.:i'm the last one left~ [hitch/senalia]
Jul 24, 2014 10:48:56 GMT -5
Post by rook on Jul 24, 2014 10:48:56 GMT -5
HITCHCOCKDevil's in the detail. Little things that I didn't quite notice until I became so numb and seperate from the real world. I run in tangent, parallel to reality's vast expanse, never touching but always moving onwards. From here I see all the things I missed before, because my mind was caught in the fallout of an explosion that my siblings caused, again and again, chain explosions. Their deaths burn me like an invisible radiation, eating away at my insides until I can't fight back. I am so weak. I have lost weight, for sure. There were days when I was bulky and tough. I could take on anyone who had a problem with me, but now? Now a strong breeze could knock me over. I have bleached my hair. Impulse, maybe. It shines a bright blond, trying to be radiant like the sun, but instead it verges on a sad white. White like bones.
It's sad that relief is the only emotion running through me. They're dead. I'm nothing like Rubik, who spent three years mourning Pandora, and another two in an almost-coma like state following Hope's death. It eats away at me, drilling into my stomach every time I think of any one of those three, but I'm not dead like them. I'm alive. I have to live my life. That's why I'm out and about, doing things and talking to people, trying to distract my mind from my black past. I run parallel to events, but occasionally I can reach out a hand and dip back into reality. Sometimes.
The night casts a grey shade over District Eight, the moonlight picking out silver edges on the metal cuboid towers that we call buildings. So makeshift and unarchitectured that I wonder how they are held together. From the desaturated shades burst oranges and yellows. Windows into peoples homes, lit up by a fireplace or lamps flickering due to inconsistent electricity. They are patches of color in the grey District Eight skyline. In some, black silhouettes stare down at the streets below, thankful that they are safe up in their makeshift apartments high in the sky, away from the dangers of the slums at night.
I walk through thick, pasty mud, and puddles so filthy and brown that I can't see my reflection in them. My black boots are plastered brown, like they have been for so many years. I never even bother to clean them anymore. With my hands in my pockets and a hood over my spaghetti hair, I trudge towards the market. At night, it's a different place. Floodlights shine on the faces of strangers, whilst also creating shadows for monsters to hide in. Billboards with words written in a forgotten language dominate the overhead, lit up in fantastic neon. Peacekeepers by the numbers patrol through the underpass, their hands resting on their holsters. Dogs bark aggressively at anyone who walks past, not stopping even when their Peacekeeper masters tug harshly at their chain leashes. The buzz is halfway between atmospheric and oppressive. That's the way the black market has always been.
Rain spits down on me, stormclouds overhead more or less invisible apart from the obscure disk of the moon trying to break through. As I enter the market, I lower my hood. We are undercover here, in what is almost an underpass through the gaps in the looming shanty towers. I have gotten to see more of central District Eight since moving in with Uncle Harrison, Aunt Hanna and their kids. I begrudge every one of them, who only made contact with me after hearing about Rubik. Never once tried to get ahold of us after Pandora, or even after Hope. Only when I had no one left did they call me. Only when I had nowhere else to go. I should be thankful, I guess. I'd be on the streets if not for them, and I've been there before - I ain't going there again.
I head to a meat stand. A typical red-faced butcher stares at me with his arms folded across a blood stained apron. I glance down at the meat. Deer, not even skinned. Flies buzz around it's eyes and agape mouth. The stench is awful. I screw up my nose and walk on - I know deer is a rare meat, but that one looks dodgy as they come. I pass incense stalls and fortune tellers, trades that don't interest me in the slightest. I pass the coldhouse, home of the Wolfe family. I wonder how Rajas is doing these days. Been a good year since I've seen the guy. He's lost two siblings to the Games too. He's probably the only guy in District Eight who can relate to me. I walk on towards an electronics dealer, who offers me AA Batteries in exchange for a pint of my blood. I politely decline. Some people here are beyond mad. I'm one of them, then.