salt and bitter wounds // ross + mach
Jun 7, 2016 19:24:47 GMT -5
Post by Kire on Jun 7, 2016 19:24:47 GMT -5
Ross Wolfe
hurray for a child that makes it throughif there's any way
because the answer lies in you
Does, Says, Thinks
You hadn't taken much notice of the others that surrounded you, all of them going through the motions of training as you were, despite a number of attempts to change your indifference into something that burned. Passion was something you weren't unfamiliar with, but it also wasn't something you sought. In a place like this, passion was better spent on surviving than on trying to force a connection that would only cause issues later on. None of those who had sneaked sidelong glances at you - all of which you had noticed from your constant observations - seemed to understand how pointless it was to search for something that shouldn't be there.
For now you had retreated into the dining hall to regain some sense of solitude that had been so lacking since you had volunteered. With an escort, a stylist, and a boy only a year older than you trying to be constantly by your side with advice that ranged from mildly helpful to downright petty, you were beginning to feel the molten core within you heat up and stir angrily. You needed stillness for a time to let the motion settle. The dining hall, especially at this time, was a good place to rest and take a moment to yourself. Blissfully, you noticed that it was empty as you entered.
Going to stand by one of the corners of the massive table, you surveyed the spread of finger foods and juices. You sour slightly when you realize that there is no alcohol of any kind on the table, and think of the bottle of whiskey you had secured which rested in your room. Whiskey was the drink you had become partial to once you had first tasted it, and one time the bartender even pointed out that it matched your demeanor - aged and fine, but strong and without compromise. You, being used to such comments about your personality, simply nodded and took another sip of your drink. That was another time, though, back when life was an endless loop and you saw the same bartender each night after getting off work. Here, though, you had to pick your drink for yourself.
With no drinks to choose from here, you were left to select a morsel from the heaps of food laid before you. The amount of food here could have fed your mother and you for a week, and here it was left to be eaten or spoil by careless men and women. Gingerly, you picked up some cheese - a number of which were strange to you, or quite pungent - with your fingers and placed it into your mouth. While any Capitolite would have scorned you for eating without utensils, you had survived by selling what cutlery you had and so had developed the habit of not using them. What did it matter anyway, there was no one there with you.
