pay the piper, whatever the price {rook/python/arx}
Mar 17, 2016 19:28:44 GMT -5
Post by rook on Mar 17, 2016 19:28:44 GMT -5
jano karmichael
The angel of the woods has lost his wings. Cold and angry, I am alone in the woods. It is a mid-spring morning and the sun is beginning to peak through the trees, painting thin fingers of pink light on the bark around me. My palms rub together in a feeble attempt to keep warm. The seasons have been slow this year, we haven't quite broken out of the wintery spells yet, and whilst the trees are beginning to green, there is still a sharp chill in the air.
I stand exposed, out in the open wearing nothing but a ragged pair of shorts. My bare feet are submerged in a woodland stream that laps at my ankles and runs over my toes. The water is so cold that it numbs me to the bone, but I stand somewhat resolute, determined to withstand it for long enough to get myself clean. I bend my knees, reaching my arms down so that I can splash my upper body with the water. Out here, we don't have many of the luxuries that people back in town take for granted. Even a cold shower would be amazing right about now. I contemplated following upstream to the waterfall, but I've been that direction before, it's a long, hard walk - probably an hour away, and that's area designated for Seven's workforce. They usually travel through that sector at around this time on most mornings. This part of the woods is untouched, at least. I pray it stays that way - Losing that treehouse is a constant forethought for me.
Everything goes from good to shitty so fast, moreso than it used to. It's why I try not to have too many expectations any more. Everything is just so temporary.
Shirtless, sockless, and dripping wet, I trudge through the undergrowth in search of my rucksack. Moss clings to the soles of my feet, and mud dirties my toenails. After two years of living in these woods, I'm used to it. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother to clean myself. Castor insists that cleaning helps keep away lice and disease. I suppose it's something to help wake me up, and in a way it is refreshing.
I unzip my backpack and scrummage around inside, not for a towel, but for a damp carton of cigarettes and an old lighter. Addiction is a strong word. I can quit smoking whenever I want to - I keep telling Castor that. Truth is, I don't want to quit. I like it.
I spark up, a flash of orange in a storm of deep green and black. The first puff is stale and warm, resting in my lungs. I exhale a small cloud that rises in the thin, cold air. I'm the dragon of these woods. Isn't that just the strangest thought to have. Hmph. I take another drag, staring at the newborn sky above me - It is like steel, wrought-blue and stainless. There are no vapor trails today, which means it's all quiet on the Peacekeeping front. That's good news for us, as less Peacekeepers means less patrols. I drag again, trying my best to burn away my years. Maybe one day I won't need to worry about such things.
We're saving up for an apartment. That's the dream, at least. Castor has been getting some part-time work at the mail office. Most places wouldn't even consider her for employment given her criminal record. Regardless of circumstance, she did kill a Peacekeeper in cold blood. I'm not saying I blame her at all, but it's a miracle they even offered her an interview. I like to think I had some faith deep down, but I'm an incredibly pessimistic person. I wouldn't say pessimistic, more that I'm realistic. I guess I was just surprised - We both were.
She has her own bike now, which is hilarious. I thought I knew my sister better than anyone until I saw her in her daft uniform trying to balance upright on two-wheels. Yeah, that's a side of my tough-nut sister I never knew existed. I take a long drag of my cigarette, watching it rapidly shrink in between my index and middle finger - Like a fuse. It's weird how I used to always feel like I was on borrowed time. I knew things would catch up to us in the end. Murder always does, no matter how hard you try to bury it. It's a red mist that follows you. I take a deep drag, like that will help to shake the thought, but it's right there in the side of my brain, burying. My sister killed someone, and I tried to cover it up. I hid her away, buried all suggestions of what we did. Like that would help. Look what I did. She lost a fucking eye, because I couldn't do what big brothers do and keep her safe. I couldn't do it, I wasn't clever enough to figure out a way for her to not face those consequences.
I only hope she doesn't resent me for not being good enough. I mean, it could have been the firing-squad instead. It could easily have ended that way for both of us. Instead, she got tortured and lost an eye, whilst I got a hundred lashes across my back. We got made an example of. I run a hand through my thick, unkempt mop of hair. It's drying out. I drop my ciggy and stamp it out with my heel, wincing at the faint sting of the embering tobacco. What time is it? I squint up at the sun. It's low, but rising fast. I'd guess around eight in the morning. Fuck's sake. I've got some time, still.
I spark another cigarette and let the smoke drown my lungs. Despite me and my twin sister paying for our crimes, I still feel that sense that time is running out on us. Maybe it's because it's all I knew for near-enough two years. Maybe it's because I've got nothing to fight for any more. I'm not kidding anyone, I can't get a job like Castor can. She was taken away for her punishment, I was lashed in the middle of the streets for every self-respecting citizen of District Seven to see. Kicked to the curb like a dying animal. My sister had it far, far worse than me, but I'm a man with a tarnished reputation now. No one wants to employ me.
So what's my purpose. I'm out here in the woods just existing. It's what I deserve. I need to figure out exactly what I'm moving towards, because it feels like everything around me is moving at a million miles an hour, and I'm falling, and I'm just a little bit afraid of what happens when I hit the ground.
I hear a rustle in the bushes, and a figure moves between trees. My muscles tense and my eyes follow. Dark clothing, not a Peacekeeper. Heavy footed, not my sister. I exhale a thick cloud of smoke, and when I emerge through it, I'm holding a knife in my right hand.
