Dante Oak | D7 | FIN

Nothing is easy for you, that boy that was hung in the Louvre for everyone to see. A painting that didn’t involve ink or oils or sublime watercolors.

You were made of blood, skin, and bones

Skin scraped against the sequoia’s as you hand caressed each one softly. There was nothing like wood against fingers, the sound of an axe plunging through wood that could have had rot for all one would know.

And in that moment, you felt like you shared that sentiment, but you didn’t mention it to anyone because you thought it was no one’s business but your own.

Time moved on, but you did not. You held onto your past, a boy who lost his parents when he was young, but taken in by your grandparents, who claimed that the woods were better to live in then an actual house.

Growing up on the outskirts of the district, you learned quickly that nothing would come easy for you, because nothing exciting happened here. Growing up, scarcity was the name of the game, and you always won it, because no one cared enough to come out where you were. You grandparents claimed that they enjoyed the quiet, but you knew it was because they did not trust other people.

They hoped that you would share that same ideal as they taught you how to hold an axe at a young age.

They were glorified hermits, and the thought of you going near the center of the district was scary as is, because they thought that there was nothing but danger there. Little did they know that you knew danger was everywhere, and you also had a front row seat to it no matter how much you tried to avoid it.

It was like danger followed you every step you took, and with every breath you inhaled, it invited itself closer and closer until it was forcing itself down your glass throat. But it didn’t crack, because danger did not realize that it was made of gorilla glass, small, but powerful.

It was just sad that you didn’t know how to use it.

---

You asked many times why the outskirts, and they just looked at you and shook their heads as they chopped away at the trees around them. It was rhythmic, almost soothing to hear the should of sharp metal cracking through soft wood until the sound of something heavy pushed against gravity.

Instead of answering your question, they handed you an axe and told you to do exactly what they had done. At the time, you were twelve and you didn’t spend too much time outside because you thought they wouldn’t approve of it.

You had a problem picking up the axe at first, the weight of the blade probably weighing as much as a soaking wet version of you, but you found a way to manage. You lifted it high in the air to only fall backwards and meet the ground below. Curses left parted lips as grandpa pulled you from the soil and plucked the axe from its home between hands.

He simply shook his head, and you sighed as you watched him swing it down with a certain amount of force that you didn’t know existed in his frail existence. In that moment, you learned that you couldn’t judge a book from its cover, but instead, you could have learned from that book if you weren’t so damn proud.

Swallowing that notion was like swallowing a mouth full of salt, it would never be pleasant.

---

But you watched, walking through museums that were filled with paintings. In fact, they were filled with anything but.

Your grandmothers soft hands as she plucked berries and plants from the gardens she grew, the wood that was tossed over your grandfather’s shoulder as he chopped away wood and walked it down the way to a neighbor that didn’t live too far. For a little bit of payment, he would take it to the district center in order to sell it, and that was how they were able to live so far away from the world that they were afraid of.

You asked many times why they didn’t just rejoin society, and they told you that it wasn’t their place to be anymore. That they were special paintings that they only put on display when the moment was right. The right amount of light could have crystalized that rare oils that were used to create them, and in turn, turn them into nothing but a glorified canvas full of splotches that had no rhyme or reason to them.

Scarcity was their greatest strength, it kept them from being invested in anything but themselves and you. That is what they preached and claimed they would die on. But they told you clearly that you could do what you needed to do. If you wanted to go out, then they would not stop you. And sometimes you indulged in that, but not for a selfish reason, but for a scientific one. That and you had to show up to the reapings.

Youre name was never called, but you knew that was because you were young. Soon enough, your name would pollute the bowl in such a way that it would beg for you to be pulled out of it. With your luck, it would be on your last chance to be reaped, and the very thought of it killed you, but that was something you would just have to get over.

You were not a lucky child after all, and you would not grow into a lucky man either. You would be supercut into nothing but smoke and ether.

---

And so you stopped yourself from yearning to learn about the outside world. You worked with your grandmother, who taught you everything you needed to know about the world of the forest. What plants would satiate you, what it meant to starve, how long you could go without basic necessities.

Your grandfather taught you how to use an axe, but also taught you how to read a situation. He could navigate the forest blindfolded, and he hoped that one day you would be able to as well. Of course, you had many years to learn such a skill, but that didn’t stop you from already trying.

You walked through the Louvre, ignoring the beautiful paintings, and instead found the real treasure that it held.

The sound of silence.