(A.N) I hope you like it!
Yes, I grew up here. Yes, I was born here. Yes, I should believe what we're doing.
But the fact is; I don't.
I was born into possibly, and arguably, the worst district. Arguably, only because all of them have faults. Yes, they have to go through the Hunger Games every year. But we gave up everything for them, but are we recognized? No. To them, we are dead. We are gone. Nothing left.
I know it sounds crazy. I know I shouldn't feel this way. I know it's impossible to change things. But I still wish I was anywhere but here. 13 is the unlucky number, after all.
I've never spoken my beliefs of course; I have no idea the consequences if I did. But nothing is right here. Our schedules, our leaders; everything is strange. Foreign, even to one of the few who survived the mass epidemic of sickness the year after I was born.
My mother always said I was a fighter. And I am, just not in the way they think. I can't lift 50 pound weights or shoot a gun, but I can con you. I'll con you of your money, your belongings, but more importantly, your thoughts.
It's a special trick I taught myself, know other's thoughts and you know them. To trick them out of them is the hard part though, but one secret from one person could bring the rest of them down.
For instance, when I was twelve I used to hang around a certain guard named Ezra; he was a loose lipped, foul mouthed, loud talker who let me know all of the secret ways around the tunnels.
"The secret is being able to leave without being spotted." He tapped his temple with his gloved hand. I sat on the floor in front of them; he was leaning against the door to some cell in the hospital ward. "No matter what you've taken and how much it's worth, if they catch you, you're done for and it's all for nothing." A few years ago he had taught me about the air ducts being the best way to get around. The problem was that some of them didn't have shuddered grates and you would have to press your ear against the solid tin until you were sure that no one was outside so you could slip out of the duct. "You have to be absolutely positive."
"How do you do that?" I asked. My cunning mind already working over what he was saying.
"Stay away from the top floors, the ducts go everywhere, even the cells." He tapped the door behind him. "Even into Coin's office. The top two floors are crawling with guards and the grates don't have shudders. Stay away from there and you should be safe."
As I said before, Ezra was quiet loose lipped. He never suspected anything, even after I started stealing things from different rooms. In a way, I had my own little rebellion going on inside the even bigger rebellion.
I never thought I would get anywhere. After a while, the guards started to notice. I never stole anything more than another sweet from the kitchen, or a better pen from a Sargent's office, but on one of my missions I accidentally knocked over a pencil cup in my retreat. Not having any time to pick it up, I scrambled up into the duct just as the officer walked into the room.
Soon, it was harder and harder to keep up and I was forced to stop after Ezra told me that there was suddenly a price on my head and that they were tracking me through my schedule.
My fights are small, my beliefs big. Somehow, nothing seemed right. And I don't think it ever will. It's so strange. But I would rather live anywhere else, 9,10, even 11 or 12; but 13.
(A.N) I was thinking about what if there was such a child as I was re-reading Mockingjay for my other story Baby Quell For Katniss. As always, R&R!