Dreams of Sorrow(PM if you want to join)
Apr 19, 2013 15:35:54 GMT -5
Post by Iris Lulane on Apr 19, 2013 15:35:54 GMT -5
As the wind coursed through her hair and guided the victory along
The most impossible feeling occurred in the sweltering weather
Coldness
The most impossible feeling occurred in the sweltering weather
Coldness
***
Whoosh. The slender dagger launched from it's callus covered launch pad. A glisten. A squish. A thud. The job is done as the blade wiggled in it's red bath. The handle throbbed a few minutes more, the only sound crickets and soft crunches of fluffy hands. The launchpad still was thrust forward, but slowly retracted, hovering twitchy on the seams of brown slacks. It was when the target of the dagger finally gasped it's last breath that the girl behind the weapon looked up and at the still, furry, stained body: fire and victory in her eyes, but behind the curtains, darkness and guilt lurked. The disturbed, sardonic, and passionate girl had a name from which she used to cry when hearing: Iris.
Though many thoughts and worries clouded her mind, she didn't waist a minute standing on the soundly leaves. Crunching along, Iris swiftly reached the brown rabbit and gripped the slightly red handle. Closing her eyes and imagining her hungry sister slouching on the couch and petting Snowdrop, the pet squirrel Iris had caught her, she yanked the blade out at an angle where only a little more blood oozed from the small wound on the rabbits hind legs. Iris quickly slung off the knapsack on her shoulder and got to work, a trance-like look in her eyes as her ears pierced the surroundings, 'looking' for any other movements.
Flinging the flap over, Iris took a rag that used to be wet and gingerly traced the wound, gathering the blood and matting the fur till the slit was near invisible. The rag was now chopped liver as Iris slipped out a pouch and gathered the nearby leaves that had even a stain of blood upon it, her hybrid eyes observing the scene. Once that was done, the blonde girl knelt and untied the trip wire that was used to alert her from the trees with a whistle-like sound coming from the spring of a hooked rope catching the pray to distract it as Iris would aim. Stowing it in her backpack, she took the rabbit by the hind legs, tied them, and repeated the same with the front. Examining the too clean scene, Iris took a few twigs and leaves from her hair and littered them to add the same fresh feeling she acquired that was replaced by grimness.
Iris was now worn. Her body was fine because of her limberness, but mentally, she was a mess. The mere scent of the trees and dry dirt gave birth to memories of her father. Every time she perched in a tree or hid behind a tree with a spear in hand-as she was trying to have more variety with weapons-she could almost hear the sounds of her father as he whistled to her from afar to check where she was while he was going through the areas with nettles to get more exotic flowers. And that gave her both joy and misery as that sweet lick of happiness had a hefty price of reliving the night she yelled at her own father with no mercy. How she had turned into some sort of monster and preyed on her father. Iris promised to never disrespect an adult from than, though it was too later for her and her father.
Iris was always angry at herself for motivation, but could be proud of herself in intervals when her emotions weren't spraying out of her body through the refusal to talk to others and intimidating others a bit. Some people say that blondes were supposed to be bimbos, but after seeing Iris, they'd never say that in front of her or even think of it. But Iris could be a bimbo for doing one thing that was pretty much shouting, "Yeah, I go into the woods and hunt the animals, keep some as pets, and keep my family healthy by gathering berries" to the whole country of Panem whenever she did something well done, whether that be hunting a large animal, aiming accurately, or even for her birthday/special occasions: sell the rather larger animals at the Market. Of course many now knew that she would spend hours in the forest, but there was no proof. Her spear, dagger/blade, and pocket knife were never discovered and there isn't any noticeable evidence in the forest, either. Not that anyone checked, Iris thought in a smirking and grim way. Yet again, she was visited by her worst dream and looked into the thick pines, wishing that her charred father would bitterly rise from his pathetic grave that Iris stood on, leaning on a tree to feel the sap between her fingers as thoughts of her sickly mother teaching her how to make pies as perfect as Lobelia's converged with thoughts of a half burnt person clouded her mind.
***
The sun judged and the wind gave ersatz hope
For the cold was relentless and stayed
Like the fading of her future
For the cold was relentless and stayed
Like the fading of her future
