My footsteps echoed through the empty alleys of Town 12, the only other sound being the raindrops pattering against the pavement and the bricks. The sound was crisp, and comforting; I heard the same sounds every single day, sometimes with pouring rain, but seldom with sunny, clear skies. The gray light had yet to become bright, and the dim light that had boldly dared to enter the night's turf spilled onto surfaces, weaving through shadow and darkness.

I myself was not out of place, in this dark world with dim, muted color. I was wearing loose sweat pants, a tight green shirt, and a black jacket, left unzipped. My hands were shoved deep into my pockets, and accompanied by several miscellaneous objects; a sheathed knife, a small portion of gauze, and a small cloth protecting a few cookies.

I couldn't even deny, I had a bit of a sweet tooth; especially in the cold months, fresh, warm food of any kind was soothing. It was descending into winter, but right now it was fall. You wouldn't tell the difference, since most of the trees don't really lose their leaves for any season. They don't even have leaves, they're pine trees.

They have pines. And pinecones. And pine needles. What genius comes up with this stuff?

I veered down another alley, taking a sideways, diagonal route. The scenery of dreary shop fronts with unenthusiastic splashes of color fell behind me, and it was just the stone walls of the two buildings on either side of me, neither of which I had bothered to learn the name of, despite my passing them each day.

I stepped out of the alley on the next street, which was, besides the names and types of stores, an exact mimic of the last street. As well as the next street. The monotony of everything got a little boring – not boring, unexciting. Gotta think more before I…think. It's like talking to yourself, but in your head. So no one really knows how crazy you are. I never fit in enough thinking before talking, so I had to practice in my head. And choose words carefully.

So I wouldn't my brother stupid, I would call him disobliging and beleaguering. He wouldn't know what those meant, anyway, he was seven years younger than I was. Seven. Fourteen vs. Seven. He was half my age, exactly.

After countless absent footsteps, I arrived at the stone wall, an obstruction that separated the forest and beyond from the town. On it was a beat-up, old metal sign that read, "DO NOT PASS. DANGER. WILD ANIMALS." I couldn't really take it seriously, because a few weeks back someone had written something obscene and profane by it, and it always made me chuckle.

I reached up and grasped the top edge of the wall, climbing up the smooth surface with my sneakers and finally climbing onto the top of it, swinging myself over and landing nimbly on the ground. I reached into my pocket and drew my knife, pulling off the hand-sewn case for it, filled with cotton and made of tough fabric on the inside, so the knife wouldn't cut through. I jammed the sheath back into my pocket and proceeded, keeping it ahead of me in case I saw something.

I first went to check my traps; I had only two set, at the time. The first was just a short distance from the wall, and I waded through the waist-high plants, most of which were just thorny and dead.

They were seasonal.

I finally arrived at the tree from which the trap was hung – I had marked it with my knife, X marks the spot (Technically, jumbled scribbles and hanging, sap-coated bark marked the spot in that case, but I digress) – and knelt beside it. Hanging low above the ground was a rabbit, hanging by its little not-quite-as-lucky-as-it-had-hoped rabbit's foot. I sawed through the rope easily, and the rabbit dropped. I held it by the rope, the rabbit hanging limply, and went over to my other trap.

If this one was full, I wouldn't even have to hunt. I silently hoped it would have something else in it, and finally, as I reached the next graffiti-ed tree, checked to see if my prayers were answered.

A fox was lying, deflated and glassy-eyed, its neck imprisoned under a nasty set of old, rusted spikes.

That had to be a day-ruiner.

I grinned, and then whooped. We weren't the richest, and food got scarce after every frost, but both the traps had been filled. I opened the jaws of the trap, taking the length of rope I left tucked under the trap – in case I did get lucky – and tying it around the fox's neck, grabbing both the ropes and pacing back toward the town.

I pulled open my pocket and dropped the knife into its holster, gripping the two ropes of animal tightly as I scaled the wall again, landing hard on the other side.

The return home was uneventful, and I didn't even need to consider the path because of how many times I had taken it. My feet led me there across the rain-slicked cement efficiently, and I was content to be out of the rain and back under a roof.

Our home was small. It was where my mother's home had been originally, just built over the ashes. Our town was also referred to as phoenix or the phoenix, because we rose out of the ashes of District 12 and became Town 12.

While being under a roof was comforting, it was sort of disturbing to know what I was over. My mom had sometimes let slip words of the ash running through her fingers, the skulls of people she had known, the remnants of things she had owned all in crumbles and ruin. But she only told things like that when she had her attacks, as we called them; just sort of traumatic flashbacks of her mysterious but seemingly boring life before us.

My father was different, however. He would just remain cold and stony, and if you asked him a question he wouldn't respond. Sometimes he would feel his wedding ring in his fingers, or wring out his hands. Sometimes, he reminded me of an Autistic child; we had to study them for a while, they were just disconnected from the world.

My parents were both inexplicably insane.

No one else was awake, however; this was my time. I sort of liked the deserted feel of early dawn, around four or five in the morning, as the huge clock in the center of town read. It was peaceful, and the stress and business of reality had yet to press upon me, as if it choked me and slowly killed me each passing day.

I glanced over at my room, thinking of the town clock. I remember that when I was young, my mother gave me the most beautiful, elegant pocketwatch, made in gold with a picture of a mockingjay, the dwindling species that was a cross between several different birds. I had kept it, but I couldn't remember where.

I could faintly remember it being under a cabinet. I looked at the cabinet in the corner, crouching down and peeking underneath. There was a wooden chest, dull and unadorned. I pulled it out, and with it came a puff of dust. I choked on it and silently fought a cough, so as not to wake anyone. I held my breath and dusted off the top, unlatching the front and opening it.

Inside were several sets old tapes, those coated in a film of dust as well. They were divided into roughly two halves, with around four tapes on each side. I pulled one out and observed it; there was no label, nothing implicating what it showed.

I placed it back in the chest, glancing around. Something about this chest felt private, as if I weren't supposed to be looking at it. The feeling only intensified the moment, making it more interesting.

I felt a lurking feeling that it would be disappointing. What if I had found just old wedding tapes? Or worse, tapes of us being born?

I half considered shoving it back in and never looking at the box again, but the lure of the curiosity it posed was too strong.

I had enough time before anyone woke up to at least find out what it was.

I'll have more stuff up soon. Review if you like it, or if you don't. I know, I know. This chapter was sort of insanely boring – I felt like I had to have some sort of introduction before I just threw you into the action, don't you think? If you can think, if this boring chapter hasn't turned your brain to mush. Don't worry, it will get better, I promise.