Zella Satin - D8 - FIN | Hunger Games: The RPG

Zella Satin - D8 - FIN Nov 27, 2017 2:59:20 GMT -5

Quote

Post by ryan on Nov 27, 2017 2:59:20 GMT -5

When I was a child, I told my parents multiple times that I wanted to design things like they did. My parents were tailors in eight, and sometimes, they would bring me to the shop they ran so they could keep a close eye on me. However, they would let me play around with certain things mostly so I wouldn’t bother the clientele. At first, I was patient, knowing that my parents time would be split between customers. However, there were days where I would run out into the lobby to say hi to whoever walked in. Other times, I would hide behind one of the shelves and watch my parents stitch and hem various articles of clothing while making small talk. They always seemed like they were happy. Like they were always in love, even though love was probably something that didn’t exist here period. I paid close attention to their hands, and watched how much they cared about the materials that they worked with.

One time when I was waiting for my parents to check in on me in the shop, I got my hand on one of the needles and started to play around with the fabric they left around in the back. At first it seemed easy enough to do. Stitching things together actually looked fun, until I accidently stabbed the needle through my hand. I don’t know how I exactly did it, but I remember the pain still to this day. When my parents found me, they rushed to get the needle out of my hand and the mess all cleaned up. They told me that one day they would show me how to do everything they knew how to do, but of course, I couldn’t be patient for that. I was impulsive, and I wanted to learn now.

I lived in a world that people didn’t understand. I was blissfully ignorant about almost anything that had to do with what actually happened around me. My parents took care of me, mostly because it was only me to take care of. When I was young, they tried to shield me from the games, telling me that no such things existed. Of course, that was a lie, they happened every year, and I was told that the people that go to them don’t come back. We all lived in fear when we attended a reaping. The day I turned twelve, I found out what a reaping was like. The tense feelings and watching the faces of my friends go from full of life to downright dead. I didn’t know how there could be such a thing as the Hunger Games, but that was due to my parents hiding it from me for so long. Instead of resenting them for it though, I simply decided to start acting out.

It all started on my thirteenth birthday, you see, I was born the day before the actual reaping, so the next day, starting at twelve, I would have to go in hopes that my name wouldn’t be call. However, my parents always told me that I should dress my best when I went. Well, each time a reaping came, I left the house in pretty clothes made by my mother. However, when I left the house, mostly I insisted that I go to the reaping myself because I was a big girl who didn’t need my parents to watch me, I would tear off parts of whatever I was wearing. Sometimes I would rip the middle of the dress so my stomach was exposed. Sometimes I would tear off the sleeves to and let my shoulders be exposed. Hell, sometimes I would take the shoes and throw them at random people when I was bored. People didn’t understand why I did such a thing, but it was because that was my rebellion. I didn’t want to look nice for the capitol. If they wanted to treat us like animals, then I wanted to look like one. Of course, I would come home and my parents would just laugh at me. It was something they understood. They didn’t ask why the dress they worked hard to make was ripped in random places. They didn’t ask why I had a small gash at the bottom of my foot. Hell, they didn’t even pay attention to the other families that would get mad because I didn’t know how to behave myself at such a serious and public event. We all reveled in that rebellion.

They apologized to me for hiding what the games were from me. We were a family that was fortunate enough to own a projector, so we watched the games the year I turned twelve. Together. The horror I felt watching children kill each other, simply to survive. There were days that I didn’t want to watch simply because you could never unsee the things that happen in there. I prayed that I would never get my name called, because I could never go through with the horrors that the capitol would thrust onto the unlucky 24 chosen. Well, that was what I told myself at the least. That was when I was younger. As I grew up, I realized that I wanted to find a way to pay homage to the people that were in the games. However, I didn’t know how. I still didn’t know how. It angered me that I couldn’t figure out a way. It angered me, but my parents told me that I should pay attention to the games, and listen for clues that might give me something to go off of. I was too stubborn though, and ended up giving up on the idea entirely.

The reason why I never made any real friends here in eight was because I was too in people’s faces. I had no problem getting loud with someone if they came for me. I usually just did things that I thought were fun, because that was how my parents lived before they died. You see, what had happened was, they were tending to the shop that they built from the ground up. Well, one day, they were doing somethings during a candle lit night. They were paying attention to what was going on around them and all the sudden, there was smoke everywhere. Their store was engulfed in flames before they knew it. As they were about to escape the store, a beam collapsed and trapped them inside. When I woke up in my house alone that morning, I noticed something was missing. The house was empty, and someone was running towards. That someone told me the news, and I collapsed from the shock. I didn’t expect my parents to die when I was young. I never expected anyone to die actually.

I rushed to the scene and sure enough, the store was gone. Of course, most of it was just ash, as they already moved the bodies. That was probably for the best. When I went to the hospital to confirm that it was them, I hoped it was all a lie. When they pulled the tarps back, I saw their faces, and they looked peaceful. Like they knew that this was going to happen. I had to exit the hospital quickly, I was physically sick and mentally drained. I went back to the house that now seemed like a museum. I was met by my fathers brother, and he told me that he would help me in anyway that he could. I cried for a couple weeks, then got frustrated because they should have never been in the shop. When they asked me what I wanted to do with the bodies, I simply told them to cremate them so I could keep them with me. Then I asked my uncle if he could help me restore the shop to what it once was. He just looked at me and nodded, and we started to bring the shop back to life.

It was hard at first, but with the help of some other family members we figured out how to make it work. After a week or two of acting impulsively, I realized that rebuilding the store would cost more than what was left to me. It was an impulse though that I had to scratch otherwise I would never truly get over the death of my parents. I sighed, telling my uncle to stop the building and just leave it where it was. I started to walk home, tears streaming down my eyes, and then I realized that I could probably work with what I did have. I decided that I could work from home instead. However, I needed to think about how I would accomplish such a thing. I wanted to do something to honor them and this sounded like it was the answer.

I started a fire, boiled some water, steeped some tea, and looked at my parent’s urns that stood on the mantle over the fireplace and just smiled. I think this is what I was meant to do. I think.