Fridae Drummond {D9 - Fin}
Jan 19, 2017 18:39:33 GMT -5
Post by rook on Jan 19, 2017 18:39:33 GMT -5
FRY DRUMMOND
Hallelujah.
When a corpse washes up on the shore seagulls will circle overhead like vultures. It's all primitive, in the nature of all beasts. Meat is meat - they don't care what creature it is, where it's from, what it's done, how smart it is. When all is said and done, there it is, stone-cold dead on the sand, flesh red and bare, tender and rotting. Something altogether very edible.
They keep saying we're not at war, but why do I see so many bodies? On the streets, on the beach, in the woods. Every night they're taken away in body bags, taken to be burned in industrial furnaces. Men in dark suits, men in white uniforms, it's always the same routine, like death is a business.
Flies are everywhere, it's an infestation in some areas. Sometimes you can't get them off of you, especially when the nights turn hot and sticky. They crawl all over your food and make your stomach turn sour. My diet is microwaved, carbohydrate supreme. Greasy and fatty and cheap. I'm not poor but I'm not particularly wealthy, I do fine by me, and that's all that I really care about. This small ten metre by ten metre apartment is my utopia, wedged high above the streets. An empire of unorganised articles, unfinished works, and discarded genius. This is me, this is my day-to-day, bathing in a haze of stale cigarette smoke and sharp whiskey.
Keen minds draw order from chaos, connect dots that others turn a blind eye to and eventually become able to zoom from the drip-fed propaganda and see the bigger picture. You don't have to be smart to know what's going on in District 9, it's the same as what goes on in every District: Oppression, lies, corruption. Peacekeepers aren't Peacekeepers, they're mercenaries that dress smart. Judges aren't judges, they're multi-homeowners who sell their verdict to the highest bidders. If you think a journalist is just a journalist, then more the fool you. If you want a story in a backwater shithole like this then you need to know how to handle yourself.
I tell myself that chasing the truth is like putting your head in an alligator's mouth - it's a dead cert that those jaws are going to snap shut. I may as well be putting my head on a chopping block, because the truth is something that the Capitol actively tries to hide. No one person can take down an establishment, and no sizeable rebellion could ever devitalise the Capitol. That isn't my goal in any case, I've always been someone who fights for justice on a scale that I can see. If I can make a difference to the lives of a few individuals then I've done right by them.
My father died of a heart bypass when I was young girl. He was not a slim man by any standard, and although it was a surprise to us, Doctors said his heart was like a ticking timebomb anyway. He worked for the Capitol, which had its extra baggage I suppose, I can't imagine that being a relaxing job. Mother never stated what it was he did, but he was very well paid and as a result we lived in a very nice house.
I have a stupid name, one I don't like at all, so I make everyone call me Fry. My father and his brother thought it would be fun to name their kids after days of the week, same went for my cousin Wes. I didn't know him at all, I was an infant when he was Reaped for the Hunger Games, and I wasn't allowed to watch what happened to him until I was a teenager. He was a vile, troubled person, and I haven't rewatched his decline into insanity since. It's not a part of my family history that I want to revisit.
Promises are just things we tell our loved ones to get them to shut up. You're not supposed to make a promise that you can't keep, but the nature of a promise is that it relies on a future event. Making a promise is basically taking a gamble on something that hasn't happened yet. When my mother told me not to be a journalist, I promised her I wouldn't follow that career path. As it happened, she died a year later and I started a small handout paper in the market. As far as she was ever aware, I kept my promise. I suppose that's considered a shitty thing to do.
Sometimes you have to do shitty things.
Like a seagull that becomes a vulture when it sees a tangled body washed up on the rocks, I've got something far more primal inside of me that will surface when things almost inevitably go south.
When a corpse washes up on the shore seagulls will circle overhead like vultures. It's all primitive, in the nature of all beasts. Meat is meat - they don't care what creature it is, where it's from, what it's done, how smart it is. When all is said and done, there it is, stone-cold dead on the sand, flesh red and bare, tender and rotting. Something altogether very edible.
They keep saying we're not at war, but why do I see so many bodies? On the streets, on the beach, in the woods. Every night they're taken away in body bags, taken to be burned in industrial furnaces. Men in dark suits, men in white uniforms, it's always the same routine, like death is a business.
Flies are everywhere, it's an infestation in some areas. Sometimes you can't get them off of you, especially when the nights turn hot and sticky. They crawl all over your food and make your stomach turn sour. My diet is microwaved, carbohydrate supreme. Greasy and fatty and cheap. I'm not poor but I'm not particularly wealthy, I do fine by me, and that's all that I really care about. This small ten metre by ten metre apartment is my utopia, wedged high above the streets. An empire of unorganised articles, unfinished works, and discarded genius. This is me, this is my day-to-day, bathing in a haze of stale cigarette smoke and sharp whiskey.
Keen minds draw order from chaos, connect dots that others turn a blind eye to and eventually become able to zoom from the drip-fed propaganda and see the bigger picture. You don't have to be smart to know what's going on in District 9, it's the same as what goes on in every District: Oppression, lies, corruption. Peacekeepers aren't Peacekeepers, they're mercenaries that dress smart. Judges aren't judges, they're multi-homeowners who sell their verdict to the highest bidders. If you think a journalist is just a journalist, then more the fool you. If you want a story in a backwater shithole like this then you need to know how to handle yourself.
I tell myself that chasing the truth is like putting your head in an alligator's mouth - it's a dead cert that those jaws are going to snap shut. I may as well be putting my head on a chopping block, because the truth is something that the Capitol actively tries to hide. No one person can take down an establishment, and no sizeable rebellion could ever devitalise the Capitol. That isn't my goal in any case, I've always been someone who fights for justice on a scale that I can see. If I can make a difference to the lives of a few individuals then I've done right by them.
My father died of a heart bypass when I was young girl. He was not a slim man by any standard, and although it was a surprise to us, Doctors said his heart was like a ticking timebomb anyway. He worked for the Capitol, which had its extra baggage I suppose, I can't imagine that being a relaxing job. Mother never stated what it was he did, but he was very well paid and as a result we lived in a very nice house.
I have a stupid name, one I don't like at all, so I make everyone call me Fry. My father and his brother thought it would be fun to name their kids after days of the week, same went for my cousin Wes. I didn't know him at all, I was an infant when he was Reaped for the Hunger Games, and I wasn't allowed to watch what happened to him until I was a teenager. He was a vile, troubled person, and I haven't rewatched his decline into insanity since. It's not a part of my family history that I want to revisit.
Promises are just things we tell our loved ones to get them to shut up. You're not supposed to make a promise that you can't keep, but the nature of a promise is that it relies on a future event. Making a promise is basically taking a gamble on something that hasn't happened yet. When my mother told me not to be a journalist, I promised her I wouldn't follow that career path. As it happened, she died a year later and I started a small handout paper in the market. As far as she was ever aware, I kept my promise. I suppose that's considered a shitty thing to do.
Sometimes you have to do shitty things.
Like a seagull that becomes a vulture when it sees a tangled body washed up on the rocks, I've got something far more primal inside of me that will surface when things almost inevitably go south.
