The Third Annual Writer's Game: Roots

Ex Nihilo Nihil Fit | Jacqueline "Jackie" Ecclestone

She walked, and as she did so, the colors of green swirled around her like a viridescent whirlpool, whipping her hair and stinging her eyes. The forest looked the same as it was only yesterday, with various species of trees flanking her on every side, almost like nature's own personal bodyguard for her. The rays of sunlight that streamed through the crisscrossing branches above weaved a crown of melted gold for her head, and the numberless leaves served as a shield in case the heavens unleashed their fury and sent rain tumbling down. The birds sang their daytime songs, their melodies sweet to her ears, while the smell of fresh air cleared her mind and strengthened her malnourished body with every stride, a both physical and mental incentive to go on. All these factors should have made Jacqueline Ecclestone as content and happy as she could be in The Hunger Games.

And yet, she wasn't.

In the skies, floating high above the clouds, or snagged in the bushes and shrubs dotting the forest, was what remained of Janet Ecclestone's letter to her foster daughter remained. Jackie had torn the piece of paper up as soon as she'd finished reading it, tossing it into the air and watching the ripped pieces be swept up by the warm wind and away from her line of vision, as captivated as a child flying their first kite. She'd watched the letter fly away into oblivion, just like her worries about Jonah Ecclestone, and her wretched memories of him. And when the last fragment had disappeared over the treetops, carried by the wind, she had let out a might whoop that sent the avifuanas of the woods taking to the heavens in alarm.

Now, as Jackie made her way through the woods towards the Cornucopia, she wondered if she'd let a piece of her heart fly away with the letter, caught by the breeze and taken far, far away from the Earth she was so used to. Taken up the wide blue yonder, where it dangled perilously, ready to fall and smash into a thousand pieces.

Her mind was conflicted. There was a saying that the best cure for the body was a quiet mind, but the saturated sun and the lilac sky could not make her feel blissful, as it once had when she had first arrived in the arena. Her mind argued back and forth, confused and afraid, about the emotions that were inflicted upon her after the news of Jonah's death. Her initial reaction had been predictable – shock which slowly morphed into joy, which eventually led to a type of euphoria that blurred her mind and loosened the burden on her shoulders, letting her float, higher and higher, to cloud nine. Now, however, as the hours had ticked past and the effect of time wore off her earliest emotions, the ecstasy had been exhausted. She'd slipped from her seventh heaven and found herself on the ground again. And while she'd walked, letting the caresses of the wind brush against her skin, she began to experience something that she'd hardly – almost never – experienced before.

Sadness.

"Daddy, why did you and Mommy adopt me?"

She was five years old and curious, and never once thought about the consequences that her questions might bring forth. Jonah Ecclestone raised his head, glasses perched on the bridge of his pointed nose, and slowly placed his newspaper back down on the desk. Dressed in her flower-pattern nightgown, with stringy locks of hair cascading down her back, she had looked like an angel – albeit a very thin one with a buck-toothed smile and had a habit of sucking her thumb. Perhaps it was luck, but on that night, Jonah did not tell his daughter to get back to bed or call his wife to tuck her in. Instead, he beckoned the girl over, and Jackie eagerly clamored onto his knee.

"I adopted you to make your Mommy happy."

Subconsciously, her pace quickened. At first, Jackie began to stumble through the undergrowth, almost as if she were in a daze and could not control her own feet. A puppet being made to dance by a mad puppeteer. Jagged branches and thorns had torn greedily at her flesh, with some making their attempts to scratch and graze her skin but only managing to latch briefly onto the gauzy material of her uniform, before gravity harshly beat them back to their original position as she trudged onwards, never looking back. Why she was running, she did not truly know – perhaps she was running from the memories of the good old days, of the times before her heart had grown corrupt and dark. She did not want to relive them, not because they were terrible and scarring, but because of that they were the exact opposite – they were not.