Under stormy clouds (Gemma/Wolfy)

Forge Harth

~*~
You hate all your children
They’re too fat to feed
~*~

It was a Saturday, the loneliest of days when Forge was out of school but his father remained miles below the surface in the coal mines of District 12. He had woken at his usual early hour curled up in bed, trying to cover his long figure with the thin, moth-eaten excuse of a blanket. The roof was leaking, as always, and it had been up to him to find his own breakfast. It hadn’t taken long; a quick trip further into town provided him with some left over scraps from bins and garbage piles. Mouldy bread and some shreds of rotting meat weren’t his ideal choice, but at least he had eaten. For years he had been doing this; skulking around in the shadows, lifting forgotten food goods and begging for money, the latter not very successful. When he was younger – much younger – he managed to get a small handful of coins a week, but now that he was soon to become a grown man he gained little sympathy.

And where do the problems lie? he asked himself as he pulled his baggy shirt tightly over his skeleton-like body. The Capitol. It’s their fault – their’s! He kicked a loose stone in the battered Seam road as he hurried along, eager to get to the meeting place before any raindrops hit the ground. Not that he knew if it was going to rain; the clouds were hovering, indecisive. He continued along his train of thought, not stopping until his anger was gone; he didn’t want to take it all out on his friends. They weren’t to blame for their lifestyle. All it takes is to pump some more money into our area; mend the broken windows and roofing slates, feed the families, stop unnecessary death! How hard would it be to get some proper medics in here? But in truth it would be very hard, and Forge knew it. Even though life wasn’t exactly paradise in the other districts, they certainly beat District 12 hands down.

He took a deep breath, calming his nerves. Getting mad at the world around him solved nothing, but he was so angry! Why did they have to suffer for something that happened over half a century ago? What had he ever done wrong? Well, in fairness, he was a thief; a vandal; a criminal, no matter how petty or murderous his actions were, they were against the law. Several times he had nearly been caught over the years; he recalled the time when he tried pick-pocketing, soon after meeting Naya. He wanted to be able to bring in some more money, but he didn’t have a touch as light as a feather. He didn’t have the prime reflexes and sly curiosity involved in the job. Shop lifting was his limit, and even that was a rare occasion. Still, I feel like today should be special. A loaf of bread – fresh! – and perhaps a pocketful of beans or herbs to make a broth or soup.

He rounded the street corner in a better mood than before, to see Naya was already there, waiting. He smiled as he saw her, something that he rarely did those days, and quickened his pace further. "Heya... whatcha been up to?" she asked tilting her head in a way he had grown familiar with over time. He joined her on the rock, rubbing his arms in the cold, damp air.

”Managed to pull a few bits and pieces together for breakfast, but I think we should get a feast together today. A loaf of bread, a few vegetables and roots. Perhaps a bit of meat.” He looked up at the brewing cauldron of the sky, trying to estimate the time. The sun was hidden behind a wall of cloud, it’s light spread evenly, making impossible to tell. He shrugged and continued, ”Where’s Wolfy? Anyway, what do you think to my little plan? Think we could pull it off?”

~*~
You’re on medication
Taking pills to sleep
~*~

~*~
I think, I'm doing just fine
~*~

It wasn’t long before Wolfy appeared. "Hey guys. Look what I've got." Forge couldn’t help but smile when she brandished a chunk of leftover meat; its age and stench didn’t bother him. It was cooked. It was food. He greedily took his third and started gnawing away on the tough flesh, unable to stop salivating over such a treat. Meat was rare, and twice in one morning he had got his hands on some. He was hunched over, protecting his prize from the others; not that he thought they would steal it - they had their own. It was a habit developed from years of travelling in a gang of boys, all ready to battle it out for an extra morsel. "So what's the agenda?" the new arrival asked, starting on her piece.

Forge ran over his plan in his head. We don’t need so much after this, so now it’s just for our siblings. Well, theirs’. His heart sank, thinking back to the cold fact that he didn’t – and probably would never – have a brother or a sister. His father was still distraught about his wife’s death, even after nearly twenty years. If he hadn’t got remarried now he never would. Cold. Hard. Fact.

No brothers, no sisters, no mother. He toyed with the idea of taking in an orphaned child, but did they really need to stress? No; in a way they were lucky to only have two mouths to feed. But the crushing lonliness was enough to drive him mad, enough to drive him into a depression. Yet if they had so much money left over, why were they starving? Working in the mines was a low-profit job compared to, say, working in a taylor shop, even though it was the district's expertise. Who set the wage so low? The Capitol.

Once more, the source of all Forge's problems led back to the greedy, grabbing authorities. If stealing a bit of food every now and again (or every day) then it was merely resetting the balance of life. Such chaotic reasoning was the little thinking he did over these matters, if he even thought about his actions or their consequences. All he did was habit: he was drawn to bins, open stalls and kept his eyes downcast not out of shame but out of searching, searching for dropped change. Anything would do to get by, but he wanted this group effort to be special.

Some bread, some plants, maybe some more meat if we’ve been lucky so far. He spoke his thoughts, “We were considering getting a pile of food together, you know, a little present for our families. Your brother’s always growing, Wolfy, and Naya has an entire tribe to feed!” He smiled apologetically at Naya; he knew he could be cruel at times. “A bit of bread, some vegetables and if things go well we might find a bit more meat. If not, I’ll catch a rat. If you two won’t eat it I will. Wat’ya say?”

~*~
Compared to what you've been doing
~*~

~*~
Saving, my life
Is not what you’re doing
~*~

“Right,” he agreed to their pact. No one likes a grass, he concluded. “So it’s settled. You girls do what you do best, and I’ll head on over and grab the odd piece of this or that. Meet you on that backstreet near the Square, OK?” He took off, the fast walk of someone with a purpose radiating from his body. The wind tugged at his loose clothing as he scurried along the alleys and paths, blending into the shadows with his dark hair, shirt and eyes. I’m freezing, he thought, trying not to let his teeth chatter. What I wouldn’t do for a coat right now...[ He had one at home, but it was reserved for the depths of winter as they couldn’t afford to buy garments more than every couple of years. As luck would have it, his first theft was just around the corner, waiting for him.

He stood stock still as he stared at the man’s body. Had he starved, or died of hypothermia? Such deaths were common in District 12, but Forge had never come face-to-face with a corpse. They were usually disposed of quickly by Peacekeepers. Forge took a tentative step closer to inspect him. He was above middle-aged, but not old. A thick beard coated his face and his skin was blue with cold. Hypothermia, definitely. He was curled up on the curb, as if he were sleeping. And he wore a thick, heavy coat.

Of course, the jacket hadn’t been enough to keep him alive through the night, but the temperature plummeted after sunset; there was no competition between daylight hours and evenings. He might as well have been breathing ice last night, Forge thought, taking another step. He looked around carefully, but the area was deserted. His heart pounded in his chest, disgusted at himself for what he was about to do. Don’t do it! Have some respect! But he was willing to rob from the living; this man didn’t need his belongings anymore. He grabbed the corpse’s clothing and dragged it in between two buildings and proceeded to go through the pockets. Matches – the man was a smoker; a solitary cigarette confirmed it. Not a coin to be found, though, and all that was left to do was take any clothing available. Forge could only bring himself to take the man’s coat and gloves, though, and left him alone after that.

It was frightening to think that he was wearing a dead man’s coat. What if it’s cursed? he wondered, but dismissed it immediately. He wrapped up in the humongous padded jacket, warm for the first time in weeks, and hurried along to do a bit of shop lifting.

~*~
I, I won’t justify
the way I live my life
~*~