At least not in the rural outskirts of District Nine. The work was the same, the people who did the work the same, the poverty the same, and the people who lived in poverty, etcetera, etcetera. Sure, there were signs of the upheaval and turmoil that had taken place, but they were more subtle than those of the more populous districts, nothing like the destruction shown on the few tvs in town. There were rumors that the proper towns of the District had suffered fires, fires set by the Capitol in a show of strength. Yet the fields looked the same, save for the white uniformed men that stood on the edges, guns drawn, watching the men and women work.
It was a Monday afternoon when they told us to leave the fields. At first people laughed at them. The sun was still high in the sky, and hours of work stretched ahead of us. The laughter stopped abruptly when one of the Peacekeepers fired a warning shot into the air. We all put down our work and followed them in to town. We were told to watch the television.
You should have heard the crowd. They couldn’t believe it. There was anger, shock, everything in-between. No one actually thought that they would tell us to watch a broadcast when there was work to be done. Honestly, by the end of the week I’d figured out that was the most believable part of the entire thing.
I threw up four times that week. I spent countless hours distracting the children. I just wanted them looking at anything except what was on the screens. I made cornhusk dolls for them to play with. It didn’t work. By the end of the week they were re-enacting the murders with the little cornhusk people. That was when I threw up for the fourth time.
I came home to Gideon every night. We both cried. He was too old to be reaped, but he knew I wasn’t. Neither of us said anything about it. Instead we just cried. Then we’d go to bed.
Everyone worked extra hard in the mornings. We had to make up for lost time in the afternoons. If we didn’t, the crops would just rot in the fields. When there is work to be done, I guess you just find a way to do it.
Not much had changed since the war.
At least not in the rural outskirts of District Nine. At least we tried to tell ourselves that. We worked hard to believe that. I guess we can’t do that anymore.
My mother sighed softly and rose from the sofa, placing her pad of paper and pen on the coffee table, “You know I don’t like you being out on your own after dark.”
“I’ll be fine. I just need to get out for a bit. I won’t be gone long, promise”
She met me in the doorway between the hallway and living room, a somber sort of look on her face, “I know, love. I’m your mother, I always worry.” She wrapped her arms around my shoulders and drew me in close, the same way she had when I came back to Four after she and my father had sent me away before the war broke out, the same way she had whenever she was afraid for my safety whether I was out in the open ocean, close to shore or right at home in the Cradle.
Sometimes I would push my limit just to get on her nerves, or tell her that she was being ridiculous and there was nothing to worry about. I did know my limits despite how skeptical she was of my judgement. My father would usually give me that knowing glare that told me to cut the shit and take a step back, and I always did. Tell her I was playing around and hug her back, sometimes just as tight, the way I had when I first saw her and Dad after being gone for all those years. The same way I had when they were putting me on the hovercraft telling me it was, “just for a little while.” As a kid I didn’t know how long “a little while” was, or why they wouldn’t come with me, or what they were actually doing during all those years apart.
And now that I knew, I wanted nothing more than to get as far away from both of them as I could.
“It’s been a long week, for all of us. You know if you ever need to talk your father and I are always here, no matter what time it is. ”
I chewed down on the inside of my cheek and gave her a short nod, “I know, and I appreciate it.” I mustered a weak smile for her sake.
“One day when you’re a parent you’ll understand.” She returned the smile and folded her arms in front of her, “Don’t be too late, and if your father asks-”
“I got it.” I forced a light chuckle and gave her a peck on the cheek before continuing down the hall and out the front door, the warm salty air blowing in front the ocean a welcomed relief compared to the stale and artificial air that filled our home.
Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t have to explain myself to her, or my father as to where I was going in the middle of the night, even though it wasn’t that late. They were past the idea that I was deliberately shutting them out by keeping to myself or going off on my own for hours at a time without telling them, that it was stress, whatever excuse I could drive home for them to believe. We were all past that time I was jumped while coming back to shore, especially with the number of Peacekeepers that were stationed around the District as of late.
It wasn’t until the jeeps and hovercrafts emblazoned with the Capitol’s flag rolled into Four that they started keeping me close, or watching me from the tallest point of the observatory in the Cradle to make sure I didn’t get too close to the fleet of Capitol ships stationed off shore. It wasn’t until the “Hunger Games” became more than an acclaimed scare tactic that my parents wouldn’t let me out of their sight, now fearing for my safety along with the rest of the country whose children were at the Capitol’s mercy as punishment for the Rebellion my parents helped suppress.
Irony at its finest.
I bared left at the fork in the path as opposed to continuing right towards the shoreline and made for the residential area and marketplace. On any other night around this time the streets would buzzing with life, shops and vendors would be open until late into the morning and the beaches would be lit with bonfires and laughter. Instead a mournful atmosphere hung over what felt like the entire District: the street lights were dim, not a soul was out on the road, and shades drawn on every house I passed by.
In the distance the shoreline was just as dark except for the glowing embers of the memorials laid out for the two kids from our District that were killed in the Games: Tillie Hull and Dory Murdock. I didn’t know either of them but I still went to the service down by the water. The majority of the District showed up, whether they knew them or not. I’ve been to funerals in the past but nothing like this, where strangers came together for a common loss knowing that had Hesita Briggs chosen differently it could have been their children called to the stage.
It could have been their daughter’s head that rolled when the girl from Two swung her machete.
It could have been their sons chest that was ripped open by the girl from Eleven.
It could have been any of us, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t stand at the Reaping with anger swelling in my chest and nerves ignited at the possibility of my name being drawn.
I pushed the thought from mind and quickened my pace, the residential houses growing in size as I came into the business sector of the District.
Sure my parents had the same talk with me every other parent in the country had with their children the night before the Reaping: that it wouldn’t be our name chosen, there were hundreds of slips in that bowl and the odds of someone who never took tesserae being pulled were, “virtually impossible.”
Or, as my parents and their pig-faced friends would say behind closed doors, “The more desperate kids line up to throw their name into the bowl, the safer our children are. As far as I’m concerned the entire District can starve.”
Sometimes I wonder if irony runs in our family.
The closer I got to the Justice Building the more Peacekeepers began appearing on the streets. I kept my attention forward and climbed the short stone steps up to the polished wooden door and pushed it open. The air inside was just as stale as it was back home, my skin immediately rising at the cooler temperatures. I glanced at the woman in white sitting behind the desk and gave her a short nod before turning down the first hallway, my footsteps echoing off the clean floor until I came to the only room that was open this late at night.
“Back again, eh?” Harpax’s hoarse voice croaked from behind his monitor when he saw me walk in, “I’m startin’ to remember some of you regulars. Figure you’d find another way of getting a meal now that you’ve seen the Capitol isn’t “blowing smoke up your ass.””
I stomached my pride and forced an aggravated sigh through my nose, “Just, put me in again.”
“Suit yourself, kid.” He clicked the mouse, “Last name-”
“Sotello. Aquarius Sotello.” I lost track of the number of times I’ve been down here and knew the risks it entailed. It was worth it I told myself that every time. But my nerves still bit at me every time I heard that printer begin to hum and saw my name written on a slip of paper before it disappeared into the mountain of paper sitting in the bowls behind the counter.
“Lucky number 7.” The Peacekeeper chortled as he placed a portion of tesserae on the desk, “Uh. uh- what do we say?”
“Thanks.” I spat under my breath as I snatched up the package and dropped it in my empty bookbag.
“May the odds be ever in your favor, Sotello.”
I slowed my pace from a run to a walk once I reached the outskirts of a chain of apartment buildings some distance north of the business sector. I started navigating my way through the tall buildings until I found the soup kitchen tucked between a pair of brownstones. There was only a handful of people inside, mostly those who just wanted a roof over their head for the evening seeing as how food was a little hard to come by out this way.
“Aren’t you out past your bedtime?” Ula spoke up from behind a gnarled wooden table with a crooked smile.
“I’m a lil’ old for that.” I joked as I sat on the opposite side of the table, “How’re things here?”
“Bah, same old shit, different day.”
“Lil’ something for a change of pace?” I dug out the portion of tesserae and set it on the table.
The elder's’ eyes widened slightly over a drag of her cigarette, “The hell’s the matter with you, ‘Rus? Why are you-?”
“Because I want to.” I assured her, “You and everyone else here need it more than I do.” I had known Ula for close to a year. She wore her heart on her sleeve and did whatever she could do to make sure everyone who walked through her door had a meal. She didn’t know all that much about me, as far as my background goes. In a way I felt safe here, outside of my parents shadow and I planned to keep it that way. She had no love for the Capitol and its supporters, no one did around these parts and I couldn’t blame them. From what I gathered this was one of the areas that was hit the hardest during the Rebellion. I gave what I could afford to, be it food, money, supplies or time helping to clean the area up. It wasn’t much, but, in her words, “The smallest drops of water help make an ocean.”
“I should probably head home though, before my parents start sending out search parties.” I said as my eyes began to grow heavy.
Ula nodded and followed me to the door, “Be careful out there. I don’t trust the streets these days, or the waters.”
I rolled my eyes, “You’re starting to sound like my mother.”
“Smart lady. Get home safe, ‘Rus.”
I took my time walking southwards towards the business sector, through the marketplace and residential area until the the vague outline of the Cradle rose on the horizon. That’s when my pace began to slow. In the past I did feel a degree of safety within its walls, now days I’m not so sure. I wasn’t even sure if there was anywhere that was safe left in the District, much less the entire country.
The embers glowing on the shoreline reminded me of that
The air around the table was tense at best, and at the worst absolutely frigid. All that could be heard was the sound of clanging of silverware and chewing. There was no conversation, laughter, discussion, things I had come to associate with dinner time. And there hadn't been, not for weeks, months even. But with the tensions running high in the District and the very real threat of open war hanging over their heads, I had hoped that the emergency nature of the situation would at least mend her parents relationship. However the news of impending war had only made it worse.
"Don't you see what they're doing, Kirk??"
I flinched in alarm at her mother's outburst. Alarmed, but not surprised. Her mom had been trying to convince her father as to the evils of the Capitol for weeks, maybe even months.
"You don't know what you're talking about, Cara."
My father's voice was calm, unbothered and unshakeable as it has always been. The wall to my mom's storm, as it were. Sometimes, especially lately, I wondered how they had even fallen in love. And they had been in love, she remembered that, at least.
As much as I hated the silence, though this was millions worse. At least with the silence, I could pretend they were just having a spat, even my loving parents had fights every now and again, but nothing like this.
“There’s plenty of food, plenty of resources, and yet we have no access to any of it. Our people are DYING! How can you still believe them. I believe that I’ve seen the books, Kirk. They invest their money into faster cars and trains, not things we need, like food and shelter.” With every word, her voice got higher in pitch.
"The Capitol only has our best interests in mind, as they always have." He spoke calmly, sounding completely unbothered by the whole situation.
"Don't give give me that bullshit!"
"Cara!"
"Mom!"
For the first time, my father seems affected by her argument. Despite the fact that my was loud and could be brash, she never swore. She often claimed that swear words were the basis of ignorance. I remember how she had once washed my mouth out for saying the word ‘dang’ when I was six.
She continues on as if none of us had spoken, as if she didn't care that her 11 year old daughter was right there. "The man I married wasn't so naive to believe that the Capitol has our best interests in mind anymore!" She sounded almost desperate, her voice pleading for him to understand, to agree.
He never did, though.
"Well, I'm sure you're not the only one disappointed with their choice of a spouse."
As soon as the words left his mouth, a look of horror crossed his face. The silence that rang throughout the room was deafening, far worse than anything I had ever heard before. All manner of expression crossed my mom’s face, varying from hurt, to hysteria, to pure, unadulterated rage.
“Kendall. Go to your room.”
I didn’t wait a second, jumping up and practically sprinting out of the room. I do him one better, though, and make a beeline out of the house.The yelling starts before the door has the chance to close behind me. My mother’s voice, shrill and angry, my father’s quickly matching. As soon as the door is slammed closed. Even if they had noticed, I knew they wouldn’t call me back.
I started running, ignoring the sympathetic looks from the neighbors who had become accustomed to the shouting emanating from my home, if I could even call it that anymore. It had been a long time since it had been a home. Now, it was just a house where three people could barely coexist.
The glass door whooshes open, the nurse slides in. She’s a blur of a face, a murky visage. Quick feet, terse movements, never standing still. I want to ask her if she’s a drug addict, because I get the feeling that she definitely has a habit of giving patients a little less morphling than prescribed, and using it to make herself feel less horrible. She would totally love me for asking that. Who doesn’t like being accused of being a thieving druggie? I know I do. It’s my favorite pastime. My parents actually did that one time, last year. They thought I was somehow acquiring narcotics in the hospital, as if I didn’t already have enough poisons being pumped into me. I lied and told them that there was a secret seller within the hospital who sold them to me and many others. Then they went overboard, channelling their past peacekeeper selves, and alerted the chief of the hospital. One of my finest moments. Definitely something to do again.
The nurse is changing my IV needle. It always takes them forever to located a vein. I’m just not a veiny person. Arteries are more my speed. Now that I think about that, it’s true. Veins seem selfish, only bringing blood back to the heart. But arteries bring blood all over the body. I can’t believe I’m comparing and contrasting veins and arteries. This is so fun. I love it. This nurse is taking way too long now. It usually only takes them about 10 tries to puncture a vein, but now I’m filled with three-hundred small holes and now I shall bleed to death out of each one. My show is on in three minutes. It’s the season premier of the reality show about the Rothschild family. Isadora is so psychotic. I love her. Just let me watch my reality television.
I let out a small groan of annoyance and reach for the needle. “There,” I say with relief as I plunge it into a vein. Maybe now I’ll be able to get through this episode. I reach for the remote, my finger hovering over the power button.
“Maybe you shouldn’t turn that on,” the nurse suggests hurriedly.
Clearly she doesn’t understand the importance of me watching the latest episode of only the best television show to ever exist on this earth. It’s so horrible but I can’t stop watching. I cast my vision over to her, watching her fidget, her hands shaking and her eyes flitting about the room. “Did you do a lot of crack recently? Or go through a breakup?” I blurt out. What’s she going to do to me? Stab me a million times with a needle? And here I am, missing the show that I love to hate, and hate to love. How will I find out whether or not Isadora decides to burn her house down for the insurance money? I’ll have to wait until next week. And I totally want to do that.
I flip the power switch on and reach for the stash of gummy creatures I’ve been stockpiling for the past week. I’m such a rebellious teen. This must be my emo phase. Or my scene phase. I can’t remember which is which. Maybe I’m going through both at once. Hopefully. Inserting a lime green distorted animal (or stethoscope?) into my mouth, I relish the taste that resembles burning tires. It has so much body to it, like a crisp glass of merlot, which I drink everyday as a member of the hospital’s wine mom group.
What appears on the screen rather than my scheduled program is a breaking news report from the Capitol. If I wanted to hear lies and see people with plastic surgery I would just watch the show that I want to watch. Genevieve just got her nose done over anyways. The newscaster has super cute and super tasteful orange hair with stringy bangs reaching past her eyes. She looks amazing. I wish I could sport such a look.
“Don’t you think she looks so good?” I ask aloud. The nurse looks at me with a befuddled expression. I feel my chest deflate. It’s so sad when people can’t detect sarcasm. Whorange continues to speak about something involving a hair dye chemical that corrodes its victims’ scalps before she introduces a new segment on something apparently horrendous and tragic. My show?
The nurse scoots herself onto my bed, wiggling under a sterile blanket as she keeps her eyes trained on the screen. “Make yourself comfortable,” I sigh. The next segment is indeed not my program. Wonderful. Amazing. Thanks.
“I’m now hearing reports of rebel activity in the districts. Specifically, in District Five. Although specific details haven’t been provided yet, we know that there have been many deaths, most of which were child casualties. It is in this trying time that the Capitol would like the people of Panem to know that rebellious outbreaks will not be tolerated. We are stronger as a whole than we are in pieces,” she recites.
Nice monologue. Kind of sounds like the one Isadora gave in the preview for today’s episode before she burns down her house. Interesting.
“Stay tuned for public executions.”
Well that escalated quickly. We want you all to stick together with us and now we’re going to kill some of you. Wow, that’s such a good idea.
I turn off the tv. I wanted insurance fraud, not execution. Because burning down your own house is so much better. I was being sarcastic in that moment but it’s actually true.
The usual quiet that enveloped District 7 was absent as the streets hummed with chatter. Ignacius never cared much for petty gossip and smalltalk, for it went nowhere in the end, and served only to pass the time. Why waste your time talking when you could spend it building new things and learning new information? After all, that was the only reason he went to school. Try as he might to focus on his studies, he often found himself distracted by the hum of voices (that he was experiencing now walking home from school) in the classroom.
Ignacius furrowed his brow and kept his head down, quickening his pace. His thoughts began to get the best of him. Every time he heard people talking like this, in hushed, urgent tones, it always led to fights. To Peacekeepers dragging away parents. To businesses closing down. To rioting in the streets. As his thoughts remained urgent on reminding Ignacius of the troubles that come without peace, he found himself incapable of calming down. He determined that it would be in the best interest to head home for the day, and vent his feelings in the woods, where no one was near.
Of course, going home meant going by his brother.
On most days, Ignacius could find his brother preaching about the atrocities of the government from his wooden perch around the streets of town. On most days, no one listened to him. On most days, people ignored him and tried to act like he wasn’t there. On most days, the people of District 7 kept their wits about them and tried to remain positive.
Today, Ignacius found his brother triumphantly screaming with a smile on his face, relishing in his rallying of a group of apparent disciples. Today, the words spoken were passed along the crowd, through the street, around the corner, around the town. Today, he was a god. Today, people were pessimistic and declared that society needs to change.
Ignacius turned and ran towards home. This couldn’t be happening. Why couldn’t people accept that not everyone can be happy? That sometimes what is best as a whole isn’t great for everyone? He knew his parents would understand. They were rational people. Over the years, his parents had taught him how to follow rules, respect elders (with good cause, of course), and to know when it is best to speak and act. Surely they would avoid this whole rebellion bit. In the end, as it always had happened in history, rebellions failed. Society resumed its daily functions as before with more people dead and more people unhappy. The grass is always greener on the other side. Until you cross over to the other side and realize that it was merely a reflection of what your life used to be, before you went and decided to change everything for “the greater good”.
Crossing the doorway, Ignacius noticed how the hum had not gone away, but intensified in the small space. Turning the corner, he saw his parents leading up a meeting with about fifty other people, speaking loudly about the same kind of things his brother had been preaching about. Confused, he ducked away, and went back outside, before anyone could notice him.
This wasn’t right, let alone normal. Where was the agreed upon way of life that he had been living? Where was the in-and-out of the daily routine that was familiar and safe? What happened to being content with what you had? To realizing that change is impossible once a society has gone on long enough?
Ignacius ran into the woods. Into the night, he cut down trees, chopped some wood, worked on carving a chair for Mr. Petson’s order. He only stopped when the moon reached its peak in the sky. Looking around, he noticed the old wooden sword lying inside the woodshed. His father had carved it for him when he was four, when he had yet to learn how valuable time was and spent his days playing. Picking it up for the first time in years, Ignacius quickly found his handhold and took a few swings.
He was almost fully home before he realized he still had the old toy with him. Chuckling, he shoved the hilt into his belt loop and proceeded to the back door. Climbing upstairs, he realized that none of his family was home. The house was quiet. Falling asleep, Ignacius heard the sounds of fights, gunshots, and screaming. As his consciousness fell, he noticed that a fire had started in the house next door. Corruption was in the air.
Hilarian stared down at the cricket, green and legs splayed, and then at the boys incredulously. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“Eat it, Lars.” Said Jason, shoving his shoulder, his fingers tugging his shirt.
“Yeah.” Stinge stood to his left, hands on his hips. “Chicken.”
“I’m not a chicken!”
Stinge sighed and pointed at the bug. “Look, man, this bug right here represents your manliness. You eat it, you’re in our club. You don’t, you’re a chicken and we don’t want you here.”
“So, are you gonna eat the bug?” Jason held up one palm. “Or are you gonna scram?”
The trio stood silently watching the little creature. On one hand, Hilarian hated bugs. It didn’t matter what kind, he hated them. And if they tasted as bad as they looked… He shivered.
On the other hand, Hilarian had no friends. Not one. Well, unless you count Marv, the bartender, who gave him shots of water.
Stinge was a pale gangly boy who was always in the wrong place at the wrong time. His two front teeth had a gap that he tended to stick his tongue through when he smiled. His red hair stuck out from either side of a baseball hat and his mouth was always colored black from the liquorice candy he sucked on. Who knew how he could afford it.
Jason had moved in from District 11, though his parents were from Morocco before that. They spoke very little English, but Jason made up for it, smooth and quick-talking. His black hair was cut military short and he had always had one eyebrow cocked. He was the only other eleven year old who knew how to shuffle cards right.
Hilarian desperately wanted to run with them. But if it meant eating a cricket? He could die alone, right? That’d work out fine.
Right before Hilarian could tell them what a chicken he was, footsteps and a cloud of dust appeared in the empty play yard.
“Afternoon.” Said Jason calmly.
“Shut up.” Said Bull, cracking his neck.
Bull was the absolute worst bully in all of 12. He was two years older than Hilarian and at least a foot taller. His crew of boys crowded around the trio, smiling sinisterly. They also shared the ripped red handkerchiefs around their necks and did absolutely nothing but run around and talk crap about other people. They’re the real chickens.
“Hey.” Hilarian stood nervously, breathing in relief as the cricket hopped on its merry way. “Screw off, Bull. We’re in the middle of something here.”
Bull grinned, seeming to grow ten times bigger. What had Hilarian learned about large animal attacks? “What did you say?” He advanced, looming over Hilarian, now only a tiny boy with a bad idea. “You want a piece of this?”
Jason and Stinge were inching away slowly. Hilarian was sure this was the end, and that his social life may come to a grinding stop after this. Think, think. What do you do when a bear attacks?
Bull came closer, and before Hilarian knew what he was doing, he puffed out his chest and threw his arms out wide. Bull blinked. Hilarian felt one last flare of embarrassment before he opened his mouth.
“WWWHHHAAAAAAA!” He wailed into the sweltering afternoon air.
“What the hell?” Bull stepped back.
“GO AWAY!” Hilarian screamed waving his hands in the air. “GOOOOO AAAAWWWWWAAAYYY!”
“What are you-“ Bull flinched when Hilarian yelled again, covering his ears. “Stop it!”
Hilarian began to run around him in circles, screeching the whole way. Bull stood still, stunned, until Hilarian grabbed his face, pulled him down and shrieked directly in his ear.
“Damn it, stop! Stop!” Bull pushed, throwing him to the dust, and led the rest of his crew out of the play yard. Some of the boys looked back, eyes wide, but Hilarian barred his teeth at them and they scattered.
He lay on the ground, breathing hard. The sun beat down, making him squint and cover his eyes. It was completely silent.
“Well.” Jason said slowly. “That wasn’t something you see everyday.”
Hilarian sighed. He’d messed up. Why in God’s name did he think that was a good idea.
“Jason?” Stinge leaned over Hilarian, liquorice lozenge spinning on his tongue.
“Yes?”
“This kid is friggin batshit crazy.” Hilarian rolled over onto his face. “…Can we keep him?”
“I think yes.” Jason pulled up Hilarian, who was dazed and shaking sand out of his hair. “What do you say, Lars? Wanna run with us?”
Hilarian nodded and smiled.
As they left the yard, Hilarian noticed the cricket hopping along next to him, and he winked at it. Jason gave him an odd look and rolled his eyes. Stinge ruffled his hair, shouting in his ear. It was good to have friends.
For all that everyone was carrying on business as usual in District 10, Kyla knew something was brewing. She could feel the tension in the air surrounding her father. She could feel him taking his growing frustration out on her, each day of “training” becoming more brutal than the last. His words were harsher, his actions more volitile. His job title might be peacekeeper, but he was anything but peaceful lately.
Kyla walked out to the backyard behind her house, where her father was waiting for her.
“KYLA! Get your ass over here. You are late!” Her father yelled.
“I’m sorry Da. The errands you sent me on took longer than expected.”
“So you are blaming your tardiness on me?” He asked, his face beginning to contort in anger.
“No Da. It was my fault for taking to long. I’m sorry” Kyla responded, gritting her teeth. It wasn’t her fault that the man used her as an errand girl or that the damn people he sent messages to were never where he said they would be. Still if she didn’t take responsibility for it, she was going to whipped... Her father’s fowl mood had been constant lately.
“Don’t let it happen again, child...Well come on, step up. It’s time for sparring. You’ll be going against me today.” He told her, as he stepped forward and pulled himself into position.
Kyla nodded and stepped up to the man. She settled into her stance and waited his command. Finally, her father yelled Go and they began. They fought, hand to hand, constantly going at each other. Hitting each other, blocking against the other person’s movement. They had been sparring, round after round, for about 40 minutes when her father signalled her to stop.
“Good. Very good, child,” he never called her by her name anymore. Kyla was pretty sure that the only reason he took the time to train her was so that she did not embarrass him. “Go grab our swords. It is time for your weapons training.”
Kyla went into the back shed, pulling down her father’s sword, as well as her favorite one, from the rack and headed back out to her drill sergent... father. She handed him his blade and stepped back. This was her favorite part. Hand to hand was great but she loved using her sword. They had both fallen into their stances, when one of her father’s peacekeepers ran into the backyard. Her father immediately went over to him and began to speak with him. While she waited Kyla began to go through various moves on her own, practicing.
“ARE YOU SERIOUS?? DAMMIT!” Kyla jumped, surprised by her father’s yells. She looked over and saw him fumming. Whatever the other man had told him was obviously horrendous news. “Go. Just leave. I will be there after I finish with the girl.” He said in an emotionless voice. Kyla could feel fear growing in her, that voice meant he was beyond angry...and she usually paid for it when he was in these moods.
“I DIDN’T SAY YOU COULD GET OUT OF YOUR STANCE,” her father yelled, seconds before he came at her with his sword.
Kyla was forced to go on the defensive, desperately trying to save herself. She was never sure what her da would do in these moods. She blocked move after move, her father forcing her to back away from him. About 10 minutes had passed, when she tried to another step back only to discover that her da had directed her up against the back of the house. Kyla’s eyes widdened at the malicious grin gracing her father’s face. He moved his sword, hitting her weapon out of her hand and cutting down her left forearm in the process. Kyla yelped in reaction to the injury.
“You, child, are such as disappointment,” her father said, immediately following his statement with a hard punch to the face. Kyla was forced back against the house then fell to the ground. Her father laughed and dropped his sword at her feet.
“Pick this shit up girl. I’ve got work to do,” He said before walking away.
Kyla stared after him. He had never liked her, never been kind or loving, but he had never been flat out abusive before. She had a feeling that something bad must be happening in the district to cause him to snap like that. She could feel rage growing inside of her. Kyla decided then and there to never be the victim again. Once was enough. Picking up the weapons she walked back to the shed, cleaned them, and put them away. She stared at her sword for a moment before pulling it back down from the rack and taking it with her.
Little did she know that she would never put that sword back on that rack again. Kyla didn’t she her father for the rest of the week. Exactly 5 days after her father’s outburst, war broke out and her sword became her constant and only companion.
It’s been a week since my last entry, longer than normal. But these are circumstances I haven’t been able to cope with easily.
We’re at war.
They’re for sure going to put a halt on Everest’s research. No doubt crafting some type of military defense for them. Something biological probably. I took an oath to work towards the evolution of mankind, not its destruction.
But it seems I have no choice at the threat of my life and Everest’s. Though I have grown an attachment to him over the past months, I take this risk by continuing his research for the good of mankind. We’re going to need it after this war.
I will play along, but I refuse to let this war halt the progress I’ve made. These logs will continue automatically throughout the battle, however long that may last, displaying my continued efforts towards whatever the Capitol assigns of me. But I won’t stop with Everest as well. Though I won’t be able to record it here for however long this war may last, Everest and I will wait it out, continue, and report back when it’s safe. Until then, I pray that we all make it out in one piece.
