The Newest Face That I've Seen (Axel)
Jun 4, 2012 11:19:39 GMT -5
Post by I'm Known As Eliza on Jun 4, 2012 11:19:39 GMT -5
Speaking
Thinking
Narration
I walk along the path to the Training Center, following the road to another day of vigorous training, just to please my mother, even though I never see her. Sometimes I wish that I was born to a non-Career mother, so I wouldn't have to go the twenty minute walk to the Training Center from my lowly house in the outskirts. I could have been born to a mining family, with another boy or girl to mess around with, but no, I got stuck with a die-hard Career mother and a gambling father. But at least training keeps my mind off of things like my weird family, and my amount of zero friends, and how much I would love to have a brother or sister to be taking the walk with me right now. My chestnut colored hair falls into my blue-green eyes, and I growl, taking the rubber band around my arm and pulling my hair up. I always hate on how long my hair is, but my mother wouldn't let me cut it. Maybe later I can get a pair of scissors and hack it off, I think to myself.
My feet reach the door of the Center, and I take a deep breath, ready for the exercises my trainer has prepared for me today. I look up at the sky, which is dull and gray with rain clouds and I smirk, feeling glad I have a jacket on. I step inside, and I see no sign of my trainer, or any trainer, just trainees, walking around, picking up weapons without a second thought, and chucking them across the room. Especially the boys, all of them grabbing hundred pound weights and carrying them with ease. If only I could have a body like that, where I could just lift up a weight without getting strange looks. But I'm definitely getting strange looks now, as I take off my jacket, revealing my scar. It looks especially bad today, and the boys who were thinking about walking over here suddenly have to look to make sure their shoes are tied. I smirk at the groups queasiness and I walk to the knives, the multiple knives that lay on the rack in front of me.
I don't really have a special weapon that I like to use. They're just weapons to me, but I can throw knives around. I like to sometimes, but I almost always prefer to use my bare hands and feet, kicking and punching. But a knife is always good to have handy. That's why I have a knife in my bedside drawer. It's always good to have one.
As I throw the knives, I feel someones eyes watching me. The eyes aren't calculating, but they are holding steady. I turn around, looking for the pair that happened to be looking upon me that day, but I couldn't catch them. They were in here though. Somewhere. But to get my mind off of it I turn to the punching bag and do a roundhouse, feeling the speed of my kick rush into the side of the fabric bag. I smile, always liking the feel of a nice kick to the side. I do a couple of jabs, but with everything I do, I just can't get the eyes off of me. I can still feel them watching me, watching everything I do. It's making my aim go off, and it's making me feel uncomfortable.
Thinking
Narration
I walk along the path to the Training Center, following the road to another day of vigorous training, just to please my mother, even though I never see her. Sometimes I wish that I was born to a non-Career mother, so I wouldn't have to go the twenty minute walk to the Training Center from my lowly house in the outskirts. I could have been born to a mining family, with another boy or girl to mess around with, but no, I got stuck with a die-hard Career mother and a gambling father. But at least training keeps my mind off of things like my weird family, and my amount of zero friends, and how much I would love to have a brother or sister to be taking the walk with me right now. My chestnut colored hair falls into my blue-green eyes, and I growl, taking the rubber band around my arm and pulling my hair up. I always hate on how long my hair is, but my mother wouldn't let me cut it. Maybe later I can get a pair of scissors and hack it off, I think to myself.
My feet reach the door of the Center, and I take a deep breath, ready for the exercises my trainer has prepared for me today. I look up at the sky, which is dull and gray with rain clouds and I smirk, feeling glad I have a jacket on. I step inside, and I see no sign of my trainer, or any trainer, just trainees, walking around, picking up weapons without a second thought, and chucking them across the room. Especially the boys, all of them grabbing hundred pound weights and carrying them with ease. If only I could have a body like that, where I could just lift up a weight without getting strange looks. But I'm definitely getting strange looks now, as I take off my jacket, revealing my scar. It looks especially bad today, and the boys who were thinking about walking over here suddenly have to look to make sure their shoes are tied. I smirk at the groups queasiness and I walk to the knives, the multiple knives that lay on the rack in front of me.
I don't really have a special weapon that I like to use. They're just weapons to me, but I can throw knives around. I like to sometimes, but I almost always prefer to use my bare hands and feet, kicking and punching. But a knife is always good to have handy. That's why I have a knife in my bedside drawer. It's always good to have one.
As I throw the knives, I feel someones eyes watching me. The eyes aren't calculating, but they are holding steady. I turn around, looking for the pair that happened to be looking upon me that day, but I couldn't catch them. They were in here though. Somewhere. But to get my mind off of it I turn to the punching bag and do a roundhouse, feeling the speed of my kick rush into the side of the fabric bag. I smile, always liking the feel of a nice kick to the side. I do a couple of jabs, but with everything I do, I just can't get the eyes off of me. I can still feel them watching me, watching everything I do. It's making my aim go off, and it's making me feel uncomfortable.