iron barbed gates {onyx-blitz}

One: bag.

My fingers run over its gently fraying material as I gaze out of the window of my small attic bedroom. The coldest room in the house - Carol made sure of that by moving Rajas into Bran's ground floor room, and preserving her fallen daughter's as a shrine. The texture of the woven fabric is a topographical map of memories - every ridge and canyon within the folds reminding me of this adventure, this journey far from home, always with my little wolf girl by my side... now she's gone, and those same creases feel more like wrinkles. This bag is old, and so are those memories. I'm here because it's time to let go of that life, and begin again.

Two: food.

My stomach rumbles as I think of the rich food I could take from the kitchen, and I clutch it with one rough palm. In the bag sits several pieces of fiercely salted meat and a large hunk of dry bread. I suppose I just intend to hope that I can find fresh water - and something which won't mind me killing it when I run out of my supplies after the first two days. The kitchen, after all, is Wolfe territory, and as my mother and some of my more hostile siblings never fail to remind me, I am not a Wolfe. You bastard, Carol murmurs to me when I set a foot wrong (and "wrong" can simply mean "out of my bedroom"), and I'm certain she means it as more than just a curse. I don't belong here, no matter what my father ever told me - he's gone, and so I must be gone, too.

Three: wire-cutters.

Made for cutting cord to wrap animal hides in, the pliers are the same colour as the ribbons Sarita used to wear. No one has seen her in days, ever since the public announcement begging for help for the tsunami survivors in District Four. Carol reassures herself that Sarita's kind-heart (inherited from the mother, of course) has pulled her to the danger to give aid, but I've seen Rajas and Jeyne sharing a concerned look - it's been long enough, she'd be home by now. Surely?

Four: coat.

The sun, warm and reaching, falls through my window as I take one last look into the room I am now leaving for good. There on the wall is the carving of the wolf I drew after my one true friend left this place. The headboard of my bed is covered in chips, reminders of the beatings I gave it to release the anger from myself. I stretch my hand out as I walk softly - so softly - to the stairs. The red marks which used to stain my knuckles like berry juice are long gone. Since I decided on this more permanent, more opportune solution, I haven't done anything so rash as harm myself.

Five: map.

Although I know the District well, being so often unwelcome from home that I spent my days wandering the streets, farms and woods, the wider world is totally blank to me. As such, the large piece of thin, dry sheepskin I carry with me is blank, too. I'll write it as I go. I make my way easily to the surrounding fence without any disturbance from Carol or her children. I anticipated a hum but, thankfully, there is none. I decide to walk anti-clockwise, to my left, to find the ideal place to cut through and make my escape. Apart from the supplies I have, counting off on my mental list, there are several things which I just have to acquire on the way.

Six: courage, determination, and above all, -

"Hope." She sits in front of me, eating delicately and obviously deep in thought. Hearing my voice, she gets to her feet and turns to me. A pretty girl, but nothing like Aria. I wince as I think her name - I've been trying my hardest to avoid it, until the pain is dulled by time. As if time enough hasn't passed. Recovering, I stare at the figure in front of me. "Eva Hope?" I can't tell if she looks startled that I know at least her family name, but of course, like everyone in this District, I've seen her before. "I'm Jon. I rooted for your sisters." And I watched them die, I don't dare to add.

Of course, I wasn't invited to sit with my 'family' when they were interviewed after the wolf girl surpassed all expectations, so there's no reason Eva Hope should know who I am. I try to make myself look as non-threatening as possible - but also try to hide my bulging bag from view. Who knows if I can trust someone who sits like she's on lookout? I gesture beyond the fence, feeling the free breeze tugging on my hair, urging me to step out into it. "Are you going out there?" As reluctant as I am to waste time on this, in all honesty the more dangerous, side of the fence, who knows when I'll see another human being? Especially one who, I hope, can understand my own pain? It's not an opportunity I'm willing to let go easily.

MADE BY ★MEULK