Blood on the garden gate - {kneedles and luke}
Sept 27, 2012 16:10:18 GMT -5
Post by Raseri on Sept 27, 2012 16:10:18 GMT -5
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It had been almost twelve years since Hatter had last ventured upon the grounds of the produce market, and yet, he found it to be almost exactly like he remembered it, as if it had all been frozen in time and it had known all along that he would someday return to District 10. All the familiar images of his childhood were here in front of him, jumping straight out of his memories to paint the picture before him once again--red baskets of apples, invigorating hues of orange and cool shades of green intertwining with earthy yellows and browns. As he walked by the table and stands, the colors of the succulent fruits and vegetables popped out at him, shouting for him to walk by and take his pick. His stomach rumbled audibly despite the way he tried to avoid thinking about food, knowing that if he were to fish around in his pockets for change he would find little more than a few pennies and maybe a few tufts of pocket lint if he was especially lucky.
The dirt accumulated in small clouds behind him as his boots--shiny brown leather to match his hat and jacket, with steel toes just right for kicking things, he'd bought them last Thursday—kicked up the loose earth beneath his feet with each clop against the bare ground, occasionally veering to either side to avoid a mound of horse dung. After spending over a decade away from this place, he'd forgotten how those seemed to pop up everywhere—no matter how much he'd been trying to remain on his guard, there were still a few that would sneak up on him, appearing out of thin air just before he would lower a foot into it. Oddly enough, he didn't recall ever stepping in so much shit when he was younger... but then again, he was a bit out-of-practice when it came to stepping around the stuff. There were lots of things he was going to have to become re-accustomed to, really.
Recently Hatter had begun to realize how much he had forgotten about the little hick town he had once called home. A few days ago, just because he'd been in a sentimental mood, he decided to go hunting for the little path he and his brothers used to follow to get to school, a straight shortcut that always allowed them to get there before all the other kids. After searching for a while, he'd found it, though it was overgrown with tall grasses and didn't seem like it had been used for years. For some reason, even though the trail was barely discernible from the rest of the ground around it, Hatter had felt inclined to follow the path. But it had been so long since he'd last been to school that he'd forgotten that the shortcut went straight through Mr. Lawson's front yard, and that the old farmer was not one to tolerate grown men just strolling across his yard without permission. Fortunately for Hatter, the man just didn't have enough oomph left in him to do much more than shake an arthritic fist and shout a few words that certainly exhibited his very colorful vocabulary.
Yes, even though everything looked the same, it still felt very foreign. Hatter had always loved the market as a kid, because there was never a shortage of activities--while his mother would shop, he would run off and play with other children, occasionally deciding to wreak havoc upon some unsuspecting fruit salesman. Sometimes, if he was especially well-behaved (which wasn't very often, sadly), Mum would buy him something sweet from the honey stand of Mr. Crainsey, a man who was almost bumbly as the bees he raised. But today, however, the children who ran around the market were strangers. Hatter didn't recognize a single person, not even any of the older folk, who would have been there before he'd run off. Truthfully, Hatter didn't mind—not knowing anyone, not caring about them, not feeling sorry for any of them, would make his job a whole lot easier.
Faces weren't important to him right now; all that mattered at the moment was what these people had in their pockets. It was common knowledge that no one came to a produce market without the intention of leaving with some sort of food, and in order to do that, you had to have some money. People came to these things with their pockets stuffed full of cash—something that was very easy to take from them if you knew how. And of course, Hatter had a knack for that kind of thing—he could sniff out a dollar from a mile away, and his trained ears could hear the soft jingle of pocket change even in large crowds like this one. He knew how to blend in and he knew how to sneak around--two vital skills that had earned him numerous meals on days like today.
So there he was, blending in, his keen eyes searching, always searching, for his next victim, someone who didn't know how to blend in, anyone who stood out--people who wore nice clothes were especially tempting. How stupid those ones were; those whose appearances seemed to send up flares and scream, "Look at me, I'm rich! Rob me, please!" There was one now, walking—no, strolling—along right in front of him, his fancy, unbuttoned black jacket flapping lightly in the breeze. And what was that on his back, right below the hem of his coat? The left hind-pocket of his expensive jeans protruded slightly, a small box shape clearly outlined against the seat of his pants. When would people learn how unsafe it was to put your wallet there, in plain sight of predators and ne'er-do-wells? But Hatter didn't mind. No, other peoples' mistakes were perfectly fine with him.
Almost instictively, his eyes locked onto his victim and soon he was a lion crouching in the grass, blending in with the surroundings in order to stalk and eventually pounce upon his unsuspecting prey. Hatter followed the man from a distance until he stopped at a fruit stand to examine some apples—they must have looked rather suspicious, as the fellow seemed to be looking at them quite closely. Once the man was immersed in a conversation with the lady running the stand, Hatter pounced. Anyone looking on would believe he was just looking at the fruit, when in reality he was focused on the man's bulging back pocket, and the fat stack of cash held inside it. Slowly and in a smooth motion that probably made it look as if he were merely straightening the sleeve of his brown jacket, his fingertips grasped the edge of the black leather wallet and pulled it out swiftly and easily. Though his face showed no emotions save for the look of indifference in which he had long ago learned to mask his features, inside his stomach fluttered with the adrenaline he always got from one of his many pickpocketing excursions. Hatter tucked his prize in a small pocket on the inside of his jacket and then seemed to quickly lose interest in the fruit, instead continuing down the line of tables until he reached the end of the market.
The market was still in sight, but all of its sounds had quieted, not really fading in to silence but instead seeming to just blend in with the background, becoming less distinctive and more of a quiet hum. This hushed vibration, in Hatter's opinion, was better than silence—absolute quiet had always felt unnatural and made him uncomfortable. He spotted a tree--a tall, sturdy oak—and sat down at its base, doing a quick double-take to see if anyone was watching. When everything was clear, he pulled the wallet out of his pocket, prying it open with eager fingers and fishing through it hungrily. No one saw, except for the ancient oak that was towering over him, but if it noticed what he was doing it was silent anyway save for the light rustling of its leaves. Without a doubt, the man had had no shortage of cash—there was enough money in the wallet to last him for at least a week of good meals.
Hatter’s chapped lips curled into a close-mouthed smile—not his usual smirk, but an actual smile—of triumph as he fished the money out of the wallet and pocketed it quickly, leaving just a little bit in there after deciding to cut the guy a little slack; he was in a good mood. He tossed the wallet into a nearby shrub—out of sight, out of mind, as his mother used to say—figuring someone might stumble across it eventually. Absentmindedly, his hand returned to his pocket. Perhaps he was just savoring the feel of the money inside of it, knowing somehow that it wouldn’t last long and that he’d have to pick the pockets of some other unlucky bastard.
Sadly, it wasn’t often that Hatter stopped to admire the weather, but as he sat in the shade of the tree, he must have figured that it was necessary on this particular afternoon. The seasons seemed to be stuck in their in-between stage; it wasn’t quite autumn but it couldn’t rightly be described as summer either, and the temperatures couldn’t seem to decide whether they wanted to be cold or warm. The trees’ canopies were thinning but the weather was nice today—besides the occasional gust of wind, the sky was nearly cloudless, the sun shone brightly, and the air was warm. So warm, in fact, that Hatter felt an inclination to actually slip off his jacket for once, but he decided not to since the money was in its inside pocket. He almost got up, nearly forced himself onto his feet once again to go off in search of something to fill the void in his loudly complaining stomach, but for some reason he stayed in his place, inclining his neck to stare up through the old tree’s thick umbrella of leaves.narration
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