the poor soul [greenbeads]

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"Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

Amele Foster's voice ripped through the silence of her house, brows furrowed, eyes burning with anger. Her mother sat there with a pale face, her trembling hands clutching an elegant and regal blue dress. "Amele, darling, there is a no return policy on this lovely garment. I spent an exorbitant price on this, and all I'm asking is that you will wear this to the next Reaping! You will look beautiful, dear." Amele scoffed at her mother. "Well, maybe we would have some money if you got off your lazy ass and stopped mooching off of Dad's inheritance! I'm wearing one of my dresses to the Reaping, and I don't want to talk about this anymore." Amele's mother gasped, her hand releasing the dress to cover her mouth. The two stood there for a few moments, their eyes not daring to move away from the other's. With the shake of her head, Amele bent down to pick up the dress, carelessly throwing it onto the couch. Oh, how Amele yearned to just tear it and rip it and stomp on it with her muddy tennis shoes. But she restrained herself due to the little respect she still had for the woman who birthed her. Amele ran her fingers through her milky blonde hair, a glare still evident on her face, before she turned and headed toward the door. "Where do you think you're going?" her mother asked. Amele rushed toward the entryway, not even looking behind her. "Out!" Amele threw open the door and slammed it behind her, her feet attempting to make a hasty escape from the little slice of Hell she called her house.

She hated it. It, being life, of course. It was like a really cheap gift from your aunt at a birthday party. You're supposed to cherish it, love it, be incredibly thankful for it, but after all it was just an inexpensive trinket that even the poorest of families could buy without batting an eye. It was totally overrated. Amele enjoyed walking to escape life. In her mind, it was sort of metaphorical. She could never beat life, it was impossible. It always moved so quickly while everyone just sat behind and waited for it to finish the race. Amele knew she couldn't defeat it, but she could certainly catch up to. By constantly moving alongside time itself, Amele was at the same pace as life. She couldn't win, but she sure as Hell wouldn't let it beat her by a wide margin. She didn't buy that people lived longer for being athletic. No, in her philosophy, those who kept moving didn't let life get a head start, and wouldn't let it finish the race until they were too old and ill to continue. Amele was fearful of the day that would happen, and disliked thinking about it. She could just see her blonde hair slowly gray, her decent body slowly get larger and short, and her youthful face sprout wrinkles. She never wanted to grow old, and maybe that was part of the reason she would want to die in the Hunger Games. At least then, she'd die in her prime, full of youth. If she were to bite it, she'd at least want to bite it happily.

Amele continued through the winding streets of her districts, filled with shops and restaurants galore. She was in no way in any mood to enter any of these, though it just so happened her destination was smack dab in the middle of this particular business sector. It was such an unfitting location for a training center, and it was one of the things Amele loved about it. Mothers would constantly just take their children shoe shopping, and right next door they would hear the sounds of painful groans as some kind of injury occurred. With a smirk on her face, Amele entered the double doors to the facility, and breathed in the familiar scent of sweat, blood, and pre-pubescent tears. She wasn't crazy or anything, but there was something calming about the scent she had grown accustomed to over the ten years she had been practicing there. She scanned the area, looking for anyone familiar. Leila, a regular fourteen year old, nocked an arrow into her expensive bow, a birthday present no doubt. She released the bow string, and the arrow landed just a tad north of the bulls eye. She shrieked in frustration, throwing her bow toward the ground. Brat. Amele wasn't surprised, however; a majority of those in the district were spoiled and pretentious. Amele didn't fit in with that crowd, but she didn't mind. It's not like she wanted to associate with them or anything.

"You're early." A tap on her shoulder startled Amele, and she turned around to see who it was. "Daven." Amele grinned at the twenty-seven year old man, his cleanly shaven face contorted into a smirk. Amele really did like Daven, and she felt like he was one of the only ones she could talk to about pretty much anything. He was her unofficial trainer, one who had been a Career in adolescence but was never given the chance of volunteer. Or at least, that's what he had told her. Amele always had a suspicion that there was a girl involved, most likely because of the twinkle in his eye that only appeared when he told the story. "Let me guess. Fight with your mom?" Amele nodded. He knew her too well. "She bought me another dress, and tried to make me wear it in public." Daven's eyes sunk in fake sympathy. "Oh, poor you. Your mother went out and bought you a gift! You should really report that to a Peacekeeper." Amele punched him in the shoulder. "Shut up!" The teenager tried her best to look pissed, but she was never the actress her mother wanted her to be. The two of them laughed, and instantly Amele was in a much better mood. "Let's begin, young protégé."

Daven had her practice the different positions to hold a knife for the different angles of attack. "Position 1, Position 3, Position 1, Position 2, Position 3, Position 2!" Amele sighed as she lost her grip and the blade clanked to the ground. She reached down to pick it up, but instead of continuing on with the exercise, she jammed it into a nearby table. "I'd rather practice swordplay, Daven." The trainer pondered this for a moment, and then looked back to Amele. "Go get your sword, and meet me back here within a minute. Go, run!" Amele grinned and took off running, her long legs pushing her off the ground as she sprinted faster and faster. Daven stashed her sword in a hidden cranny in a wall towards the back so that no pesky kids vandalized it. Being careful not to slash any nearby Careers, Amele steadily held her weapon as she slowed her pace to a jog. When she arrived, Daven smiled. "Record time, Amele." She smiled, but then noticed something off. "Where's your sword?" Daven stepped toward Amele. "I'm not going to spar with you today. This will be a game of luck. The next person to walk through that door will be your opponent. It could be a small twelve-year old, it could be a muscular male much larger than you. It's all about the odds, Amele. The odds are what really matter in the Games." Amele was actually kind of nervous, but spoke so she seemed more confident than she actually was. "I feel sorry for the poor soul who steps into this building. The odds are certainly not in his or her favor." Daven laughed, but Amele was more focused on the door. Her mind raced with the different possibilities of regulars she may have to face, and the thought of some of them terrified her. But to give up hope would be to give up the battle, as Daven would say. She grasped her sword in anxiety, and suddenly, the door swung open.