we never change {Siren/Ingrid}
Jun 10, 2014 20:23:00 GMT -5
Post by Python on Jun 10, 2014 20:23:00 GMT -5
I N G R I D E L W Y N
Courage was scarce in new territories. In the wild her lion’s heart was braver than any other, pumping her full of vigor as she sprinted barefoot through thorn bushes and soaked her flowery dresses in pond water. Here, she felt smothered. Nothing was green except the dresses her Capitol drones forced her into – fabrics and laces so tight that it was a challenge even for her trained lungs to bear. They waxed every hair below her neck as if she were a doll instead of a human being, leaving her bare and more plastic than beast. Humans were beasts, didn’t they understand that? Beasts that sinned and flaunted their own faults until their reckoning day. Ingrid didn’t know much about this strange place or its alien citizens, but she knew that she felt small in their presence. Small and lost and cowardly. Vulnerable.
Her eyes were on the archery station. Targets and dummies lined the walls, some blank and others scarred by loosed arrows. There was a girl there whose name and origin she had memorized not accidentally: Siren Baitwell of District Four, home of the ocean-dwellers. The luckiest District in all of Panem because of its ocean, that sapphire abyss of water that seemed to stretch for miles and miles into eternity from the small glimpses they showed on television. It sounded like a place where Ingrid would belong. She would visit it someday of course, after her own reckoning, but she figured she deserved to know more about it beforehand. The District Four tributes were her only means of doing that.
As she approached the station, silent as a cat after having removed her shoes (her trainer disliked that habit, but there was no convincing her to wear them), she tried to decide which question she should ask first.
”How deep is the ocean?”
Perhaps she should’ve started with a name, but she had never been very good with introductions.
Her eyes were on the archery station. Targets and dummies lined the walls, some blank and others scarred by loosed arrows. There was a girl there whose name and origin she had memorized not accidentally: Siren Baitwell of District Four, home of the ocean-dwellers. The luckiest District in all of Panem because of its ocean, that sapphire abyss of water that seemed to stretch for miles and miles into eternity from the small glimpses they showed on television. It sounded like a place where Ingrid would belong. She would visit it someday of course, after her own reckoning, but she figured she deserved to know more about it beforehand. The District Four tributes were her only means of doing that.
As she approached the station, silent as a cat after having removed her shoes (her trainer disliked that habit, but there was no convincing her to wear them), she tried to decide which question she should ask first.
”How deep is the ocean?”
Perhaps she should’ve started with a name, but she had never been very good with introductions.
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