loreto sandoval | d10 | fin
Mar 1, 2018 22:15:32 GMT -5
Post by Lyn𝛿is on Mar 1, 2018 22:15:32 GMT -5
loreto sandoval
twelve
district ten
twelve
district ten
Six -
Life used to be quiet.
Sunrise, warm smell of chorizo and hashed potatoes on the stove by morning, comforting routine shattered by strange men at the doorstep with voices like gravel pouring into your ears. You burrow your head beneath your pillow and it's not enough, you rake your fingernails against the ridges of your bed till your brother shouts at you to stop that noise, and when the men's arguing and awful reek of tobacco gets to be too much you runrunrun -
They find you down by the river, hiding in the hollow of an old rowan tree, curled in its bed of crunchy autumn leaves, their specks of red orange yellow disintegrating at your fingertips. D-n't yo- --er di--p-ear o- us a--in, they yell, -ou co--d -ave g--ten tr-mpl-d or kidna--ed or wo--e - words filtering through to you as clearly as static.
It ain't gonna be okay beats its frantic rhythm in your mind as your press yourself into the little groove between the branches that fits your six-year-old body perfectly. Something bad's happenin' to Mommy and Daddy, and nothing will ever be the same, nothing will ever be okay -
Your sister makes the two of you breakfast the next morning, and you scream when she gets it all wrong. The food is too bland and the cornstarch has curdled into slimy icky lumps and when she tries to braid your hair she tugs on the strands and it hurts -
They're off doing Important Things, your sister tells you over and over. You understand that, don't you? But you are only a child, and as you lie awake under your covers at night you still wish for Mommy to tuck you in and Daddy to tell you bedtime stories and as much as Paloma tries she's not them.
I'm sorry I can't be good, you whisper to Ripred. But when I am, can you make Mommy and Daddy come back?
Nine -
"And how would you like your hair today, princesa?"
Is this what family is, the echoes of dawn in your sister's gentle back-and-forth with you each morning? The three of you grow into the gap left by your parents, the way grasses rush to fill the barren dirt after a prairie fire - until, on the few occasions you see your parents now, they seem like strangers. It is Paloma, after all, who has learned the whorls and patterns of your hair so she can brush it without pain, who comforts you when other children mock you in school and calls you little angel.
"Two braids, please, manos celestiales."
You still miss those summer weekends in the afternoon sun, when she'd sit beside you and teach you to make corn-husk dolls; but now she is far too busy being the mother you needed to be the sister you wanted.
Instead, you learn to be alone.
The plant book always awaits you in your parents room, on that shelf just high enough to reach if you stand on your tiptoes; its yellowing leaves call to you, even if other books hold far less interest. You can spend hours lost within its pages, and from there you learn that roses mean love, that fireweed means opportunity and change, that the yellow flowers of the creosote are a symbol for selfishness.
You wipe the dust from your parents' old vase - it's a pale amber, with scalloped edges and gleaming crystal that splits the sunset into a million dancing sparkles - and fill it with daisies and manzanita branches one day, or rosemary and bright orange poppies the next, so that when the three of you sit down for dinner there is always a spot of life, a splash of color at the center of the table.
It's a simple gesture, to indulge yourself in picking your favorite flowers each day, but it makes the house feel so much cozier, so much more home.
Twelve -
You are a patchwork quilt girl; you pick up your siblings' mannerisms like you pick up their hand-me-down clothing, piece by piece - and you never lack outfits to wear, whether that is your brother's old pants or his barbed sentences, your sister's shirts and mended socks or her quiet assuredness.
When you wake every morning, they are your anchor. Your parents may be wisps in the night, and your classmates may be a minefield of uncertainty, but when the sun peeks through the dusty window it sees you and your family as mosaics: once broken, but nonetheless complete.
"Thomas, you ought to be dead if you're sleeping in this late."
You know your sister is too loving to mean anything by those words, even if all he seems to do is talk back to her these days. But there's something ominous about saying such things so close to the reaping, and you struggle to suppress the thought of him being torn away, the thought that a few days from now you might miss his sass or even his godawful snoring.
The sprig of eucalyptus leaves still stands up straight in the vase, as fresh as yesterday evening. You take a deep breath, hoping its scent will conjure up happier images than being shoved around in a crowded square as an escort with an impossibly white smile pulls one of your names from the glass bowl.
But breakfast is waiting, same as always, and there are a great many things to look forward to - the scarce days your parents can spend at home, that moment when the Reaping is over and you can, Ripred willing, let out a sigh of relief.
"How would you like your hair today, princesa?"
And all was well, for now.