planting the seed // cato
Aug 17, 2020 5:13:55 GMT -5
Post by lionel estrada d5 ᥫ᭡ kiah on Aug 17, 2020 5:13:55 GMT -5
l i l i t h .
Lips pulled back into that smile that only painted the surface, I make my way through a small down in district Eleven. In my hands I carry a basket, hand weaved, filled strawberry jam, made all from hand. My mother, before she had fallen ill, had taught me the art to jam making. It had been a passion of hers, and whilst I never had much money, when I managed to find a little extra I liked to spend it on buying ingredients for home made delicacies, such as the tartly sweet jam in my basket.
A old couple wave in my direction, smiles shining brightly on their ageing faces. It was strange, walking down the street, people going about their normal day to day routine, when the last tribute from district Eleven had only fallen a day ago. It was expected, that she perished. She was only a small girl, unfairly pitted against a career from district One. I had watched as she died, as the knife paired her heart and her life and bleed into the dirt of the catacombs. I wander what her family must be feeling, if she had any.
Shaking my head I nod at the couple, turning to head down a narrow path that would lead me to a small home nestled to the outer edge of large expansive fields. The residence for my cousin Drogon. Yesterday when I had run into him he had seemed off. For a man of so little words his lack of conversation had planted a small seed of worry in the back of my mind.
The path is unsteady, loose rocks under foot as it veers to the left, the sounds of the town disappearing replaced by the gentle hum of crickets. Cursing, my foot slips on a lose rock, sending my knees crashing to the ground. My basket hits heard, a far of the jam escaping, cracks climbing the edge of the glass. "For fucks sake, Drogon! Why do you have to be so bloody isolated." Grumbling I scramble for the far, hastily shoving back into the weaved basket.
Taking a deep breath I recompose myself, dusting off the dirt from my skirt, ignoring the small needs of blood that been to form on my skinned knee. An issue for later.
Teaching the end of the walk way my fist knocks persistently on Drogons door. "Hey, Drogon! I brought you some home-made jam!" I yell into the wooden door, knocking impatiently. "Let me in and I'll butter up some bread."
