.:A Long Way Down:. [Kale]
Apr 28, 2013 20:24:29 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Apr 28, 2013 20:24:29 GMT -5
[/color]—waiting for her grandpappy to come to the wooden porch. He was supposed to tell her a bedtime story and tuck her in, but fate had it different. The night stars were painted above and the sweat dripped from her brow. Jolene could hear the cry of the men, and curious and curiouser, she took to her feet to find the source of the exclamation.I feel numb most of the time,
The more I get the higher,
I'll climb, and I will wonder why,
I get dark only,
To shine.
When Jolene had been all of six, her grandpappy taught her about death.
It was a hot summer’s eve. They was full of nervousness—the long looks on the faces of the stable hands stomping around the stacks of horseshit and dead grass. A horse had taken a tumble and broken its leg in three places, and was causing a ruckus up near the stables on their property. The sound was enough to send shivers up any man’s spine, what with the screeching and hollering. Jolene had been playing with her ragdoll—Norma Jean
They was crowded around the fallen mare trying to calm it from scaring the rest of the farm or causing any more damage. Smoke hung in the air from theys pipes, and the flicker of lanterns showed the sleep in theys eyes. Jolene hid her little face in a hole along the wall where one of the recently conquered stallions had kicked too hard. What should we do? [/color] One of the hands rubbed his head and sniffed his nose. Ain’t gonna walk again.[/color] Her grandpapy stayed silent as a mouse. Could still use the meat, fetch some money back.[/color] They all stood watching the poor thing flail and cry out. Jolene clutched Norma Jean tightly.
She’d figured later that the men all knew what needed to be done, but none were brave enough to say. ‘Cause death is a certain and final answer—‘specially when it comes about by your own hands. It’s easy enough to bring life into the world, sweaty, pulsing, disgusting life. But who is brave enough to take it away? Her grandpappy couldn’t take no more discussion. Before Jolene could so much as cry out, he’d gone and gotten a shovel to end the pain. The first thwack against the head marked the end. It didn’t die then, but it screamed—loud enough to mask her own shout. The second wasn’t nearly as loud. And the third and fourth only brought out the clang of metal. When it was done, her grandpappy dropped the shovel and dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief. They muttered out a few words, but he didn’t say nothing.
Maybe she should have felt more for the horse, then. The thing had its life stripped ‘cause it weren’t useful no more. But the curiosity was in the strength of her grandfather. His resolve was clean, his thoughts clear. Life was over for the horse—and when he wasn’t no use, no reason to save him. Death was an end to utility. Wasn’t scary, it was natural. The story crept in and out of her memory, especially on games days.
It still hung on Jolene’s mind as she walked the market. Her father had brought some foals to show an instructed her to gather some essentials for the farm. The games were nearly over now, which meant twenty-three caskets to be made (did they come from district seven, with all the lumber?[/color]) and twenty-three funerals. She didn’t much care for the pomp of it all. Life was cruel enough in District Ten, Jolene saw the reapings as death days—a decision by fate that a boy and girl had outlived their usefulness. Weren’t no one but the Mace Emberstatt that had gotten very far from District Ten. In fact, the girls was cursed[/color], as far as she could tell. Weak, mewling things that died by the third day, not even in the top half of tributes sent out.
She stopped to stare at some ribbon. The alabaster cloth was pretty, but she pushed it away. The dirt and grime of the district would turn the ribbon yellow. And Jolene weren’t the type to wash her clothes every other day the way some tried to do. She was more at home in a pair of jean cut offs and an old cotton shirt than the drab long dresses some girls wore. The market was busy that afternoon, with plenty pushing past. Moving awfully fast for such a damn hot day,[/color] Jolene thought. She brought a hand to her head and smeared away the sweat. She stopped again to put a hand on a mother of pearl broach—far too expensive for a girl of her means, but pretty all the same. She liked the way the light reflected off the woman’s face, etched with a crimson background on a silver fastener. As she moved to put a hand on it, a shadow fell over her. Craning her neck, she turned to face who was behind her. “Pardon, y’all blocking my light, y’hear?”
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