Constellations {Geebs}
Jul 4, 2012 4:35:37 GMT -5
Post by charade on Jul 4, 2012 4:35:37 GMT -5
It was dark and the night had fallen; or was it night and the dark had fallen? Alliterations. Bah. But where are my manners? Greetings and salutations! If you're reading this, you have come into the possession of a journal detailing the life of a fellow who lived in the twelfth district of Panem. I am not the boy named Erik Strauss, but I am the narrator of his adventures. I knew him, or at least, I thought I did. What I'm doing right here is commonly referred to as a foreword, as it comes before the story, yet pertains to it in some way. I? I am simply the omnipresent teller of tales, you may refer to me as C.
I warn you, I will be making my own opinions known throughout the duration of this escapade.
The setting is, as I mentioned above, the farthest district from the Capitol, a grungy place, where the wind brings with it the black ash of coal dust and the air is often quite mucky. If there is a need for me to be more specific, you will find that Erik is pacing back and forth in the stretch of land that separates a line of houses from the seam. He paces whenever he cannot sleep, a repetitive motion that brings him a small measure of peace.
Our story opens on a starlit night...
The path in front of Erik Strauss was lit by a few kerosene lamps that winked conspiratorially from a few grimy windows. Further ambient light was afforded to him by the moon, which hung in the air like a dusty skull, surrounded by the blinking of stars. I imagine he felt somewhat like he was being watched; but soon dismissed it as a wild imagining. Of course, I was watching him from a distance, but much to my disbelief, he failed to notice me for what must have been the hundredth time.
That particular night, the gritty leavings of the sandman had evaded him due to the events of the the past two weeks or so. The games were in session, and like he did every year, Erik had fallen into a jaded depression. Now, you'd think he would be in such a state due to the emotional turmoil that comes with losing a friend or sibling, never to be seen again; or perhaps the anxiousness that comes with knowing your number could be up. Many are the reasons for people to in a mood around this time of year, but for Erik, the lack of sleep was attributed to something else entirely.
He was feeling depressed, for once again, he hadn't been reaped.
Now, I know what you must be thinking, why would a lad in his living situation wish that upon himself? To understand his peculiar outlook on that, you must first understand that Erik was not like other boys his age. Where most people saw a death sentence, he saw... opportunity.
Where he lived, he viewed it as a constant struggle for who can suffer the most, but come out of it the best. Sob stories were a dime a dozen, but so were the tales of overcoming adversity. What Erik wanted was to get into the games. It was a chance for glory; to rise higher than all the rest of the people scratching out a living in the mud. To be noticed, recognized; these are the things he wished for. Small wonder he'd be so upset neither of the current years tributes lasted long; smaller wonder the few people he interacted with thought he was off of his rocker.
Arbor Halt. Aranica Petros. Heron Kimberling.
From the time he was ten years old, he had idolized those names. A blind boy, a little girl and a legless young woman. Victors all, and each more unlikely than the last. Oh, how he wished that his name was up in lights!
To be more than just another lowly coalie.
And so, he paced. Mulling over what he could do to be talked about in lieu of being sent to the arena has kept him from sleeping yet again. I watched as he paused. Something had caught his attention, or rather someone. A dark figure approached from the seam. A friend? enemy? Or something else entirely? Only time would tell.
