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l did not expect to see him again.
Perhaps that was foolish, we did live in the same place, and we shared parts of our souls that I often pretended were not a part of me. I would retrace the steps I took on the day our eyes first locked, glaring at the trees with some sort of solid longing; it was childish, I had caught him once, it wasn't a pattern.
Or so I thought.
May had bled into June with no sight of him. June was always a bleak affair, the peacekeepers will begin to set up the centre soon, adorning our shabby home with Capitol pieces that tied the idea of our demise together.
June 15th. 13 days away.
The middle of the month, in the middle of the year. Yet those reaped had only just started their lives. Not that that mattered. Children are expendable, we are waste, easy to produce, and even easier to kill. That was proven every single fucking year.
School was barely compulsory, especially when you got to your later teens, it was more pitiful glances and soft whispers, silent pleas of worry, wondering if your class was going to be one n
Those in the eldest bracket usually stopped turning up after their 18th birthday. Turning 18 was a death sentence in itself. You dare to grow older? Elongated limbs taunting those marched to their demise.
Age was both celebrated and envied.
I still have two more years of this bullshit. Lysander four.
Childhood is dotted with bodies. Mother says to let them go, let them be ghosts, let them rest. The Capitol says fuck that. They are paraded every year, the previous fallen, it is made into a meal. They show the reapings, the interviews, the deaths.
Clockwork. It is a routine, Caesar Flickerman is an excellent actor. He makes all the right expressions, oohs and aahs at all the right times, but you can see no emotion in his eyes. The residents fall for it hook, line, and sinker.
The Districts, not so much.
News has erupted from the Capitol, and the catch of the 2nd Quarter Quell is soon to be revealed, on June 5th. 10 days to prepare. 10 days of disaster.
I am sitting, twiddling my thumbs. I should be out, doing something, but I am not. It's pathetic, waiting around, hoping for him to appear once again. It is a craving, a need to be seen.
On that day, I stayed. Even after he offered me liquor after he laughed and shrugged his shoulders after he sat down next to me and refused to tell me his name. I still dub him Foliage Fellow in my head. What else am I to call him?
He named me Rock Boy, it's endearing almost.
Two strangers, only known by nicknames. Only to each other, only in that forest. Only when alone. It was a one-time thing.
I should not be here.
But if he did not want me to return, why did he let me stay?
I can still feel his eyes on me, our meeting was almost 2 weeks ago now, yet I still feel him. He follows me, in places he certainly should not be.
