/metal strings and smoke-screens [stare]
Jun 14, 2011 20:46:34 GMT -5
Post by shrimp on Jun 14, 2011 20:46:34 GMT -5
keep me in your memory
He had left when dusk had settled, promising to return every so often. His mother openly wept, while his father stood there, daggers in his eyes. Obviously, it was apparent to him that he was deserting them for brighter skies, brighter futures, even if this was false. For how would they survive without him? There was no reason for Shean to even want to desert his parents, but the possible prospects of earnings had begun to lead him on his own path, and it wasn't located in District 11. No, it was located throughout all of Panem, playing his simple harmonica in the hopes of gaining some simple cash, cash that they needed so badly that this was worth the risk.
His sister was sleeping when he left through the rust-eaten fence. She would have no idea as to where he went. He could only hope that his parents wouldn't be so bitter that they would tell her lies about him, that he left them to suffer. Because if anything, he was trying to do the opposite - he was breaking the law for goodness sakes, in order to help them survive from day to day with just a little bit of extra cash that would accumulate over time. He'd return after all - there was no doubt about that. He'd prove it in a month, when he would sneak back in through the corroded hole in the fence on the outskirts of town, leaving the (hopefully large) pile of money inside, and make his escape. It'd be better for them to not see him again; they would just want him to stay.
But he had to get out of there, not just for their safety, but maybe for his sanity. Each night as he slept he dreamed about that day, the blood, the scream, the cold eyes that gazed at him unblinking, a mouth that was left open in a silent scream that would last for eternity, appendages twisted at impossible angles. Each night, it seemed as though he woke up in a cold sweat, shallow [gasps] breaths easily audible amongst the small chirping of insects and rhythmic sounds of nightlife. If he stayed there any longer, it would only get worse, he was sure of it. In Shean's eyes, he was a murderer, and perhaps getting away from the scene of the crime would make him slightly more at ease, even though he truly was not at fault. But he would never realize this, at least not for a long time.
He was used to walking barefoot - he had done so for a particularly long time while he trekked among the grain fields, harvesting plant after plant, the quota too far away for him to rest that night, or any night, really. He had gotten used to walking softly, avoiding sharp objects that would most likely get his foot infected and require a visit to the apothecary. This tactic was used here - after all, the environment was basically the same. Sharp stones and twigs littered the floor, and stepping on it would not only cause a twinge of pain, but your location would be pinpointed for all predators out there. He wasn't afraid of this though. In fact, he felt more alive than he had felt in such a long time - months maybe. So with the full moon at his back, he walked.
He walked for such a long time with such few provisions. Water soon became depleted, and he barely made it before wandering into a stream and somehow not becoming sick from the trickling water. Food became scarce as well, but he put this aside. He didn't know how to hunt, and it wasn't like he would need the skill once [if] he got to a district. Food existed in those places, hopefully in more abundance than in District 11. So he moved on, eating the small bit of food that he had brought with him from his home, a few nibbles per day. But just as he was all out, he made it to one of the Districts. Of course, he didn't know which one it actually was, but judging by the look of the thick, grey colored smoke that filled the smoky-scented air, it was either District 3, 8, 5 or 9. Still, the District didn't matter. What did matter is that he was there, and that he was ready to play with his trusty harmonica, and complete this aspiration.
He didn't speak - the accent was different, that much was obvious. And what if he were to encounter a law abiding citizen who had wanted to reap the benefits of reporting some wanderer to the Peacekeepers? He had heard rumors of the Detention Center; dark, desolate, no way of escaping the torture that they had inside. There was no way that he wanted to be there. So he kept his head low, even though he probably stuck out like a sore thumb. At the very least, nobody bothered to report them - they were all busy going to and fro, walking to their jobs, or home from school. He still didn't know where he was until he saw the sign for a Clothing Factory, and a lightbulb seemed to turn on in his mind.
Oh.
He found a little bench to sit on, whipped out the harmonica, and glanced around. Perhaps it wouldn't be such a bright idea to just play - people were far too busy to just listen, weren't they? Nonsense, he told himself. There's always time for music. Placing a small, white ceramic mug [that had an abundance of cracks littering the once-smooth surface] on the ground [for tips of course], he shook slightly greasy hair out of his eyes, took a deep breath, and began to play.leave out all the rest