places where we wander [meghan]

Raegan Harold

The day had been annoyingly long. Too many people shouting orders and expecting the world from a seventeen year old. I had lashed out once or twice when someone got into my space. I didn't appreciate people bothering me when I was trying to work. Once I started taking my frustration out on an unfortunate birch, however, they decided to stay away.

The little cock-envy's tried to challenge me here and there throughout the yearss, but I did enough to keep my image going each day. Sure, some smartmouth bastard might get in my face once in a while, but I could wear my brother's scowl like I was one of the peacekeeper's themselves, tearing away the back of some poor soul who had crossed their path.

Normally I'd head to my clearing and think, but I was too raw right now. I needed to calm down or vent. It didn't matter to who or for how long, I just needed someone who wasn't trying to either suck me off or stab me in the back.

I walked through the friendly part of the woods and spotted a boy with a cigarette. Perfect. My boots were quiet on the snow as I lumbered forward to stand before him.

"Can I steal a smoke?"
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Raegan Harold

The boy was quickly generous, offering me a little stick of forget-those-bastards-and-breath-in, and I was quick to take him up on his little gift. I already had a matchbox in the back pocket of my jeans, and had the drag ignited and trailing down my throat in a matter of seconds.

"Thanks," I mumbled, looking for somewhere to rest. The trunk the boy sat on looked icy, but it was large enough to hold both of us with enough space to still be considered straight. I dropped my heavy weight onto it's unforgiving surface and looked anywhere but at the figure next to me. The cigarette soothed my still surging rage, but the words I had held back all day were still threatening to spill from my lips. Shit. I hate talking.

"I'm getting sick of snotty-nosed children who don't have anything better to do than try to kiss the ass of the foreman the first time they hold an axe,". I wasn't really talking to the boy, just sort of venting to myself as we shared a quiet minute.

If I wasn't careful, I'd be too honest.

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Raegan Harold

The boy is friendly, and even though we are currently drowning our sorrows in sticks made of cancer, he's a goddamn breath of fresh air. I spend too much time with the guys at work. They're all smart laughter and lewd comments and displays of power, when they're not being snotty suck ups that is. My home is no better. Mom is too scared of the children she birthed to say much, and Dad is all macho power displays. I'm not much better, but I only do it to fit in.

I can't risk being real with any of them. Mom would cry and baby me. Dad would beat me silly. And the boys would just gloat. I can't stand when they feel superior. I've fought tooth and nail to be on the top, and I'm not about to let them dominate the household by showing them truth.

This boy is a stranger, though. He clearly doesn't work in the lumberyard. Maybe he's a factory worker, or has one of those cushy jobs with the merchants. It doesn't matter. He didn't know me or my reputation. I could be more honest with him than I had with anyone in a long time.

He didn't seem to mind my words and even responded with an affirmative set of his own.

"Right on, man." I nod in agreement and take another hit of my cigarette. The nicotine plays at my head teasingly. I long to feel it's full embrace. Before I can stop myself, the words come tumbling out.

"These bastards think if they suck off somebody 'important'," I pause to add airquotes for emphasis, "Then they might win some goddamn respect. Nevermind that their brown-nosing only serves to piss off those of us who could actually respect them. The foreman's and peacekeeper's don't give a shit 'bout them. We're all pawns in their goddamn game. We're all slaving away for their benefit, not ours."

My eyes squeeze involuntarily and I grimace. Without warning, I get up and punch the nearest tree. My knuckles smart, but it's enough to get over the crest of rage I was riding.

"Sorry," I mutter, and sit back down to finish the cig. "I'm just tired of this game. Just so goddamn tired."

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Raegan Harold

The boy isn't afraid of my sudden lashing out. He doesn't even flinch. Instead, he laughs, and I appreciate it. Punching the tree was a moment of lost control. Sure, I take my anger out on bark and sap with my sharpened axe, but my fists are not generally involved. This attack was built of a purer form of malice. I hated the games we were ordered to play. Release me from this prison, I am not a pawn. I long to be a blade of grass, gently swaying and unencumbered by the weight of expectation.

I lost control because control was never mine to begin with. Control came and went as it pleased. A teasing ghost, ready to taunt the tough into tantrums. Save me.

I take one last, savory inhale of the cigarette, sucking it down to it's filter. With regret, I drop it into the ground below and stomp it out with the toe of my boot. I miss it already. The boy is laughing still. He isn't afraid of my raw emotion, he just takes it in. Appreciation washes over me. It's kind of nice to be honest.

I examine my knuckles. They aren't in horrible shape. I've definitely had worse.

"Just bruised. You should see the other guy," Great. A joke. Since when did I publicly make jokes about such things? Sure, I laughed and talked up lewd things with the guys. They'd notice the ass on a chick and compare it to a boulder. I'd laugh back and say it's large enough to have it's own district. It's just what we did, but it was almost never genuine. I almost always regretted it.

This, though... it felt natural. It felt right to sit on a fallen tree, smoking cigarettes, and shooting shit with a perfect stranger. I smiled, a genuine smile.

"I'm Raegan... Rae." I offered my non-bruised hand in greeting. "So whose pissed you off, ---- ?" I paused, letting him fill in his name if he so desired.

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