The Shore [OPEN]
Apr 27, 2015 10:53:25 GMT -5
Post by shrinkingviolet on Apr 27, 2015 10:53:25 GMT -5
I had finally escaped.
Unfortunately, not in the literal sense. I was still very much in District 4, though with the spraying sea breeze brushing the exposure of my skin, I could've very much been anywhere. There was word surfacing among the townspeople of our home, meaningless chatter, maybe, but to those who were cravers of hope, it meant everything.
There was somewhere in the horizon, somewhere far from the familiarity that was our slavery orientated lives.
"We're pawns!" an old something of a woman would blab, her skin hardened fingers cracking opening oysters for the starving people of our district.
"We'll all die the way we were born, in filth!" a man would say, too opinionated for this world, too opinionated for the Capitol to handle.
Though, it was only the children, who could manage to say something without negativity nor bitterness underlining their voices-- "I just hope I never have to face the Hunger Games."
Yes, avoiding the very frustrating, very unfair topic of the annual slaughter event-- there it was again, I just hope. I just hope I don't have to starve again tonight, I just hope I make some money soon enough, I just hope there is something beyond the sea-shore, where the people speak of freedom and innocence.
It was a pretty lie, the worst kind. Why couldn't there be pretty truth? One might ask. Because no truth is pretty, I would answer.
I was resentful and rebellious with the way of our world, and not in the sense that I would cause mischief for the sake of an adrenaline rush, no-- I was raised too smart, too clever to be stupid enough to defy The Capitol. I wasn't going to turn into the duplicate of my father, a wrinkle eyed man, who transitioned from admired peacekeeper, to avox.
I shuddered at the thought, still admiring the outstretched depth of blue that never managed to bore. How many hours must I have spent out here? Became friendly and familiar with every rock that dusted the sand, yellow, golden, just like the nonexistent sun today. It was too grey, washing out all colour from the beauty that laid before me.
For a while, I brushed the length of my thumb, a small, unacknowledged freckle catching my attention. I stayed on the rock, it's stiff texture a distant memory-- nibbling on the uncooked flesh of a salmon fish, it's refreshing, thick weight and taste falling into my hollow stomach, resurfacing the feeling of fullness.
It was then, as I managed to wander off into my own prison of thoughts, that I heard the call-- scream, howl of pain. It wasn't an unusual sound, though the instant break of the cry stunned me.
I was on my feet within a matter of moments, crawling down the collection of boulders.
"Help!" Someone plead, running in large, obvious circles.
I saw someone beside the frantic runner, a figure, an unmoving body on the sand of the beach. Had I not of seen their stomach rise and fall, I wouldn't of approached, though I couldn't resist the underlining need. The pleaing person ran into another direction, unaware of my presence, and I presumed he was seeking professional help. Perhaps a healer, though there were very few in our district.
I crouched down beside the barely-surviving body, praying I wouldn't have to witness another death, though unable to leave.
"Can you tell me your name?"
Unfortunately, not in the literal sense. I was still very much in District 4, though with the spraying sea breeze brushing the exposure of my skin, I could've very much been anywhere. There was word surfacing among the townspeople of our home, meaningless chatter, maybe, but to those who were cravers of hope, it meant everything.
There was somewhere in the horizon, somewhere far from the familiarity that was our slavery orientated lives.
"We're pawns!" an old something of a woman would blab, her skin hardened fingers cracking opening oysters for the starving people of our district.
"We'll all die the way we were born, in filth!" a man would say, too opinionated for this world, too opinionated for the Capitol to handle.
Though, it was only the children, who could manage to say something without negativity nor bitterness underlining their voices-- "I just hope I never have to face the Hunger Games."
Yes, avoiding the very frustrating, very unfair topic of the annual slaughter event-- there it was again, I just hope. I just hope I don't have to starve again tonight, I just hope I make some money soon enough, I just hope there is something beyond the sea-shore, where the people speak of freedom and innocence.
It was a pretty lie, the worst kind. Why couldn't there be pretty truth? One might ask. Because no truth is pretty, I would answer.
I was resentful and rebellious with the way of our world, and not in the sense that I would cause mischief for the sake of an adrenaline rush, no-- I was raised too smart, too clever to be stupid enough to defy The Capitol. I wasn't going to turn into the duplicate of my father, a wrinkle eyed man, who transitioned from admired peacekeeper, to avox.
I shuddered at the thought, still admiring the outstretched depth of blue that never managed to bore. How many hours must I have spent out here? Became friendly and familiar with every rock that dusted the sand, yellow, golden, just like the nonexistent sun today. It was too grey, washing out all colour from the beauty that laid before me.
For a while, I brushed the length of my thumb, a small, unacknowledged freckle catching my attention. I stayed on the rock, it's stiff texture a distant memory-- nibbling on the uncooked flesh of a salmon fish, it's refreshing, thick weight and taste falling into my hollow stomach, resurfacing the feeling of fullness.
It was then, as I managed to wander off into my own prison of thoughts, that I heard the call-- scream, howl of pain. It wasn't an unusual sound, though the instant break of the cry stunned me.
I was on my feet within a matter of moments, crawling down the collection of boulders.
"Help!" Someone plead, running in large, obvious circles.
I saw someone beside the frantic runner, a figure, an unmoving body on the sand of the beach. Had I not of seen their stomach rise and fall, I wouldn't of approached, though I couldn't resist the underlining need. The pleaing person ran into another direction, unaware of my presence, and I presumed he was seeking professional help. Perhaps a healer, though there were very few in our district.
I crouched down beside the barely-surviving body, praying I wouldn't have to witness another death, though unable to leave.
"Can you tell me your name?"
