❛ HOPE ISN'T SOMETHING GIFTED TO YOU
IT'S SOMETHING YOU ACHIEVE. ❜
in which a small girl from district ten must
protect those she loves, or die trying.
𝘾𝙊𝙈𝙋𝙇𝙀𝙏𝙀𝘿 (UNDER HEAVY EDITING)
― oc x...
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SEETHED PAINS behind gritted teeth; the wail of cattle drawn into slaughterhouses, rotting as they walk on uneven cobbles and glass scattered dirt paths; sloshing sounds of mud-stained milk carried by mothers in one hand, a child wailing in the other.
This is the melancholic heartbeat of District Ten.
"We have the second-highest tesserae rates out of all the Districts," a stocky man mentions while pushing a young girl forward by the small of her back. She squirms a little, adjusting a faded green ribbon tight around her waist. "Yet we have more rats than people here to claim it."
The girl looks up, grey eyes wandering through her father's dismay. "The cattle will feed tonight, at least."
"And we will feast on a steak after," he replies, tugging taught lips into something that almost resembles a smile. "Just like we did last year."
She produces a smile that cuts through the murk of the sky above. It's out of place and hardly inspiring, but it makes her father's grin slightly brighter. The crowd behind them seems distant, a wild sea of beige cloth and clear white metal, when he shifts his gaze down towards her. He moves the hand once behind her up to her shoulders and smoothes down a small crease that bridges over a jauntily stitched patch.
Carter cannot help in remarking how tall his daughter is now, only at the mere age of thirteen: so strong, so wise, so uncannily alike both her parents. He strokes the mousey strands of hair that fall in front of her ears — short, yet still unruly — until there is nothing that remains able to hide her face. It is a moment that he has not yet quite gotten used to and, no doubt, ever shall.
He sighs through his nose and offers one last frail smile. "Perhaps I'll even let you kill the beast? I promise, it makes it taste so much better."
"That would be nice," she says and pulls him into a hug. His embrace is warm and the rough linen of his shirt is about rough enough to mimic her bedsheets at home. When she shuts her eyes, a brief moment passes and she can see the fields of the ranch again, the scent of the animals and the hard tilled soil swelling in her nose. It's comforting, somehow, in some sick sense of nostalgia. The borders of District Ten smelt nicer than the square. There, on the outskirting ranches and vast meadowing fields, you cannot get poisoned by the pollution which suffocates the air.
Her father finally pulls away and begins to kneel down in front of her, his hand moving quickly to the pocket of his loose overalls. Intertwined with his fingers and tangled around calloused scar marks lies a partially rusted chain necklace. The spots where the movement has caused its original shine to stay flicker lights against his dirtied skin, spots of that dark orange rust dappling the reflection.
