saori nara. d11. fin.

It's the middle of summer, a sweltering dry heat had crept over your doorstep, and you were sitting on the porch next to your grandmother. You remember the way she rocked gently in her chair, following the rhythm of wind chimes, fingers steadily weaving the baskets you and the other children would use to carry peaches across the fields. It was a skill she passed onto you, after you spent so long watching her hands work magic. Despite her age, she never trembled. She had woven hundreds of baskets in her lifetime, and sewn twice as many quilts. Your favorite was the one with pink and purple flowers; you always took the most care to wash it gently, and hang it on the driest days of the week.

When she passed, there was a piece of your heart buried with her. Part of you felt empty, because you looked up to her like a childhood hero. You were left with only your parents, and their words were harsher than hers. Their wisdom was a hammer in your skull, and hers had been a gentle lullaby. What made her advice so sacred was the delivery; how she looked at you with hopeful eyes, like you were her future rather than her burden. You never knew what she was truly thinking, only that it was optimistic and forgiving.

Your parents, on the other hand, always made it obvious how they felt. You suspect their harsh way of raising you pertains to their desire for a boy. As a child, you heard them whispering about wanting a boy, but the next time they tried your mother had a miscarriage. It nearly killed her. Your home is tucked into a corner of Eleven, with a a long, narrow trail that takes thirty minutes to cross on foot. The nearest medical center was so far away, she nearly bled out. It wasn't worth the risk after the treatment forced them to sell their carriage and an acre of land. You didn't understand why it cost so much, and your parents harshly reminded you to never speak up about such controversies when you asked.

Reputation is everything, they said.

That was their number one priority: how others perceived them. There was a reason they chose to live in isolation, as far away from the public eye as possible. They did not mind long walks or carriage rides into the heart of the District. They did not care that you would be forced to wake up before first light to make it to school on time, or that you would lose precious playtime trying to return home before sunset.

The Naras were a passive, polite bunch. They did not involve themselves in the conflicts of Eleven. Rebellion was barbaric and dangerous to them. They believed in karma - if they did nothing to harm the system, then the system would not harm them. You believed that for the longest time. You tried to be an obedient child and follow their every order. If mother asked you to scrub the floors, you perched yourself on your knees and scrubbed the floors. If father asked you to garden with him, then you would wear your tank top and sweat in the hot sun on a Saturday afternoon. It was all supposed to add up: the more good deeds, the better your life would be.

Then you began to wonder, when did the good part actually begin?

You turned fourteen, and little had changed. The work was harder, and your heart was heavier from the death of your grandmother. When did the good deeds pay off? When would you find a real reason to smile, instead of the fabricated politeness you used to save face? What few friends you had often criticized you for following the 'sheep's herd.' They warned you that your family cared too much about reputation, and too little about real people and real problems. You didn't know what to think. Staying quiet kept you out of trouble, but it also made you a negligent bystander. If Peacekeepers hurt your friends, you said nothing. What were you supposed to do, interfere and get hurt? Then you would suffer not only at the hands of corrupt law, but at the hands of your scornful parents.

You decided to express yourself in a different way. The only way you could 'open up' without risk lay within the pages of a book. A diary, carefully hidden away in a wooden box that you buried in the woods behind your house. It was there so nobody would see it. Your private expressions would remain forever private. It felt almost...rebellious, in a way. It was your own version of rebellion, at least. You cannot dream of breaking away from your parents and their expectations, so you had something to pour your heart into. After all, family is family. They plan to follow you until you find a man to marry - a suitable man, that is. Nothing goes without their approval.

If you ever did have a dream, it was smothered long ago.