{{Thump//Thump}} (Geebs)

Delilah Delomprey

The streets were far too busy today, but Delilah went out nonetheless. Never mind that there men everywhere, and people to brush up against her and touch her. She had to be out today, and for far different reasons than the others out today. They were out because now it was spring, and they wanted to be breathing deep the fresh, clean air. They wanted to taste the end of winter on their tongues, and believe for a moment that it would never come again. For normal people, spring was a time to taste for once the freedom of the world before getting locked up tight by the summer's heat, or, come fall, school and work. But not for Delilah. Delilah was out searching for a freedom of a different kind. Because today, finally, her father had given her money. He didn't care what she did with it. So she bought books.

Fiction was far better than reality. No one could convince Delilah otherwise. For one thing, no one spoke much to Delilah. And even if someone did, it was doubtful she would talk back. For another thing, Delilah had many points to prove that books were better. Books couldn't hurt her. Unless, of course, the pages of one happened to give her a paper cut. But that was easily healed and easily forgiven. The type of hurt Delilah meant was the kind that sat on your heart and carved cruel scars there. The type of pain that lies so far deep inside, you can't touch it no matter how hard you scratch. Yes, books were better than real life by a long run. Because with books, at least, you knew the final page would have a happy ending, which was not something you could say about life.

As Delilah walked through the streets, jumping quickly out of the way to avoid human contact, she played with the coins in her pocket. They jingled softly as she walked, and banged against her fingers as she swerved out of people's way. They coins themselves were not very large, and they were quite old. The bumps and ridges that had once been letters and pictures had been worn away by decades of pockets and fingers. They had been cold when Delilah put them in her pocket that morning at the breakfast table, but they had since warmed to her. The metal now was heated by hands, which gripped them tight at times, and then let go to rest by their side for a moment or two. She liked the coins, for they felt very real to her. But at the same time, she found them almost hateful. For those coins, which she coveted for what they would buy her, had once been in the hands of her father. These happy little chips jumping about in her pocket had once been trapped by her father's fleshy fingers. She knew just how they felt.

Only last night, father had taken her again. Ripped another piece off from her soul. He'd left her naked in her bed, hugging herself and praying that this would be the last time. But there was never a last time. There were always more bruises to suffer, and more abuse for her poor body to take. Closed doors, locked doors, nothing would stop him. And Delilah couldn't force out enough words to ask him to stop. So night after night, he crept in, pretending to be silent, his footsteps screaming loud across the floor. And Delilah would sit in bed like a good little girl and wait for him to come. Wait for it to be over. So she could breathe again. Stare up at the moon and wonder how it stays so pure. How it can keep on shining even when the suns beats it down day after day.

The bookstore Delilah was looking for was not really a bookstore at all. It was more of a supply closet crammed full of books that only a select few people knew about. Because there, inside that wonderful treasure trove of secrets, were books they were not supposed to have. Imaginings written up in notebooks and copied meticulously so it could be shared by more people. These were the books thought up by District Four residents past and present. All them were beautiful and fantastic, and most depicted places far from Panem where people were free to do what they wanted and go where they wanted to. They were treasonous, of that there was no doubt, but Delilah loved them anyways. They were her escape. The more she read, the more made-up places she had stored away that she could go to when the shadows fell on her at night. There were more retreats from reality and pain and hurt. In those own worlds of hers, she couldn't be touched.

Relief came as soon as she turned into the alley which marked the entrance of the bookstore. There was a door here that connected to a clothing store. If you went down a short hall you would find the bookstore supply closet. The owner of the clothing store most often had one of his teenage daughters waiting there for potential customers every other day. Delilah often asked her advice on which book to buy to next. They didn't have very long or particularly entertaining conversations. Delilah didn't even know the girl's name. It didn't matter though, because outside of the book room, they would never converse, nor would they ever be friends.

The alley was devoid of people, and that made Delilah happy. The walk here had been horrible, with people nearly banging into her the whole while, and she having to constantly jump out of the way. She couldn't be touched. She wouldn't allow it. The thought was terrifying to her. having her own father touch her was bad enough, but a stranger? She wouldn't allow it. The alley was a pleasant break, a place where she could not worry for once about other people. She stayed for a time, catching her breath after the brisk walk, and just breathing in the cool air, alone. Alone, but not lonely. Not even close. but eventually she had to tug the door open and go inside. Except there was one teensy problem. The door wouldn't open. Not even when Delilah tugged on it with all her might. And of course it wouldn't open, because right as she decided to give up, she remembered the shop would be closed today. In her excitement at receiving money, she had forgotten to see if the bookstore would even be open.

The idea of going back out into the street and returning home empty-handed was not appealing to her. She had counted on the energy the excitement new books would give her to get home. But now there was just defeat. She slumped against the rough brick alley wall and let herself slide to the ground, which was slightly damp still from melting snow. Oh, she didn't care if her butt got wet. She was tired and on the verge of tears. All she had wanted was a new book. Was that really too much to ask?