ACT I. CHAPTER II. ❛ Time is Still Passing ❜ tw. mentions of death, parental loss, blood, poverty. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
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Flynt leaves her at her house with barely even a goodbye. There is an invisible wall between the two now, so thick that Verena sees it breathing, squirming. She isn't sure what she's done and she's even less sure of how to fix it.
The door to her house never locks. The door itself is barely hanging on. The hinges are old and squeaky and the glass is fogged over. The living conditions in Three had never been good, but the more affluent families at least had enough to be presentable. Verena wasn't lucky enough to call herself affluent. She remembers a time, however, where her family had at least some money. Both her parents had worked in tech, with her mother being the brains behind weaponry, and her father working within the electronics for the Capitol. They were respected — everyone had adored them. It made Ma's funeral all the harder.
She remembers the lingering touches of people who she barely knew, whispers of condolences like they were curse words.
Sometimes, her house felt like a ghost. She sees Ma's face when she walks past the chipped mirror in the hallway.
She can hear soft snores coming from the smaller bedroom. A glance to the clock tells her that Pops has come in from work and is taking his nap before his next job.
There are soft rustling sounds in the sitting room. It has since lost its grandeur, the fabrics of the sofa and armchair faded and worn, the rug threadbare and the table chipped and dull. They simply didn't have the money to make things look as nice as they once had.
Her younger brother and youngest sister are sat with their legs crossed, pouring over some old blueprints that Pops had left lying. Felix with his mess of blond hair was leading Freya, teaching her about energy output and fitness for purpose. Freya, just like Verena, looked much more like their mother, all dark hair and hollowed skin.
"Have you eaten?" Her voice is hoarse, as it always is, when she speaks to her siblings. They are too young, too gentle. She cannot, will not, think about their names in that big glass bowl.
Felix looks up, blue eyes gleaming with interest — they always seemed to do that when he was looking at blueprints — and shakes his head. "We've ran out of milk, and there's nothing in the fridge to take, and you told me I'm not allowed to use the stove anymore."
He isn't wrong, with the evidence of last time still scarring his perfect face, an uneven red blotch marring his left cheek.
Verena smiles at him. He's smarter than most. "I'll see what I can do."
