.:Plaything:. [Open]
May 5, 2013 23:41:34 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on May 5, 2013 23:41:34 GMT -5
Absalom Ottrel---
Will you still love me
When I got nothing but my aching soul?
I know you will, I know you will
I know that you will
---
It will be night soon. One. Two . Three
Seven. Eight[/color]. He’s struggling now, getting towards the end. How it’s always been. There is nothing in his mind now—blank as the poor boy’s eyes—only to finish, to be stronger. To be better. It is a personal pride, one that helps assuage the few victories he can bring home. Tonight will be no different. Mother and father will have already eaten dinner, served by their servants on silver platters in the glow of candlelight. Sister will cut into her foie gras and comment on how tasty all of it is. They will not wait for him—they never wait for him—only sniffing their noses at his absence. But this is how they want it. Being here is doing good. And I want to be good, too.[/color] They loved him when he was good, not when he was bad. And he had a greater chance of being loved if he was working on his body, rather than sitting in silence at home.
Nine[/color]. Tonight they will discuss his sister’s future. Will she be a goldsmith, creating things of beauty, just as her parents have done? Not that she should ever have to work, but idleness is the sign of an unhealthy mind. Absalom was a good enough example of that. There’s nothing there. [/color]They said it about his head all the time—and he didn’t understand when they made a joke of him. At this point they were happy that he wasn’t making a mess for them to clean up. He was good enough to lock away in the first floor bedroom, tucked away next to the servant’s quarters, and not have to be dealt with. And his future? Not that he would ever so much as ask (he was a very in the moment boy for obvious reasons) but—in the few times they had so much as mentioned life after his reaping age, there was talk of sending him away to a home to be watched for the better part of his life.
He might have been happier that way, to be surrounded by those that paid an actual care for who he was. Absalom wasn’t a terrible creature. Dim as a candle about to be snuffed out, this was true, but his heart was something else entirely. For where the souls of boys and girls of district one were taught to seek and destroy, Absalom would never understand the impulse to slit a throat or crush a skull. His mind was dark, but his heart was not.[/color] He was a good soldier, never questioning what all of it was for—having to train for the honor of killing in the games. It was the only thing he could understand, being good at being strong[/color], even if it meant he was supposed to hurt others. But the others were bad, and so there was no evil in what was to be done.
Ten.[/color] He slumped against the bench, his chest heaving. There was nothing left in him then, only the slow burning ache inside all of his muscles. The gym was nearly empty, save for a sole attendant that seemed to have stolen off some time ago. He would have said he felt a sense of pride for completing his workout for lifting more than he’d ever done before. And yet he felt a twinge of emptiness (was that this feeling?[/color]), though perhaps this was a vicarious feeling gleaned from the empty room. He wiped away the sweat on his face and made his way to clean up. He didn’t like feeling sad, especially when he couldn’t figure out the reason why.[/color] A warm shower and change of clothes later, and he was still feeling a heaviness (and not what usually hung over him after a particularly grueling session[/color]).
The streetlamps were already on when he stepped out into the brisk air. His shoes chomped against the sidewalk as he edged along the road. He made sure not to step on any of the cracks—taking the nursery rhyme of his youth to heart, always[/color]—and skittered around corners with his head hung low. A dim yellow light swung past his face and Absalom stopped. The boy blinked, watching the fireflies take flight. He always wondered how they lit up the world—was it magic, or an invention of the capitol? He gave a smile as he continued onward, breaking now into a jog. He wasn’t late for anything, but rather, right on time[/color].
He was thirty seconds early, by his count (or rather, his watch’s[/color]). The tinker toy shop had a fantastic display, done up with planes, trains, and automobiles behind a thick pane of glass. Neon colors and flecks of gold and silver as far as the eye could see, Absalom never got tired of staring at the trinkets they had for sale. Though the lights were dark, there was one display that never stopped—a large clock with a ramp swinging round front. And when the clock struck the hour, its doors would shoot open, revealing two golden figures that would march forward, one boy and one girl. And they would dance, back and forth, before swinging around and entering the clock again. He couldn’t say just why this delighted him so, but it left the giant boy with his face pressed against the glass, wishing it lasted just a little longer.
And there he stood, nose fogging up the glass display glancing this way and that way at all the new thingamajigs he’d ask his parents if he could buy (as though they’d ever say yes.[/color]). Lost in his own world, forever and always.[/justify][/blockquote][/size]
