( jay's table storage )

MAIKEN FORRESTER

There was a time when Winona knew what happiness felt like.

Before the war — before the world she called home was ravaged by fire and buried under ash and bone, she was happy. District Thirteen was never much, it always smelled of gunpowder and virtually everything was a shade of grey. Winona and her sister, Lena, used to play tag with the neighborhood kids around the mine-shafts, they didn't want her to play after a while because she filled her pockets to the brim with gravel and threw it at them whenever they got to close. She thought it would buy her more time to get away. That was her happiness, those small but telltale memories, and she isn't sure she'll be able to feel that way again.

And soon war came and those memories became just that — memories, forsaken books that were hinged at the seams and buried under a layer of dust. Ash swallowed the sky and the ground trembled under the gunfire. Bodies of orphaned children and those whose houses were smothered in flames lined the streets. Her mother saw the worst of it, soldiers with missing limbs and bones that poked out of their skin, writhing between life and death before her eyes. Her parents became one of the few who were outspoken against the war, fighting for months for an end to the rebellions. Their efforts went overlooked.

They fled from the borders of Thirteen at dawn, packing up everything they could hold and leaving everyone they knew behind.

words

hollow-eyed and hollow-boned,
you are death, reincarnate.

but not in the way one might think. you are not the reaper, collector of souls, clad in an inky-black robe with a daunting bone-hilt scythe to match. and neither are you the ferryman of Hades, the carrier of the damned across the River Styx, with his rotted, foul-mouthed coins.

you are but a sickly, sallow-skinned boy with nothing to his name.

hollow-eyed and hollow-boned,
you are death, reincarnate.

but not in the way one might think. you are not the reaper, collector of souls, clad in an inky-black robe with a daunting bone-hilt scythe to match. and neither are you the ferryman of Hades, the carrier of the damned across the River Styx, with his rotted, foul-mouthed coins.

you are but a sickly, sallow-skinned boy with nothing to his name.

hollow-eyed and hollow-boned,
you are death, reincarnate.

but not in the way one might think. you are not the reaper, collector of souls, clad in an inky-black robe with a daunting bone-hilt scythe to match. and neither are you the ferryman of Hades, the carrier of the damned across the River Styx, with his rotted, foul-mouthed coins.

you are but a sickly, sallow-skinned boy with nothing to his name.

๋࣭ ⭑ I R E N E ๋࣭ ⭑

hollow-eyed and hollow-boned,
you are death, reincarnate.

but not in the way one might think. you are not the reaper, collector of souls, clad in an inky-black robe with a daunting bone-hilt scythe to match. and neither are you the ferryman of Hades, the carrier of the damned across the River Styx, with his rotted, foul-mouthed coins.

you are but a sickly, sallow-skinned boy with nothing to his name. hollow-eyed and hollow-boned,you are death, reincarnate.

but not in the way one might think. you are not the reaper, collector of souls, clad in an inky-black robe with a daunting bone-hilt scythe to match. and neither are you the ferryman of Hades, the carrier of the damned across the River Styx, with his rotted, foul-mouthed coins.

you are but a sickly, sallow-skinned boy with nothing to his name.

⭑ ๋࣭ W R E N ⭑ ๋࣭