Sunlight barely pierces through the blinds in my room, before Shrieker cackles out. Oh that rooster; how I hate that blasted bird. This happens everyday. I swear it's how my day starts every single time. He was my very own personal alarm clock and he's just a rooster, but sometimes, I think he knows it bothers me. Call me crazy like the others, but I feel like he makes it his personal goal to give me a rude awakening. If it wasn't for Ma's love of that bird, I would've killed, cooked, and ate him by now.
Rolling out of bed, my eyes barely open, I search for my boots. When I get ahold of them I put them on. No shower for me this morning. I would milk the cows first, then go to bathhouse and clean myself. My nightdress would have to act as my work clothes too. I'm just too lazy to change. Too tired.
With every loud step, I walk down the hallway to the front door, using the noise as a way to let everyone know it's almost time for school or work. The creaking floorboards help me.
Before I go to the barn I wake up Rufus. He's our dog and act's as a farmhand as well. Rufus yawns and stretches, then runs out the door to the sheep stead. He would let them out for them to graze, and then later I would herd them back into the stead. When it was noon Rufus would let them out again. I tried training him to herd them himself, to take some work off my load, but he never got it. It was a waste a time, trying to train him but his ability to let them out was good enough. I put some stale goose meat in his dish and a bone for when he returns.
I step outside and breathe in the morning air. It's enough for me to shake off some of my weariness. Trudging to the barn, I look out to the east of our farm and see the sheep grazing. Rufus worked fast.
Grabbing the metal pails from side of the barn, I enter and sigh. The cow's turn to me and give me looks of distaste. Their "moos," basically telling me to "go away." Too bad, it was milking day, they would have to deal with it. The process is easy. I've essentially mastered milking the cows, but it always takes a long time and after about an hour my hands feel sore. Then, sadly, this was only the beginning of my chores. After completing all my chores for day my entire body would be sore and pleading for rest.
This is how it is for me in District 10. A working life. I've been working on this farm since I was 10 and it never gets easier, even as I get older. I'm 17 now, and sure I got stronger and learned to endure but it never gets easier. I was the oldest of nine children. From the moment I was born my life was going be a difficult one. The oldest child always has it the hardest. Stir in the fact that my family owned one of the largest farms in District 10 and it gets even harder. We've had the farm for so long there are pictures of my Ma's ma on the walls in the den. Sometimes I think we've had it even before the Dark Days. It's not absurd to think it possibly survived the first rebellion, especially after it managed to survive the second one twenty-four years ago.
The farm itself oozes history. Different generations have lived in the house and worked in the fields. The girls in the family would inherit the farm and usually their husbands would join them here.
"We work on this farm until we turn into the soil ourselves," Ma used to tell me. I only understood what she meant when I turned 13 and I saw some of the grave plots of my ancestors, mostly female, in the North side of the farm, by the chicken coops, while collecting eggs for the first time. I have nightmares of being buried there. A lackluster tombstone that's engraved "Robyn Olivia Hunder Albourne," next to my mothers. Scariest part is if history would choose to repeat itself, it was going to happen.
I finish milking the cows, now having four filled pails of the white liquid. I carry them carefully back to the house and when I enter I hear a soft "good morning." I put the pails down and look up at my dad. He's already dressed in overalls and boots ready for today's work. A cap hiding his salt-n-pepper hair. Grey hairs are in his beard. He's only 43 but he looks so much older. His grey eyes don't help either. This farm would make you look older; have you age faster almost.
"Morning," I say.
"Cows treat you nice?" He asks, smiling lightly. Just so you know, I've heard this question just about everyday since I started working full time on the farm. In truth, he's basically asking me if I'm doing okay but, for some strange reason, he can't ask that directly.
"As nice as they usually are," I answer. The conversations I have with my father are usually this dull. We don't exactly have the best relationship. It isn't because of any personal animosities or problems we had with each other but probably because we are always so busy that we don't get much time to spend with each other. I think we're pretty similar actually. We both like to keep to ourselves and I we aren't very talkative in general. We're the silent type, that's all.
"We're going to be busy for the next few days," He tells me.
"Yeah I know, it's always busier during this time of year," I mutter.
My dad shifts uneasily and I curse myself for saying that last part. It was the last thing I should've mentioned.
"So . . . how are you doing?" He goes on. I can hear the anxiety in his voice already. He really doesn't like to ask this question directly.
"Fine Dad, I'm not worried," I try to answer as confidently as I can. It seems to relax him some. He was already stressed with all his farm work. The last thing he needed was to know his daughter was worried about the Hunger Games. Which I wasn't. It was a week away anyway.
"Okay," He sighs. "I had breakfast already so I'm going out to the fields. I'll see you at supper."
"Yea."
"I . . . I love you."
"Love you too Dad."
He leaves through the front door and I exhale softly. I felt sorry for him most of the time. Easton Hunder had married this farm when he married my mother, Claire Albourne. He used to work as a butcher's assistant until he got married and moved into this house. Over the years I guess he got used to doing farm work and eventually began to manage it. Even without the help of his wife.
My mother had left my family about three months ago. She's left us a countless number of times. Whether it was for a few days, a few weeks, or a few months, like now. She would run off to who knows where. Then she would return randomly and every time she did it was like she and my dad would get back together enough just to have another child. Then she would run off again, and leave Ma to take care of the baby with my dad. My dad loves my mom unconditionally, and tried to hide her secrets from us kids for a long time; maybe fearing we wouldn't be able to handle it. But I found out after about the fifth time she left. The others don't know, at least I don't think they do. All they know is mother is sick and can't be with them right now.
The truth is my mother has an addiction to morphling. I can't say where she developed the addiction or how, but it's bad enough for her to leave us constantly. Her children barely know her. Violet doesn't even know what she looks like. I have a hard time remembering myself but Ma tells me she looked like me. Claiming that we have the same features. Dark blonde hair, the same nose, same lips, same ears, cheekbones, and shy smile. We share it all apparently. The only difference is we have different eye color. My eyes are grey, like my father's, and my mothers are a dark ocean blue. I'm happy for the difference. I want to be nothing like her.
"Robyn," I hear my sister, Violet cry out. It seems like ever since she learned how to say my name she would scream it whenever she needed me or wanted something.
"Yes," I cry back.
"I'm hungry."
"I'll make breakfast soon. Go back to sleep for now."
I hear no response and assume she's trying to fall asleep again. Soon the others would be up as well. My day just got harder. I didn't want to cook breakfast today but with Ma still sleeping it looked like I would have to . . . again.
I have eight siblings. In order of age it goes Colton, Eli, Kayden, Nicnic, Easton Jr., Grace, James, and Violet. Colton is 15. Eli is thirteen, Kayden is 12, Nicnic is 10, Easton Jr. is 8, Grace and James, who are twins, are 6 and lastly, Violet is 3.
Each of them has their own unique personality and each of them get on my nerves. You would think the boys would run the house, having us girls outnumbered 6 to 3 not including Ma and my dad but I'm in charge. Being the oldest of the children, along with having the most chores, I have seniority. With my mother being away as well, I've unintentionally become some sort of mother figure to some of them too, even though I'm not the oldest girl in the house. Another responsibility I suppose.
Speaking of responsibilities it was time to check on Colton. I quietly make my way to his room and open the door slowly, peaking in on him. It's no surprise to see him awake, sitting up on his bed, "looking" out the window. His salt-n-pepper hair is a mess.
"Morning Colton," I say softly.
"Hi Robyn," He says back, not shifting, the sunlight keeping him still. This was almost like a ritual he had every morning. He would wake up and stare at the sun through the small circular window in his room. It would never hurt his eyes so I never tell him to stop. Colton is blind. He has a problem with his eyes that doctors, at least the ones here, couldn't fix because they couldn't figure out what caused it. They simply had no explanation for it. All they could say was he would be like this forever. He would never see unless we happened to have a miracle in our pockets. I used to feel bad for him, thinking he'd never be able to experience the world like everyone else did. But over the years my feelings changed as I watched him grow. He was unique and handled everything with such delicacy and care. He can't see, so he feels; understanding and learning things in his own way. Every once in a while he would ask to touch or feel my face and I would let him. His soft hands would feel every inch of my face and I'll admit it was a little weird the first few times but the weirdness went away every time he would tell me that I'm beautiful when he was finished. After awhile I began to envy how he handled himself and how positive he was. Colton was never panicked, or angry, or sad. His usually moods were either mellow, happy, or carefree. Then he also has this sense for adventure that can't be matched by any of us. I would find him in the fields on occasion and he would say, ever so innocently, "I'm not lost, just not where I thought I would be." His spirit was something to truly marvel. I know it's not good to choose favorites but out of my brothers and sisters, Colton was my favorite. He's the least annoying out of them all.
"Breakfast is in a few," I say to him.
"Okay, I'll come out when I smell it," He answers. I shut the door behind me and go back to the kitchen.
For the next few I minutes I pour milk in containers that would be sent out to the Capitol. The rest of the milk I put in a jug, which would be for us to drink. If I was lucky it would last the day. I wash out the metal pails and put them outside to air dry. Next I go to the icebox and take out a dozen eggs. Today's breakfast would be eggs and left over chicken, with milk to drink. There was enough gasoline in the stove to cook the eggs thoroughly so I decide to make omelets.
It takes awhile but the finish products look excellent. Nine plates of omelets and chicken set on the table. I don't make myself a plate because I'm not feeling hungry and I rather take a shower. I smelled like food and sweat, which wasn't the greatest combination.
"Breakfast!" I yell. After a few seconds I begin to hear the pitter-patter of feet moving, then doors opening. I leave before I see all of them. As I exit through the back door to go to the bathhouse, right before I close the door behind me, I hear Grace scream out "omelets!" It slipped my mind that they were her favorite. Or maybe it didn't. Maybe my subconscious had me cook it especially for her because it could be the last time I do.
— —
The water is lukewarm today, better than it was the past few days. As is runs down my body, I finally begin to feel at ease. This was always my favorite part of the day. I realize my hair is still tied up with a ribbon and decide to let it out. It was a couple of days since I last washed it and I needed to get rid of the egg smell. I pull at the ribbon and instantly my hair falls down. The back is easily long enough to reach the middle of my back and the front enough to cover my breasts. Is it strange to hate that my hair is long? Ma and my sisters argue it is. They think it's beautiful but I prefer to tie it up and make it look short. I always liked how it looked short. It was different. Nothing like my mothers.
Maybe that's why I hated it. It made me look even more like my mother.
I adjust the showerhead so that the water is raining down on the top of my head. Then I use a cloth and the small bar of soap to scrub my hair, while monitoring the soap so that I don't use too much of it. It was one of the more expensive necessities. In town it would take a trade of three dozen eggs or two healthy chickens to get a bar of soap, and that was on a good day.
When I'm satisfied with my hair, I turn off the water and grab my towel, quickly wrapping it around my body. I prefer to let my hair air dry then to be naked. Trying to dry my hair manually would take plenty of time and with the chores I had to complete today, I have none to waste with my pesky hair. As I walk back to my room I begin to think about all the things I would have to do today.
My to-do list was especially long because of the Hunger Games. District 10 was always asked to produce more around this time. Capitol people seemed to get a larger appetite whenever the Games came around and it only made my chores harder.
Herd the sheep, let the cows graze, then herd them, feed the chickens, collect their eggs to take to the Square to trade and sell, pick vegetables that would be sent to the Capitol, find something for the pigs to eat and fix their barn, go to Square and actually sell the eggs, walk back home, cook dinner, then clean my younger siblings before bed.
I grab my work shirt and shorts from the rack and sigh. The ease that my shower gave me is gone. It definitely wasn't going to be an easy day, but then again; it never is.