Pt. I -Around the Bend (gloryisben)

It has been a rough couple of days.

I’m walking back home from the wool mill after an evening of work. I forced myself to go in every single day since the beating, to show them that I’m not afraid.

The truth is, every time I grab the doorknob, my body breaks out in sweat and my pulse quickens. I get the overwhelming urge to flee and never look back. But I swallow my fear and step inside the building, my head held up as high as I can.

Right when my shift ended on that day, I knew I had to go home as soon as possible. A huge part of me wanted to get to Alder to talk about what happened, and see how he was doing… But I knew that Trey would be worried. As twins, we have this connection… I was positive that he was feeling a fraction of my hurt and pain. I needed to find him.

So I ran home, hot tears rolling down my cheek as I replayed the images of the overseer beating us to the ground.

My dad had cried when he had seen the bruises on my face. I held it together and assured him that I was fine, but my heart was breaking inside. I knew he would never blame me for what happened, no matter what I had done, but I opted to not mention that Alder was there. Alder doesn’t need to get blamed for something that definitely wasn’t his fault. Trey and I spent the evening in our bedroom, in silence, as he iced and tried to patch up my bruises.

So here I am, walking down a dusty street, wrapping Lola’s woollen scarf tightly around me as the cold air tries to seep into my pores. The swelling has receded from my cheeks, but ugly purple contusions line my cheekbones. It’s telling of the state of our district that no one had made a fuss about them, nor even looked at me curiously at school. Bruises are a common sight, I guess.

Suddenly, my right foot steps on a piece of paper. The sound surprises me and I look down.

The most beautiful drawing I have ever seen graces the page, in very fine lines and details. It’s as if the dress it’s depicting is spinning in front of my eyes. I have never seen anything quite like it, and my eyes open in wonder.

As I contemplate the image, my ears pick up the sound of other leaves fluttering in the wind. What are these? I run after them, holding them gingerly so as to not smudge the delicate ink.

When I pick up the last of the bunch, I notice a girl with copper hair, about my age, doing the same dance I was. The drawings must be hers!

I approach her carefully, but making sound with my footsteps, to avoid scaring her. I tap her lightly on the shoulder, and shoot her a very earnest smile. I extend my hand to her, holding her drawings in my clenched fist.

“These are wonderful. I mean… I’ve never seen anything quite like these. Are they yours?”

The next thing I know I am standing in front of this striking young woman, holding one of her drawings.

I don’t fully understand how we got here. I just know that I handed her the drawings and words seemed to spill out of her mouth. I smile a little, thinking I must have flattered her with my words about her art.

They weren’t just words, I really meant them.

The girl looks a little nervous, biting her lip, glancing down at the sheet of paper. I scrutinize her face a moment, trying to recall if I’ve seen it before. My nose scrunches up a bit. I can’t place her. I remember the drawing and hastily look down.

Two people, a couple, are holding hands next to a lake on a moonlit evening. I’ve only seen trees like those depicted here in the arenas. My jaw can’t help but drop a little, as I’m completely enraptured in the scene playing out in front of me. The colors are striking, and I’m pressed with the urge to touch them…

I look up and see her face, features drawn in a question mark. I nod vigorously.

“This is magical. Truly… I feel… drawn into it.”

As a stare intently at the work of art before me, a bunch of questions flood my mind: where does she get the supplies for this? Does she work at a design studio? Those were sought after jobs, and she could color me impressed if she had landed one. I couldn’t very well ask her these things; we just met, after all. I shook my head slightly, chasing away my thoughts.

“We don’t get to see much nature around here in 8. You’re so lucky to be able to put on paper what so many of us can only think up in our dreams.”

As I hand her back her drawing, I extend my hand in a greeting gesture.

“My name is Karen, by the way. Karen Lightly. Which way are you going? Do you want to walk with me a bit?”

There’s a pause as the girl looks up at me, her head still hanging down.

I see a slew of emotions play across her face, and I can’t help but wonder what I did wrong. I furrow my brow a little. I thought we were getting along splendidly… Why does she suddenly seem like she’s recoiling at the idea of walking with me?

I ponder about how I approach people. I’ve never had a hard time making friends. It just seems to… work. I smile, and they let me in. I genuinely feel that I have something to offer to everyone, but most of all, I believe that they can offer me something that’s hard to find in this dreary place. Friendship provides light in this place of darkness, a spark that is impossible to find anywhere else.

Taking in the girl that’s standing in front of me, I don’t believe that I’ve been mean to her. The internal debate she’s having is exactly that: internal. Something mustv’e happened to make her so defensive. Did someone hurt you? I inspect her features; inspect her posture, scanning for bruises or injuries. Nothing the naked eye can see. What about my bruises? Maybe she’s afraid she will suffer the same fate. I decide that no matter her decision, I will make it clear that I’m here for her, if she needs it.

The young woman locks eyes with mine, and something seems to switch. That’s it; I know you’re strong. She smiles, extends her hand and presents herself: Brynn Hollis. We shake hands for a second, as I return her smile.

We are taking the same way home, and our feet fall into step. At first, I want to ask her about the hesitation she seemed to have gone through, but I decide against it. Not everybody is as eager as me to open up to stranger. Instead, I will retreat to a safe topic, and one she seems keen to talk about: her art. But first, I want to assure her that my bruises are nothing to worry about.

“You know, I don’t want you to be worried, walking with me like this. I got these,” I say, gesturing at my face, “at the wool mill. I don’t think we will be attacked walking home.” I shoot her what I hope is a reassuring smile.

“So, did you teach yourself to draw like that? Or did someone teach you? I want to know all about it.”

I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.

I smile faintly as I watch Brynn happily chat about her passion for drawing. She’s animated and smiling, and it warms my heart.

Then from one second to the next, there’s a sudden break in her dialogue. I rack my brain trying to remember the detail that made her stop. Fray? Who is that? There’s a nagging thought floating around in my mind that I know that name, that something happened…

But she’s suddenly at it again, explaining how her passion extends to all forms of art. I admire this redheaded lady walking beside me. To immerse yourself so totally in something you love… It takes courage, and determination. Whatever it is that is keeping her from reaching out, or from forming new connections, I’m sure art has brought her comfort.

Then she turns to me, and I’m caught off guard as she wants to know what animates me, and where I live.

I clear my throat, and proceed.

“Well, we don’t live too far from here, but it’s definitely on the outskirts of the outskirts” I laugh, nervously. The richer you were, the closer you lived to the town square. We didn’t live anywhere near the town square.

“It’s just my dad, my twin brother and I. You may have seen him around more than me; he’s the sociable one. Trey Lightly.” I look at her face a moment to check if I register recognition on her features, then continue.

“And… I guess I don’t have a ‘thing’, really, like you with your art. I love school, and I devote most of my free time to reading and learning. I guess it’s the one thing that…” I trail off, not wanting to embark Brynn on my ideological views that learning is the one thing that keeps us from being the Capitol’s slaves. The pause is getting too long, so I add: “…motivates me.”

I take a second to look at my feet kicking the dirt around our well-worn shoes. I dig my hands deep in my pockets, wanting to ward off the cold. I have to be more careful. I can’t let my anger at the PKs throw me off. The truth is, I don’t know Brynn. She seems bright, and she is talented, but I don’t yet know if her long-term goal is to, I don’t know, become a Peacekeeper.

“Also, I spend a lot of time caring for District 8’s senior citizens. It used to be my mom’s job, before she passed away. When I grew up I decided to volunteer at the group home.”

I smile at the thought. It had been awhile since I went to visit Mrs. Bagshot.

We’re nearing the end of our walk, and the stars are starting to show. I don’t want to part from Brynn’s company just yet. It’s the first time all week I’ve been able to talk about something other than the beating.

“What about you? Where do you live?”