A/N: Here's chapter three, sorry it took so long ^^*
Thanks to all my reviewers for your support!
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Chapter Three
"Daddy, why do we hide down here?" I ask in a hushed voice, my knees curled up to my chest. Prim sits beside me, only a toddler, and plays with my braid mindlessly. It's dark down here, in the room under my house. Water drips from the ceiling and there's a consistant damp smell.
"Because this is where daddy lives," Dad replies with a tired smile.
"Why can't you live upstairs with mommy and us?" I question, prying Prim's hand off my hair when she starts to pull.
"All daddies live under their family's houses," Dad answers. "The women would get angry if they didn't."
"Why women get angry?" Prim frowns, her curious blue eyes wide.
The cellar door opens, light streaming into the room and exposing the three of us. Mother quickly hurries in and shuts the door, quickly coming down the stairs and kneeling beside Prim and me. "I'm sorry, we can only risk another few minutes Damien," she whispers to dad.
"'Dis daddy's house?" Prim asks innocently, tugging on mum's sleeve and sticking her fist into her mouth. Mother smiles and pulls Prim into her lap, kissing the top of her blonde head gently.
"Yes sweetie, this is daddy's house," Mother coos. Dad smiles and holds his finger infront of Prim's face, which she immediately grabs hold of and shoves into her mouth with her fist.
"Why women get angry mommy?" Prim asks, her voice gurgling due to the finger and fist in her mouth.
"Why do they not want Daddy to live with us Mommy?" I ask.
"It's complicated honey," Mother answers. "You'll understand when your older."
"I'm seven!" I protest.
"A bit older than that sweetheart," Dad says.
"We're going to have to go Damien," Mother whispers. "I'm sorry." Dad sighs sadly and nods.
"OK Rose, come on guys, group hug," Dad smiles. We all crowd together for a group hug and hold onto each other tightly. Back then Prim and I still don't understand. We still believe that the cellar was where our Dad lived. We didn't know the truth.
Dad kisses Prim's forehead and Mother's lips. Mother stands up with Prim on her hip and says, "I love you Damien."
"I love you too Rose," he replies, a ghost of a smile crossing his face as they leave.
"Bye Daddy!" Prim calls, waving her chubby hand. "Love you!"
"Love you too baby," Dad calls back, blowing her a kiss. I sit on the dusty ground beside him and pout.
"I don't want to leave daddy," I whine, throwing my arms back over his neck and holding tight.
"I know sweetheart, I know," Dad replies, hugging me back tightly.
"I want you to live with us," I whimper.
Dad pulls away from the hug and says, "I'll always be with you Katniss, no matter where you are or what your doing. Right here." He presses his palm against my chest where my heart is and I grab his hand with my own.
"Here?" I ask.
"Yes my little song bird, right here," Dad confirms, kissing my nose. "Right here."
~xXx~
"Right here," I murmer, holding my hand against the same spot on my chest as I sit on my bed the next morning. My father was a slave, my mother's slave actually. My grandmother gave him to my mother as a sixteenth birthday present, thinking it was the best gift to ever bestow on a granddaughter (which most women do) but what she didn't count on was them falling secretly in love. It was very easy to keep their love secret-no-one was shocked when she got pregnant with me, you're expected to have at least one child to keep the population of Panem high-and the only people who ever knew about it was my parents, and eventually, Prim and I.
My dad died when I was eleven. Prim was only seven; she barely remembers him. I guess he has a vague settlement in my mind as well since he spent most of his time down in the cellar. Mother never explained the reason for his long days and nights down in the dark, dank cellar of our house until I was fifteen. In being her slave, the only reason he'd be allowed into the main part of the house would be if he was completing a task given by mother. My mother refused to ever order him about, so he spent most of his days downstairs. It was too dangerous having him upstairs doing nothing, incase someone visited or something, and that's why he housed in the cellar.
Of course when I was a child I knew about the male slaves, but I never took a moment to consider the fact that my dad was one. I mean, he was my dad. The idea of him being a slave was just ridiculous. But he was one, and that's why Prim and I barely knew him.
I guess that was my pivotal moment when I finally decided where I stood on male slavery. I loved my dad and never wanted him to leave us. But he did, he was killed for the pettiest of reasons. When I discovered he was a slave I decided that it was wrong. It was unfair. It was unjustified.
This fact causes me to feel uncomfortable around slaves because I don't understand them. Anything I don't understand is a grey area; I avoid them as much as possible because I fear the unknown. What lies behind the blank faces of those who serve us? Did they have a family? Brothers? Sisters? Parents? A life they could live if there wasn't this silly rule of dominance?
I walk down the stairs to the kitchen where I find Effie sitting at the kitchen table, talking on her mobile to someone. "I know, isn't it just wonderful?" she trills. "Hazelle finally got a little girl. I'm so happy for her! Fourth time lucky hmm?" She spots me and holds her finger up in a wait gesture. I stand by the table, unsure on whether to sit uninvited or not. "I'll be round later to see the wee bird. What's her name?" A pause. "Oh Posy! That's lovely! See you later Octavia. OK, bye. Please, sit down Katniss, make yourself at home!" I sit on the seat across from her, crossing my leg over my knee but immediately regretting it as it feels so uncomfortable but not wanting to move it since it'd look silly.
"Who was that?" I ask.
"Just a friend of mine Octavia. She was just telling me about how our friend Hazelle just had a little baby girl last night," Effie explains. "She's been cursed with three sons for so long so it's a miracle she's finally gotten a little girl."
"Is her slave the father?" I question.
"Uh-huh," Effie replies. "She's a lucky one, she has two slaves."
"Really?"
"Yes. The recepitant of the four children, and one of the boys she carried," Effie says. "She was lucky to get one of her own back as a slave, many of us never see our boys ever again, thank the heavens."
"You said she had three sons," I reply.
"Yes, but two of them are two young to be sold yet. I suppose she'll never see them two again. Luck only runs so deep when it comes to buying our slaves," Effie says. "It's very likely the other two are still in slave training."
Slave training is a compound in the main city of Panem, The Capitol, where baby boys are sent once they're born to be trained and conditioned to be the 'perfect servers.' I don't know why, but judging by the way they are treated when bought by the women, I'd say that these compounds are more like concentration camps than anything else. To me, anything we are taught at school has something deeper to it. Something they're not telling us. Like what happens behind the doors of the Slave training compound to those children. Of course, when I asked Miss. Paylor this question I was given an afterschool detention for my troubles.
"I must go see the baby!" Effie trills. "Are you alright being here on your own?"
"Yeah," I answer flatly. Home alone? Pff, no problem.
"Sure you won't be completely alone. Peeta's in the basement if you need anything," says Effie, getting up and heading for the door. She stops once through the kitchen threshold and backs up a moment. "I must apologize by the way."
I turn in my seat and frown at her. "Why?" I ask.
"I did something horrific and inexcusable last night," sighs Effie. "I rudely tended to my needs last night. I shouldn't have done so since I had a guest but I did and I'm sorry for being so rude."
"Oh . . ." I say, narrowing my eyes at her. "No problem. I was pretty much asleep by then anyway." Better lying than admitting that I heard her.
"I really should get a quieter vibrator," Effie says. "I need to get on that."
"Vibrator?" I frown. "Aren't you supposed to use a slave for that . . . sort . . . of . . . thing?"
"Normally yes," Effie answers. "But it's bad etiquette. My old slave was fine, I lived alone and didn't share him with anyone. Now you're here, it's unhygieniec for members of the same family to have intercourse with the same slave. So, for the purpose of your education, I'm using basic sex toys and saving the real stuff for you."
For me? Oh, how thoughtful! Is this what being kind is like for the women of the world? Oh no, it's alright, I'm being kind, I'll hold back and let you give your innocence away to the complete stranger you just met yesterday. Oh, really? Can I?! Urgh.
"Uh . . . thanks?" I say, not really sure on what else to say.
"Your welcome, anything to make you a better person," Effie smiles. Before she leaves I frown and call her back. "Yes dear?" she asks.
"What's a vibrator?"
"All in good time," replies Effie. On that note she leaves.
I sit on the kitchen chair dumbly, unsure of what to do. Maybe I should go outside and tour the District? I don't know, something about the idea makes me uncomfortable. District 12 is kind of small. I bet everyone knows each other here some way or another. I'd stick out like a sore thumb, unknown and strange.
A newspaper sits on the table and I pick it up and read the headline.
Update on Cresta situation
I examine the headline carefully and, wondering what the story is, I read it.
Last week Annie Cresta of 12 was reported for emotional compostion with her former slave Finnick Odair. We know you've all be patiently waiting for the update of what was going to be done about this atrocity and we're finally able to give you the news. Such a disgraceful act cannot be allowed to continue unpunished so at the end of the week Finnick will be publicy excuted for leading one of our own astray. Come along and witness the event, cheering for the right of our comendment and the right to free will of women.
My face contorts in disgust and I chuck the paper away. That poor woman. Emotional Composition is the term used for basically falling in love. It's a phrase normally spoken out with a tone of disdain and pity. I wonder how Annie is coping with somethig so horrific? Can't be well. The man is loves is being executed at the end of the week. Publicly. And they're treating it like an event of celebration.
I rub my temples and grunt. I hate this, I really do. How am I going to adjust to these ways of life? It doesn't seem like something I can do. I go out the backyard for some air. Inhaling the fresh air I lean against the house and press my hand against my forehead. The backyard isn't much, there isn't even any grass. A washing line sits in the middle of the yard, folded in on it's self. Behind that is a garden green and mustard yellow shed in the shape of the house (I think it was once a play house) and beside that is a slimmer shed covered in stones with a burgandy door. My eyes trail a wooden fence along the side of the garden-about six feet in height-and give the feeling of being trapped in a prison.
As I'm examining a black pipe running up the house my eyes catch a set of wooden doors just below the kitchen window. They're slanted downwards and obviously lead to said basement. Looking at the doors, I approach them curiously, wondering what it's like down there. If Peeta the Slave spends his time down there like my father did when he's not completing a task, what does he do? Is it dark down there? Can he see? Is it cold? Damp? Dank?
As these thoughts fly through my head I realize my hand is reaching out towards the handle on the door. I quickly retract it, wondering what the hell I was thinking. What was I about to do? Open the doors and do what? Go in? What would that accomplish?
I take a step back and hurry back into the house, slamming the back door so hard the hollow walls shake. I sigh and slide down the back door.
I want to go home.
A/N: Once again, sorry for the long wait :)
Please R&R :D