Tiny crystals fall from the heavens, soaking into my skin, drenching me in their pain.
I wish with all my heart for something to quench the ravenous burning in my stomach. But not only for me, for that tiny mouth waiting for me, praying for a meal that will never come. How can I return to her empty handed? The answer is simple. I cannot. I must fight on for my beautiful and pure Primrose.
Desperately I search through the trash, hoping for an answer to my pleas. My search turns futile. Hope's eternal flame becomes dimmer with every failed attempt. I soon find myself at the Baker's house, searching through his garbage for a crumb of burnt bread. Again my efforts are fruitless. I must find food. For Prim. I dive in once more to the filth, praying for an answer. Instead I am greeted with a door slamming and an ear shattering screech. The witch herself.
"Get the hell outta my garbage ya filthy beast! Get! Get to the Seam wit ya!" she screamed at me.
The fight within me drained as the baker's witch of a wife slithered inside.
A whip cracks and another blood curdling screech penetrates my ear drums. "Foolish boy! I cannot sell burnt bread! Feed it to the pigs you ignorant little shit!"
A boy with startling blue eyes walks out of the bakery and stumbles over to the pigpen. He rips off the burn bread and throws it at the swine. The boy then starts walking towards me. I scramble to my feet, scared of what he might do to me, when I notice a beginning of a welt on his face. He... he couldn't have. Wouldn't have, I correct myself.
"I won't hurt you," a gentle voice prods, "Come here. I won't hurt you," he repeats again.
A hand reaches toward me. I flinch as i notice the soft rolls in his hands. Why would he show kindness to me... I'm a part of the Seam. This boy is a merchant. He sets the bread down at my feet and kneels down beside me, waiting for me to speak.
"W-why?" I stutter.
"You were hungry and my mother did not treat you right." The boy murmurs.
"I don't need your charity," I spit, "I've had enough of it to last a lifetime."
The boy doesn't respond at first. He seems to ponder this over, and then says, "What if it was a trade, my bread for your kills?"
"Ok..." I hesitate.
With that he stands and turns towards his house. I glare at the loaf, the boy with the bread still on my mind.