was dangerous to work with, but long hours slaving over making your own felts to adorn and make up the hats meant that you had no choice but to breath in the fumes of mercury which wafted from the carroting vats. There was always plenty of mercury nitrates to go around, so you never really found yourself without the stuff but you didn't quite realize that the thing you loved was slowly killing you. Making hats for the public of 3 distracted you so much, that you didn't even realize what it was doing to your body.
Soon you forgot why you even started hat making in the first place, sometimes in the long hours you kept awake you would wonder why your mother was passed out drunk in the corner and where your father was. You sometimes even forgot to attend school. Your attendance dropped from 100 to less than 90 percent in a year, as did your grades. Your brain could no longer remember the facts you had once treasured greatly, and when you did remember the random factoid about how many bones there are in the human body for example, your teacher would not be able to read your answer because your handwriting was barely readable now.
Hat making made you more irritible, more emotionally unstable, pathologically shy and you even developed a tremor due to the neurological damage the mercury vapours was creating. Yet you still worked, slaved over your hats even when your hair began to fall out- little over a year ago- when you were 16. You still made hats, even though your friends were begging you not to, because they could see it was destroying you slowly, rotting you from the inside out but you did not. You didn't see, you didn't remember why you began making hats at all.
Sometimes, when you're alone, staring at the stars with your friends, you find yourself crying but you remember why.
