Post by slate • d9f • zoë on Jul 13, 2019 22:43:28 GMT -5
We pick flowers for a living, Mom and Sasha and I. Guess it's good District Seven still has a romantic or two left in it else we'd be out on the street or dead in our own beds or something worse than dying of hunger. Mom says I can be a real miserable rag sometimes and she's not wrong. I just can't help but focus on the bad. Let it consume me. Drag me down. Until my limbs move through water even though we're thousands of miles away from any sort of ocean.
Fucking depressing, right? You'd be sad too if you lived like this, Dad who didn't want me and a Mom who makes it clear her life wasn't supposed to turn out this way. I'm to blame, I know it. We’re to blame, my sister and I. She doesn't say it like that, not so direct, but I know. Maisy and Sasha ruined Miss Dupree's life, whoopsie-daisy.
At least we've got the flowers. They give me a reason to smile every once in a while. Spring is my favourite time of the year because we stop feeling so empty and I can finally get out of the house, see what the end of winter has brought us. Lavender, roses, sometime even pansies. Who wouldn't want to smile at all those colours?
I'd be a painter, if I could afford it. It's stupidly romantic, I know. Who'd take up a hobby that couldn't buy us food? Not me, I told my Mom aged eight. I'll take up sewing instead. People will pay us to mend their worn-down work clothes sometimes. When flowers aren't so necessary. Like in winter. Like six months after someone dies when it's okay to stop visiting their gravestone. Like when the games are happening and it doesn't seem right to celebrate love when kids are dying. I get it. No really, I do. It gets fucking depressing around here, far away from the town square and the Victor's Village in the way-backs of Seven. The places nobody really wants to end up, but when they do they bow their head - embarrassed of what they've become.
At least, that's how my Mom acts. And I can see it rubbing off on Sasha too. She thinks she's better than everyone and honestly, she probably is, but what's the use telling her? You can't float out of this shit-hole District with a big ego so I just pout and let her roll her eyes. I think she hates me, my sister. Perhaps not hate, because I really do believe that she loves me deep down under all those thorns. More like she strongly dislikes me because I was born first or something silly. She's excelled ever since then but being the first to do the first things you can do - breathe, cry, all of that - that's something notable to people like Sasha.
Me? I don't really care. She can have faux-glory if it makes her happy. Shit, at least she knows what makes her happy. I on the other hand, I'm still stuck looking inward for some joy when I know I'm never gonna find it, but I keep looking anyway because it's something familiar. The outside is scary. Other people's opinions are terrifying. Even the ones you make up and convince yourself a true, that's soul-destroying. I'd rather destroy myself with my own thoughts, at least I know those are real. Sasha calls me a pessimist, an introvert, lazy, and she's not wrong. Better to kill yourself then have another person's hands on the knife.
See? Told you I was miserable.
But I can be positive sometimes, I swear. I do try and look for the good in everything, remind myself I could have it worse. I could be from Twelve. Mom could be dead. I could have come into this world alone, without Sasha. My Dad could have been a sicko for all I know, sometimes I like to pretend that it's a good thing he's not here. Convince myself he was a real shithead. Despite everything that's happened to us, there were moments in my childhood that were warm and bright and I can count several good things loitering about in my memory.
It's not like I want to be exhausting. It's just that some days it doesn't seem appropriate to be happy. Some days you need to be as gloomy as the clouds or as wraught as kids with tessera on reaping day. I take a few each year but only so Sasha doesn't have to - she's got potential and drive to do something after we age out, but not me. So I scribble my name down every year at the Justice Building, returning once more to patter up those steps and sign away the chance for the Capitol to claim my soul. Five bags of rice for the rest of the year, sometimes 8 if we're struggling. But it's nothing compared to some of my classmates with ten or so siblings that have no choice. They have to, or they'll starve. See? Could be worse.