adeline crowe {twelve} fin

adeline crowe {twelve} fin Mar 23, 2017 13:59:06 GMT -5

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Post by solo on Mar 23, 2017 13:59:06 GMT -5

Adeline Crowe

I've never found myself particularly interesting. But of course, that's probably because I don't think about it a whole lot. I've got bigger problems to take care of. I have a family, three younger siblings, five other mouths to feed. Mom always tells me it's not my job to take care of them. She says she and Judas earn enough money for us to get by, but I worry anyway.

I think part of that might be some sort of guilt I've been dragging along behind me my whole life. I don't actually belong to the family. Not technically, at least. Obviously, they accept me as if their blood runs in my veins, and anyone who asked would never know the difference between me and my siblings. And yet, I know somewhere in the back of my mind that all I'm doing is adding an extra stomach to feed at the dinner table.

Until the age of seven, I grew up in a different home, with different parents. I didn't have any siblings. It was just me, my Mum, and my Dad. I don't remember much from back then. What I do remember, I don't particularly like to recall. My father was abusive, and my mother drank too much to function properly. She was a weak little thing, underfed and barely able to make a pot of soup in order to keep me healthy. I suppose I'd always known some form or other of starvation, even before I was left alone on the streets.

They died a few weeks after my birthday. Of course, we hadn't celebrated. More often than not, they didn't even remember the day I was born. I didn't complain though. I think that was mostly because my Dad scared me too much for me to speak up.

My father was killed by a Peacekeeper. I'm not entirely sure what happened, but I remember my mother pacing back and forth for days, muttering about how he had always had anger issues and that one day it had been bound to get him in trouble. My best guess is that he got in an argument with one of the guards, and when he became physical, like he so often did, the guy beat him to death. Quite honestly, I'm not surprised. Mum was right in a way. I had always known Dad would get in trouble sooner or later.

My mother was far too wasted at the time to get a job. So bit by bit, the money ran out, and then the food, and then it was like something came along and ate her up from the inside out. I asked the neighbors for food once or twice, but of course, no one wanted to help the daughter of a drunkard. I had to dig through the trash heaps, steal when I could, pick greens in the meadow when spring came around. I never gave any to Mum. Why would I? There was barely enough to keep me well fed, and what had she ever done for me? She didn't deserve it.

A few months later, I came home to find her passed out in the off-balance chair we have next to the door. There was an empty bottle in her hand. Only, when I went to remove it, her fingers were cold and holding on to that thing like a steel trap. She wouldn't move, wouldn't wake up, and it was at that point that I realized: she probably never would.

Obviously, I had no intentions of staying in that house. It had too many memories, too many ghosts haunting the walls and threatening to swallow me whole. The thing was empty and cold and entirely lacking in sentimental value. So I left.

Mum had been wearing a shawl at the time, a thin, grey one that was barely functional and reeked of alcohol, but it was something. I took it off her shoulders, wrapped it around my own, and headed out into the cold.

I was on the streets for about a week, but at the time, I remember it felt like a thousand years. I had no one to talk to, barely anything to eat, nothing to keep myself busy. All I could do was huddle up in whatever corner I could find with an empty stomach for company. I'd sit there for hours, knees pulled up to my chest, arms squeezing around my torso, as if that would somehow make the starvation go away.

I had nothing to wash myself, and I still shudder when I think of the dirt under my nails, the tangles in my hair, the thin layer of coal dust coating my entire body. Cold bit at my skin and my fingers turned a solid shade of blue. For a while, I thought they might go black, and then I'd lose them. Maybe that would be when I died. And maybe that would be better.

But then, after I had talked myself into letting go, after I had made the decision to embrace the end, a certain boy came along and added a new chapter to my life. I was barely conscious at the time, but I remember warm hands, concerned eyes, a friendly smile. He was eight at the time, and his name was Judas. I didn't speak to him. I didn't speak to any of them, not for days. I was too afraid, too worried that this was all a dream, and I'd wake up only to find myself curled up against the cold brick wall of someone's house. Perhaps I had created the boy out of my own imagination, and if I spoke, he would disappear into thin air.

But I did speak. My words came back to me, I opened up bit by bit, and the family didn't disappear. Not the girl with the cheerful laugh, not the mother with the kind heart, not the boy with the friendly smile. They welcomed me as one of their own, and I'm forever grateful.

When I was ten, I learned about how the Crowe's father had died. For the longest time, I was too nervous to talk about it, but eventually I ended up asking Judas. I had to know. I couldn't just live with the family as one of their own children and not know how their father had died.

I knew Judas didn't like talking about it, and the information he gave me was lacking in detail, but it was something. Some sort of fact that I could hold on to and know to be the truth. Mr Crowe blew up in a mine explosion. Judas said it was an accident, but he implied otherwise. I don't think their dad was killed. I think he killed himself.

And so from that day on, I became obsessed with explosives. I had to know how they worked. My new family refused to talk about it anymore than was necessary, so I had to put the pieces together myself, on my own time.

Sometimes I would wish that I lived in District Three or Five, where it might be easier to get my hands on the technology necessary to make something explode. But I found my way around it. People at the Hob had loads of materials they didn't need, half-ruined chemistry sets from the school and leftover materials they'd picked up while scavenging the mines. Worthless things that nobody wanted. It was the perfect place for me to go and use one or two extra coins to get what I needed.

I learned by trial and error. Mixing this and that, adding a pinch of this, scratching down what happened in a little notebook. I did my best t keep it small, because of course, we don't want Peacekeepers coming into our house asking why we blew up half the yard. The best time for me to work is during thunderstorms, under the scaffolding outside our house, when the rumbling sky will cover the little pops and bangs coming from my shelter.

I discovered a new way to earn money when I turned thirteen. I was at school, and one of the older, wealthier boys asked if I'd be his girlfriend. I remember his friends snickering behind him, and the crooked grin that crossed his face. I didn't like him. I'd never even met him. So, I crossed my arms, looked up at him, and said "Unless you've got some extra money in your pockets, no thanks." I wasn't serious, mostly because I didn't expect him to offer me any money. But he did. And he did the same thing the next day, and the next. Of course I wasn't going to say no to getting payed, so I made a deal that I'd do what he wanted, so long as it wasn't in front of my family.

Over time I learned that I could sell myself to the boys at school. At first, it fascinated me, that some of them had enough money to do that. District Twelve is poor alright, but we've got some rich families in the wealthier part of town. At least, rich compared to the rest of us.

The money got me extra supplies to experiment with, and when we didn't have enough to get ourselves some dinner, I'd sneak in a few of my own coins with the ones Mom had. Of course, I couldn't just give them to her. There would be questions around where I got them. So I kept quiet about it, earned the money in secret, and added it to our income when I could.

The boy's demands grew along with my age and there's. I never said no to them. I did what they wanted, because my family needed the money, and I didn't know how else to help. I learned what they liked and what they didn't. I learned to act confident in myself even though I wasn't. I learned to flirt and tease and move my body the right way. I was grateful for the way I looked, for having pretty brown hair and expressive eyes, a small body and distinct features. They didn't mind how thin I was, in fact, I think some of them liked it. I'd be completely ashamed of myself if my family ever found out. But they won't.

My family has never liked the Games. Mom always cries when she watches it, Lennie covers her face, Judas puts on a stone-cold expression. They hold hands during the Reapings and pray that none of them are chosen. I suppose that makes me a little different from them all.

I think my interest started when I was five, during the Sixty-Third, when Cricket Antoinette won. I liked her from the moment she literally flew on to the stage. Of course, I was young, and I don't remember every detail. But I do remember the feeling of being completely enamored by her grace, her poise, the way she held herself and commanded the stage. She didn't huddle away in a corner and cry, frightened like the rest of them. She treated the Games like they were always meant to be treated: a show. A display of talent and skill. And from that moment, I did the same.

Now, when my family writes down their names, when we sign up for tesserae and shuffle into our roped-off areas, I can practically feel the excitement buzzing inside of me. Who will it be this year? Who will display the courage and bravery of our district? Who has the potential to bring us another victory? I can only hope that one day, it will be me.

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