lonesome // kiah

Moving on was probably just another puzzle in life that China had yet a clue to solve. This “moving on” proved to be an especially hard challenge when the only sane thing she could think of doing every day is to reminisce. Memories flood in like a herd of wild elephants, trampling over every thought of accepting the fact that District Thirteen was home now. The memories of wind whispering in her ears, fresh grass wafting into her nose, mud soiling the hem of her white dress, childish scratches on her knees from hours of running around an open meadow. Memories that could only be transferred to paper, now, instead of actually reliving that life.

With careful hands, her pencil seemed to take a mind of it’s own as it scratched at the blank page before it - transforming a dull white to the image of a galloping horse, it’s eyes sparkling and legs flying over tiny patches of grass. Candid life at it’s best.

As the her muse comes to a steady halt and the pencil dies and becomes inanimate once more, she places the wooden instrument on the metallic desk and rests her hands over the page - brushing it with slight admiration and desire. Yes, it would look better if some color were added to it. But District Thirteen was strictly black and white, and the type of color that China so craved seemed to never be of reach. A small sigh escaped her lips as she turned and faces the clock.

7:00 AM.

China had stayed awake the whole night, yet again. Wasn’t it just an hour ago that it was 10 PM? But, it wasn’t her fault though. She didn’t have the slightest of clues whether it’d be day or night if there was no light (or the lack of it) streaming through a window. It wasn’t her fault that this god forsaken place was so damn secluded. How the hell would she know that the moon had already been replaced by the Sun? Why would it even matter if she couldn’t even see it?

If anything mattered at District Thirteen, it would be time. Or, at least, the management of it. One thing that China was never exactly good at. The time was nearing 7:30 and, yet, the brown eyed girl couldn’t bring herself to getting ready until 7:25. Juggling and completing the tasks of taking a shower and getting dressed in five minutes is nearly impossible, but still, she tried. Muttering curse words under her breath as the steaming hot water met her tense muscles, she reprimanded herself for such tactics and made a promise that tomorrow she’d somehow muster up the time to finally not be late.

Then again, she always made this same sorry promise every morning. To no avail.

Her hurried footsteps clicked against the tiled floors as she scrambled her way to the cafeteria, her brain tired at the night’s events and stomach grumbling with the lack of food. As she entered the cafeteria with high hopes, she was greeted with disappointments as her expectations failed her again. This is why people should never be optimistic. The sickly vomit-looking thing that slopped in everyone's small bowls was another meal of porridge. Approaching the area where the food was being served and grabbing a tray for herself, China grabbed a bowl of the gray colored mush and a warm bun on the side, the bun at least being the one thing to satisfy her hunger.

The other kids her age stared at her with wide eyes as she searched for a table to sit at. Most were taken, except for a few spread out here and there. When she made eye contact with those that stared at her, they looked away - any source of acknowledgement to them meant an invitation to eat with them. And they didn't want any invitation of any sort.

Taking a lonesome seat at a table by herself, China began to pick at the mushy food, mixing it around with her spoon as if the mixing could suddenly transform it to pancakes drizzled with syrup. Oh, man, I miss syrup. She stopped when she felt that the porridge still couldn't satisfy her, and, to a now watering mouth, took a huge bite out of the fluffy baked bread.

She rested her head on her fist as she chewed, tracing a delicate finger against the surface of a table, imagining another sketch come to life.

If only my breakfast could transform from porridge to paper and pencil.