School Life, eh? (Open)
Jan 18, 2011 21:16:19 GMT -5
Post by wayra on Jan 18, 2011 21:16:19 GMT -5
Lunch time at school, a drab feeling for Skylar Graham. Especially considering his classroom was the furthest from the cafeteria. After the limping walk toward lunch he was usually last in line. Really, only the rare straggler was in line behind him. However, nothing about the aspect of lunch itself is what got to Skylar. There was plenty of time to eat, the food was decent, and there was plenty of room and light.
No, these were not the things that put off Skylar so much. Rather, it was the fact that, without schoolwork, nothing distracted him from the ever present thought within his head. Reaping, he thought. The fear was constant in the brown-eyed teen's mind. Anyone's mind at reaping age, honestly. However, for Skylar, it was more than a fear, it was a consumption. He'd always felt, known, whatever the appropriate adjective.. He'd always had a feeling he would be reaped. Not for any particular reason, but it hung over his head, always, except when he had something else to focus on.
Finally Skylar had his food and was sitting down. The tables were nothing more than twenty foot long benches on each side, and a table inbetween. Skylar sat at a table with another group of people. He sat about five foot away from them; he didn't like to talk, not that he didn't want to, he was never good with conversation. They had an unspoken deal, the group and Skylar. He paid them no mind, and in return they did the same. So he simply sat, slowly and politely, though absentmindedly, eating his food. The only sign he wasn't lost to reality was his stare, which was directed at the wall.
Eventually he broke this stare, and poked at his empty tray with a fork. He looked about, noting most students were still engaged in conversation. He looked over at a clock, still fifteen minutes to return to class? He sighed at the thought of another fifteen minutes. He looked at the group next to them, eagerly speaking to one another. Telling jokes, sharing secrets, talking of class. As he took his tray over toward the washers, he thought about how he should make an attempt to be more social. I should make friends. Who knows how long I've got til reaping. A smile touched his lips, then another part of him, perhaps the more cynical, spoke. You'll be dead soon enough. Why try? This once more caused him to sigh, and when he seated himself once more he counted the seconds until he could return to class. As he did this, he wished he had someone to talk to.
((OOC: If anyone has any criticism I'd like to hear it, I think I could use some.))
No, these were not the things that put off Skylar so much. Rather, it was the fact that, without schoolwork, nothing distracted him from the ever present thought within his head. Reaping, he thought. The fear was constant in the brown-eyed teen's mind. Anyone's mind at reaping age, honestly. However, for Skylar, it was more than a fear, it was a consumption. He'd always felt, known, whatever the appropriate adjective.. He'd always had a feeling he would be reaped. Not for any particular reason, but it hung over his head, always, except when he had something else to focus on.
Finally Skylar had his food and was sitting down. The tables were nothing more than twenty foot long benches on each side, and a table inbetween. Skylar sat at a table with another group of people. He sat about five foot away from them; he didn't like to talk, not that he didn't want to, he was never good with conversation. They had an unspoken deal, the group and Skylar. He paid them no mind, and in return they did the same. So he simply sat, slowly and politely, though absentmindedly, eating his food. The only sign he wasn't lost to reality was his stare, which was directed at the wall.
Eventually he broke this stare, and poked at his empty tray with a fork. He looked about, noting most students were still engaged in conversation. He looked over at a clock, still fifteen minutes to return to class? He sighed at the thought of another fifteen minutes. He looked at the group next to them, eagerly speaking to one another. Telling jokes, sharing secrets, talking of class. As he took his tray over toward the washers, he thought about how he should make an attempt to be more social. I should make friends. Who knows how long I've got til reaping. A smile touched his lips, then another part of him, perhaps the more cynical, spoke. You'll be dead soon enough. Why try? This once more caused him to sigh, and when he seated himself once more he counted the seconds until he could return to class. As he did this, he wished he had someone to talk to.
((OOC: If anyone has any criticism I'd like to hear it, I think I could use some.))
