bobby d12m fin
May 6, 2021 21:45:47 GMT -5
Post by arx!! on May 6, 2021 21:45:47 GMT -5
robert "bobby" cobb. eighteen. male.
district twelve. fifth hunger games.
fc:dominic fike. don't save the canary.
⋆
Figures this'd happen. That's what my grandpapa's saying back home. Probably so riled even mom's songs can't calm him. My family's got this idea that everyone's out to get them, been that way since way before wars and borders and all- this bullshit. Grew up on bedtime stories about a bunker my family carved into the mountainside and how the map to get there had been stolen, hidden.
Shit, I mean, how's a kid to resist digging for something as cool as a fucking bunker with his name on it?
Mom's always wanted more for me than a death in the mines. Uncles, great uncles, cousins, nephews, every kind of in-law—the list feels endless because it fucking is. Pretty sure every kid they've plucked from this place lost someone in the accidents.
But still they threaten to kill us when we mention ventilation or faulty wiring or roof collapses, saying: "Faster. Hurry up." They must think we pet puppies and knit down here or some shit using our lives as bargaining chips.
Mines are dark, dangerous, deadly things and I know that's why mom cries every time I leave the house, why there're so many graves to visit, why for some fucking reason unknown to man I've gotta play canary keeper in a world where electronic beeping machines exist to tell me shit's too reckless to fuck with.
It's why I can't blame her for worrying. Never did, even when I slammed the door in her face or screamed at her until I twisted myself into a panic attack. I talk a big game with the guys, but really? I'm nothing but a mama's boy. I just wish she'd understand I wouldn't ever want to do anything else.
The mines have become my home, the crew my family. I earned the nickname 'Piss' with pride the day I'd switched out the foreman's water bottle for something more golden. Drank nothing but pickle juice the day before to get it nice and ripe, too. Heh.
Pretty sure he'd've killed all us bastards if we hadn't been miles down the hole. Kinda needed us to get out, yeah? Dude's such a fucking incapable, pathetic prick. Wouldn't mind the lung dragging that piece of shit to an early grave.
Which is why he's grinning at me like the devil himself now that he's walking me to what he thinks will be my death. But I've mapped this shit out a thousand times, know the way without a single ray of light to guide me.
Kill me now, kill me later. Dead in the mines, dead on television. Honestly I wish they'd all just make up their damn minds already.
"Kiss your wife with that piss breath, sir?" I cock my head, turn my chin up at him, shit-eating grin breaking across coal-freckled cheeks. "She like it as much as you did?"
Heh. A shiner for the miner.
It hurts when I wipe at my tears.
Aren't I a lucky guy?
Shit, I mean, how's a kid to resist digging for something as cool as a fucking bunker with his name on it?
Mom's always wanted more for me than a death in the mines. Uncles, great uncles, cousins, nephews, every kind of in-law—the list feels endless because it fucking is. Pretty sure every kid they've plucked from this place lost someone in the accidents.
But still they threaten to kill us when we mention ventilation or faulty wiring or roof collapses, saying: "Faster. Hurry up." They must think we pet puppies and knit down here or some shit using our lives as bargaining chips.
Mines are dark, dangerous, deadly things and I know that's why mom cries every time I leave the house, why there're so many graves to visit, why for some fucking reason unknown to man I've gotta play canary keeper in a world where electronic beeping machines exist to tell me shit's too reckless to fuck with.
It's why I can't blame her for worrying. Never did, even when I slammed the door in her face or screamed at her until I twisted myself into a panic attack. I talk a big game with the guys, but really? I'm nothing but a mama's boy. I just wish she'd understand I wouldn't ever want to do anything else.
The mines have become my home, the crew my family. I earned the nickname 'Piss' with pride the day I'd switched out the foreman's water bottle for something more golden. Drank nothing but pickle juice the day before to get it nice and ripe, too. Heh.
Pretty sure he'd've killed all us bastards if we hadn't been miles down the hole. Kinda needed us to get out, yeah? Dude's such a fucking incapable, pathetic prick. Wouldn't mind the lung dragging that piece of shit to an early grave.
Which is why he's grinning at me like the devil himself now that he's walking me to what he thinks will be my death. But I've mapped this shit out a thousand times, know the way without a single ray of light to guide me.
Kill me now, kill me later. Dead in the mines, dead on television. Honestly I wish they'd all just make up their damn minds already.
"Kiss your wife with that piss breath, sir?" I cock my head, turn my chin up at him, shit-eating grin breaking across coal-freckled cheeks. "She like it as much as you did?"
Heh. A shiner for the miner.
It hurts when I wipe at my tears.
Aren't I a lucky guy?
