Cracked [open!]

EVERY DAY, IT'S GETTING CLOSER

"Dialogue!"

[/b]'Thoughts!'[/color][/center]

Zaven paced up and down the cracked pavement, stopping now and again to feel the weight of the black box in her pocket. Checking her wristwatch, Za took it out, twisted it in her hands, and then put it back.

'I'm fine,'[/color] she thought.'I'm fine.'

Nevertheless, she took it out again, and pressed the obvious black button. The box was about the size of half a slice of bread, and had approximately the same thickness. It let out a short, high pitched noise, and then was silent. 5.25, the box read.

'I'm still fine.'[/color]

Above seven- the level of pollutants in District Three's smoggy air- and it was not safe for the little girl with her underdeveloped lungs to be outside. But five-and-a-quarter was fine- better than normal in this polluted area of Panem. She had heard rumor that in Seven, the pollutant level never got above four. She wished that she could go there, stay there, not worry about whether or not she would turn a brilliant shade of cyan because of lack of oxygen entering her weak chest. But these were only rumors- like she would really have any way to find out true facts about other districts. And even if they were true, she had even less way of getting there.

Her mother was late. All the other kids had left school by now, and even the caretaker had locked the gates and headed home. Zaven sat down, back against the poles that constructed the gate to the school. The cold from the pavement seeped through her thin skirt, and crawled up her insides. Had she been allowed to walk, she would have been home an hour ago. But, no, her mother didn’t think it was safe, just in case she collapsed. Her life was ruled by an awful lot of ‘just in case.’

Her mother would normally come straight from her job one of the many factories, and meet her just as school got out. Most other kids in her year would be teased for having their mother greet them- hell, even those who got in a car to go home suffered for it. But with Za, they looked upon it as they looked upon most things that involved her- with an awful lot of pity.

She didn’t want their pity.

She wanted anything but. Their love, their hate, their appreciation, their disproval, their admiration, their help. But she did not want them to pity her. Pitied, she had been all her life. But any other emotion, stemming from any person other than herself, she had only touched upon very briefly. No one saw her as bright, or funny, weird or scary. They saw her as half-dead little Za who couldn’t do anything on her own. No matter how much she wanted to, or was able to.

She hated it when her mother was late. It gave her too much time to think.
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