tumblweeds [noooofo)

Hurlee's pale slender fingers reach up, brushing against the white paint of the ceiling. He brushes against the imperfections in the paint, holding onto some sense of dreams. He's sleeping still, he tells himself as he tries to close his eyes again. Inside his minds, it's dark and lonely. He's a lone soldier working for his own cause. He knows the taste of blood and relishes in it. Hurlee is a monster and that carries on in his dreams. In his dreams, however, he is dressed in a white suit, clean and a bit more attractive. The only imperfections in his suit are the blood that comes later on, when he stands over the body of his bunkmate. He could kill the younger boy below him now. He knows he's the only one awake at this point in the morning. He's studied the books over and over, but there's no real way to go on unnoticed. Choking will provoke coughs and gagging and muffled screams. Lethal injection would give away the intellect and everyone had seen Hurlee's test scores. He'd have to settle for killing in his dreams. He rolled over and sighed, giving himself back over to his dream.

The blonde hair ruffles in the stagnant air as he shakes the younger brunette beneath him. The room is large and white, vacant and strange. It's a dream scape that appears often in Hurlee's dreams. The knife of choice is rough and sharp, stainless steel. Perhaps he had seen them used in the Games, but he'd never seen the Patten on the knife before. Hurlee was sure there wasn't that pattern of a horse nestled onto the outer edges of the knife anywhere else. He wasn't a very creative person, but he was sure he knew how to kill and would be good at it. Hurlee's monotone voice was like his talents, spectacular and clear but lacked the emotion. His writing seemed a bit bland and disconnected. His music compositions are violently terrifying. He didn't play sports but he knew all he knew about fighting from books. Hurlee knew his way around the human body. As his knife found home again in between a rib, Hurlee enjoyed the familiar and distant sound of a shortened and sharper breath. If the boy could talk, Hurlee imagined he would be called a monster. Perhaps he was, but Hurlee thought of himself as bored.

Soon enough, the boy died and Hurlee found himself drawn to life. He growled and eyed the chip paint above him and sat up, bumping his head on the ceiling. The dull morning light came through the ratty and worn blinds hanging on the window to his left. The paint of the Community Home was white but looked grayer as it aged. It was due for a new coat of paint but the keeper really didn't have anything to do about it. The Community Home was full of poor children and housekeepers the same. He let his feet hang off the side of the bed and hopped down, eying the boy from his dream beneath him. He watched him for a moment or two before heading down into the closet, grabbing onto one of the few clothing articles he had. Hurlee never went anywhere without his dark trench coat. He had it since he was fifteen and wore it on a daily basis ever since. He also held onto a small old wooden ring he had found along a dirt road once.

Today, Hurlee planned on going for a walk. He hardly ate breakfast so there was no need to eat or prepare before leaving. He made his way into the living area where the front door was. No one was there, not that it mattered. There was a matter of alerting the woman who ran the Home but Hurlee suspected she was too afraid of him to say anything. So he opened the door and made his way into the dirty District covered in sawdust.

Hurlee made his way along a dirt winding road. He'd been down this particular road hundreds of times before. The road ran through the forests several times and he always found himself finding lumberjacks chopping away. He sighed and looked straight in front of him most of the time, preoccupied with himself. He never found real enjoyment in anything except pain. That was always fun. It was hard to find anyone he could connect with. Even harder to find anyone he wanted to connect with. Animals were the worst. He'd killed several cats and two dogs but was never found. He didn't care if he was, but it saved him the trouble of killing a few people and risking his future career as a tribute by becoming an avox. It was cold in the morning but Hurlee felt more at home in the cold winter air.

As the road carried on, Hurlee could make out a human figure. He smirked to himself confidently as it became a sharper picture. A girl, maybe a little younger than he was. Still, a girl could be easy prey. He kept on, walking closer and closer. Soon, their paths met and he began to speak.

"It might not be the brightest idea to walk alone."

Her features weren't unlike his own. Blonde and her eyebrows sharp and angry. It was almost like looking in a gender-swapping mirror, not that he gave it that sort of thought. His choice words were, 'She stole my face.' He stuck his pale hands into his coat pockets, feeling the blade of a knife that had been there for months know. There was blood caked on it even know from a few animals killed for enjoyment. His idle hands played with the blade, waiting for a moment to strike. Until then he had to manage conversation.

He sighed outwardly and opened his mouth again. "The bad guys seem to like abandoned roads like this. Next time, you should try avoiding it if you can."