Pinnochio Yeong | District Seven | FIN

Pinnochio Yeong | District Seven | FIN Apr 24, 2018 21:56:41 GMT -5

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Post by d4 Panda Scope [Gayton] on Apr 24, 2018 21:56:41 GMT -5

My grandfather was a man of high expectations. He expected perfection, nothing less. He's a woodcarver. He's spent his life making beautiful shelves and wardrobes. I can only assume his daughter was just as beautiful. I hear stories about her all the time, how she was so disciplined when she was young, but when she got older she rebelled. I like to imagine she was fun and not just alive, but living. Grandfather says not to think about it. He says all I need to know is that she was careless and shameful.

He won't tell me a lot about my mother, but I've pieced together a life for her with stories from the people that knew her. She was a top student and an apprentice for her father. From the outside she seemed so perfect, until she got pregnant. With me. They say my grandfather disowned her, cast her aside because she was too young to have a child. I guess she went to the orphanage. Most people say she planned to give me up. Make sense, she was poor and alone. She didn't though. Because she died during labor.

After that the story gets blurry. Everyone had something different to say. Some said that my father wanted nothing to do with me and my grandfather stepped in because he owed it to his daughter. Others said that he wouldn't let my father around. I don't know which one I believe. I don't know which one I want to believe.

He's raised me the same way he raised her, without a voice. Without choice. Because of that people don't trust me. They're waiting for me to rebel. Grandfather used to trust me. That was because he had never disobeyed him. I had never lied to him.
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Is it a sin to wonder. I already know so much, I was one step from the truth. I guess in his defense, I wanted more than truth. I wanted to live in it. It was the truth that was meant for me.

I've always known who my father was. If not just for the gossipers in the district, it's the striking resemblance. Our light brown skin that eats the sun. Our jaw that cuts through the air to carve a spot for our wide chin. Our downward slanted eyes that reveal color so brown they're almost black. But most of all, our mouths. Our lips, thing, but long enough to expose every stained tooth when we smile. He's a lot more muscular than me. He's probably a lumberjack, I'm not sure, but I am lean like him.

Is it possible to love someone you hardly know? We've only ever met once, under terrible circumstances. But my whole life I've pined for moments. Instead of catching balls, we'd catch eyes and lock them together as long as we could before anyone would notice. Instead of walking me to school, he happens by every morning. If he is a lumberjack, then the school is out of the way to get to the woods from town, so that's why I believe that. But all of that changed after we met.

I yearned to know him so badly, to understand my mother's story. To know what I meant to him. Then one day, I was being ridiculed by my grandfather.

I was much younger then, my jaw was bubbly and my eyes seemed larger. My hair was kept cut sharp to the skin. I was playful. I remember it was winter, which is why I was playing. Our furnace was small, so I was still wrapped inside a torn jacket with boots that were a little too big on my feet. Grandpa worked away at a shelf as I flew through a fantasy land where impossibility didn't exist.

As I ran in circles my mind left my body. I stopped believing in the truth of Panem. I didn't believe I was there anymore, I lost consciousness of my running. It was a freedom that I was bringing to everyone. It was a slow fade from reality that lasted just long enough to snap my back home. My foot moved faster than the large boot and I lost my balance. I tripped and it slammed me back into Panem, into District 7, into the shop. It was fast enough to cause whiplash. I slammed into a table, knocking it to it's side.

I knew I was in trouble. He was going to tell me to sit still for the rest of the day. The adrenaline poured out of me, leaving me breathless and tired. Grandfather stood and turned to look at me, emotionless. No, I mean calm. Before he said anything he surveyed the damage. He pulled the table back up. I didn't need to be told to pick up everything from the floor and replace it. The room was silent, I hadn't started crying. Not until I was almost finished picking up. I went to grab the last item, his chisel. It was broken.

I started crying, he silenced me so the tears streamed down my face without any noise. I dared not defend myself, I wasn't that stupid. Just stupid enough to apologize. My mouth opened, choked, I uttered, "I-I-I'm Sor--"

His hand went up, flat against the air. I stopped, he didn't want to hear it. "Children should only listen. Never speak." he quoted. It was his motto, you didn't talk back in an argument. You didn't apologize when you did something wrong. You didn't offer suggestions when solving a problem. You only did as you were told. "Come here," he screamed, quietly. I did. He bent me over and whipped me. Three times. It was always three times. "Go outside."

It was so cold. My jacket was torn, but I went. As soon as the door shut behind me I fell to the ground, sobbing, loudly. I was there for a small eternity. Then I looked up, expecting to see old women judging me, or children laughing. But I only saw him. My father. I was embarrassed.

I wiped my eyes, but didn't look away. He was far from me, but I could feel him crying too, for me. This wasn't the first time we gazed into each others eyes. But it was the first time he stepped forward. Once, twice, three times. Over and over again until he was in front of me. He looked down, empathetic but stern.

"Boy," he said, "What is your name?"

"P-Pinocchio," I stuttered through my tears, "But everyone calls me Pin."

"Pinocchio? What a lovely name," I grasped to every word. "Why are you crying?"

I was lost. I already couldn't think simply because I was talking to him. What did I say? The truth? That I couldn't handle a punishment. That I did something wrong and then I couldn't handle the punishment? He'd be ashamed. His own son, a coward. So what would be a good reason to be crying in the middle of the street? My mother.

As I was saying the words, I tried to stop myself. I knew I had done wrong as soon as my mouth opened.

"My grandfather. H-h-he... he said he was glad my mother died."

It wasn't exactly a lie. He was glad, I believe that. To this day. He just never said it.

I watched the emotion fall from my fathers face. I watched him grow calm. He didn't say anything else to me. He walked passed me and into the shop. He was in there so long, I couldn't count it. But when we left, he didn't say goodbye. He didn't tell me his name. I don't know what happened in that shop between them. All I know is what changed.

My father stopped walking by the school. He stopped making eye contact with me. The few times I would go out of my way to force him to look at me, he'd jerk away faster than thought. I had ruined everything.

Grandfather was right, children shouldn't speak. When they speak, they kill happiness.

My grandfather never spoke to me about what happened, now he hardly speaks to me at all. But he has a tighter grip. I don't speak, I mind my place. He fixed his chisel and used it to carve me into who he wanted my mother to be. He let my hair grow out so it fell in dark layers over my face. Now they're the strings he uses to control me. I obey, I listen.

I long to for more, a life where impossibility doesn't exist. The life of a lumberjack where love doesn't die. A lumberjack's mistakes can be forgiven. A lumberjack's mistakes can become blessings. A puppet can't make a mistake at all.