who shall release us? | erika & ruth
Jun 20, 2021 22:01:54 GMT -5
Post by dovey on Jun 20, 2021 22:01:54 GMT -5
RUTH WINSTERHAND
The Games are on and Ruth is invested, but the milk's run out and so has the peanut butter and this morning Mama discovered mold on what was left of the bread, so Ruth grabs her purse and her helmet, telling herself her sisters can catch her up on everything she misses and anyway the bike ride will be good for her. The sweltering heat gives the lie to the latter thought as soon as she steps outside, though, and she ducks back in to fill a water bottle and put on some sunscreen before setting off for the grocery. No good getting heat stroke on a shopping trip. How would they pay the hospital bill?
Sweat mixed with sunscreen is already running down into her eyes by the time she turns the first corner away from their apartment. She pedals hard, knees coming up just a little too high. She's outgrowing this bike. She can't pass it down yet, though; Harmony's not quite big enough to ride it comfortably. So it'll be a while before Ruth gets a new one.
That's all right. She can make do.
She blinks against the sweat. Her eyes sting.
It's a long ride to the grocery. There's one that's nearer home, but it's one of those expensive places, with the fancy teas and free-range pasture-fed everything. Irresponsible to shop there. So Ruth takes the long, winding route away from the blocks of modest apartment buildings that make up her neighborhood, up the hill and across the old tram tracks, stopping by the big mural of a lion to take a long drink of water from her bottle before continuing on her way. The roads up here are full of potholes, and her teeth rattle in her head as she jounces along the pavement, but she hasn't got much further to go now. Just up to the corner with the liquor store, turn right, pass the next intersection, and there's the grocery halfway down the block.
Ruth locks up her bike very carefully - she had one stolen once - before heading inside, helmet swinging from her arm. The air within is deliciously cool, and she stands by the door for a moment, just savoring the change in temperature. Then she takes a basket from the stack by the checkout and gets to business.
Bread, milk, peanut butter. Melanie's favorite cereal is on sale, so she grabs a box of that as well. Was there anything else they needed? She doesn't want to have to bike up here again too soon.
She scans the shelves. They've got jelly at home, they've got margarine. They've got lunch meat. She walks the narrow aisles, pausing to add a few cans of soup to her basket. Soup is always a safe bet. But why didn't she go through the kitchen before she left home and make a shopping list? Stupid of her. Stupid.
Scowling, she takes a browning bunch of bananas from the fruit display and puts them down very firmly in her basket. Inexplicably, this feels like an act of defiance.
Ruth shrugs at that irrationality and makes her way over to the checkout.
The cashier knows her face. “How’s your family?” she asks, because of course she knows them too, the defining feature of Ruth’s existence. But that’s a bitter thought and Ruth isn’t a bitter person, so she shoves it down.
“They’re good,” she says, and takes her receipt.
Opening the door feels like opening an oven. Ruth grits her teeth and steps outside, the heat washing over her, new sweat already beginning to bead up on her skin. She takes the handles of both her shopping bags in her left hand and turns to ease the door shut with her right – she knows it likes to slam. Just as she’s beginning to turn back, her eye is caught by something moving in the window of the apartment above the shop.
She realizes at once it’s the TV. Showing the Games, of course, so she takes a few steps back, casting a bare glance behind her to make sure she’s not about to run into anybody, and leans against the pole of a streetlight to see what’s happening.
She’s just in time to witness a boy – District Seven? – sink the point of a spear into Emerson Le Roux’s neck.
Ruth gasps aloud, then looks around self-consciously – that was probably a little overdramatic of her. But it doesn’t look like anyone’s stopped to judge her. And really – Emerson! A lot of people probably lost a lot of money just now.
It’s sad, she thinks belatedly, and winces at herself that it wasn’t the first thing that occurred to her. But it’s a Le Roux who’s just died, and Le Rouxes – or is it just Le Roux still, even when it’s plural? She’s not sure – anyway, they’re so famous they hardly seem like real people. They are real people, though, so she spends a conscientious moment feeling sorry for Emerson, who finishes dying on the screen in the meantime. Then the footage skips back to the moment she’s stabbed, showing the attack in slow motion this time. It’s a recap, Ruth realizes. That means the bloodbath must be well and truly over. How much has she missed?
She resolves to hurry home.
She’s turning back to the place she left her bike when something still more unexpected draws her gaze.
Sweat mixed with sunscreen is already running down into her eyes by the time she turns the first corner away from their apartment. She pedals hard, knees coming up just a little too high. She's outgrowing this bike. She can't pass it down yet, though; Harmony's not quite big enough to ride it comfortably. So it'll be a while before Ruth gets a new one.
That's all right. She can make do.
She blinks against the sweat. Her eyes sting.
It's a long ride to the grocery. There's one that's nearer home, but it's one of those expensive places, with the fancy teas and free-range pasture-fed everything. Irresponsible to shop there. So Ruth takes the long, winding route away from the blocks of modest apartment buildings that make up her neighborhood, up the hill and across the old tram tracks, stopping by the big mural of a lion to take a long drink of water from her bottle before continuing on her way. The roads up here are full of potholes, and her teeth rattle in her head as she jounces along the pavement, but she hasn't got much further to go now. Just up to the corner with the liquor store, turn right, pass the next intersection, and there's the grocery halfway down the block.
Ruth locks up her bike very carefully - she had one stolen once - before heading inside, helmet swinging from her arm. The air within is deliciously cool, and she stands by the door for a moment, just savoring the change in temperature. Then she takes a basket from the stack by the checkout and gets to business.
Bread, milk, peanut butter. Melanie's favorite cereal is on sale, so she grabs a box of that as well. Was there anything else they needed? She doesn't want to have to bike up here again too soon.
She scans the shelves. They've got jelly at home, they've got margarine. They've got lunch meat. She walks the narrow aisles, pausing to add a few cans of soup to her basket. Soup is always a safe bet. But why didn't she go through the kitchen before she left home and make a shopping list? Stupid of her. Stupid.
Scowling, she takes a browning bunch of bananas from the fruit display and puts them down very firmly in her basket. Inexplicably, this feels like an act of defiance.
Ruth shrugs at that irrationality and makes her way over to the checkout.
The cashier knows her face. “How’s your family?” she asks, because of course she knows them too, the defining feature of Ruth’s existence. But that’s a bitter thought and Ruth isn’t a bitter person, so she shoves it down.
“They’re good,” she says, and takes her receipt.
Opening the door feels like opening an oven. Ruth grits her teeth and steps outside, the heat washing over her, new sweat already beginning to bead up on her skin. She takes the handles of both her shopping bags in her left hand and turns to ease the door shut with her right – she knows it likes to slam. Just as she’s beginning to turn back, her eye is caught by something moving in the window of the apartment above the shop.
She realizes at once it’s the TV. Showing the Games, of course, so she takes a few steps back, casting a bare glance behind her to make sure she’s not about to run into anybody, and leans against the pole of a streetlight to see what’s happening.
She’s just in time to witness a boy – District Seven? – sink the point of a spear into Emerson Le Roux’s neck.
Ruth gasps aloud, then looks around self-consciously – that was probably a little overdramatic of her. But it doesn’t look like anyone’s stopped to judge her. And really – Emerson! A lot of people probably lost a lot of money just now.
It’s sad, she thinks belatedly, and winces at herself that it wasn’t the first thing that occurred to her. But it’s a Le Roux who’s just died, and Le Rouxes – or is it just Le Roux still, even when it’s plural? She’s not sure – anyway, they’re so famous they hardly seem like real people. They are real people, though, so she spends a conscientious moment feeling sorry for Emerson, who finishes dying on the screen in the meantime. Then the footage skips back to the moment she’s stabbed, showing the attack in slow motion this time. It’s a recap, Ruth realizes. That means the bloodbath must be well and truly over. How much has she missed?
She resolves to hurry home.
She’s turning back to the place she left her bike when something still more unexpected draws her gaze.
