(teller of tales)
Some kind of intricate melody would be nice. Over a field…with daisies. Yes, we don't see too much of that here…bright, overlapping lights, saturation…a storyline…irony and despair. But love too, or else who'd want to live it?
"Hey! Rin!"
I am drawn out of my stupor by the sound of his voice. Hm, it's him again. Better keep painting. Somehow, I have to focus on getting this dream out of me before it consumes me.
"Rin, I know you can hear me." Caither grins and scoots himself into the seat next to me, careful not to disturb any of the brushes and paint-colours I have scattered in disarray around me. They're expensive, fine crushed minerals in the brightest of tones, thick and rich. But this is the district of luxury, and I put myself out of my guilt with the beauty of the creations I could make. Caither frowns and looks closer at my painting, brushing a light fingertip over the blurry watered-down face of one of the people in it.
"It's still not quite right," he says, adjusting his glasses and peering closer. After a bit of a pause, he speaks again, mildly. "I really just don't think this is your thing."
That's what I like about Caith-he tells you straight up when you're wrong. Although, it can be a bit infuriating to not succeed when you're trying to get this one scene out of your head, and you've had it for years, and you're surrounded by beautiful people with eccentric (but amazing) ways of communicating all, if any, of the mixed-up broken emotions they have.
Caith's frown lessens, and he grins again, smudging the wet paint slightly. Now her face is a blur and I have no idea who she is. She could be anyone. She could be my opposite, with her swarthier skin and dark hair.
Caither's apparently thinking the same thing.
"Now, it is artsy," he says pretentiously in a mock-Capitol accent, which is sad because it's only a little bit more affected than our own. "She represents the spirit of Panem. All free and stuff."
Like most things he says, this is meant to be ironic. The girl in my picture is shivering, skinny, crouched under a mass of rocks. There's a shadow by her, possibly, in Caith's interpretation, representing Fear or Hunger or Angst (or something else deep). Though, for me, I guess it sort of represents the shadow of the Capitol over everyone else.
Again, this is a little biased. Caith and I are lucky enough to live in a district with warmth-filled, largely expensive houses, three-course meals for dinner, and electricity in every home. Sometimes to get away from all the overdone, melodramatic acting or dancing or whatever else is going on, me and Caith go and watch the sun set in the last quiet part of District 1, and we talk until the last shimmers of sunlight fade out of the jewel-toned city buildings. Sometimes we imagine that that on that hill we can look over the span of eleven districts and into District 12, and, bellies full from clam chowder and rolls and spinach with raspberries and sparkling wine, we wonder if they're doing okay over there.
"Hey. Hey, Rin," Caither says now, studying my painting in a new light. There's a gleam to his eyes that seems almost a little too enthusiastic and bordering on fanatical. Oh, no. I hate this look he gets. Last time this happened, we broke every last glass piece in the glassblower's gallery, not to mention accidentally setting the place on fire with the kiln. "You know about that thing I have tonight, right?"
That "thing", no matter how casually he puts it, is a big deal for him and his family. He's an artist, like most of us in District 1, but he plays flute, which is kind of unheard of. It's a long-forgotten instrument from the Dark Days: apparently it was used to communicate messages or something, but personally I believe that's a lot of Capitol-inspired nonsense. Anyway, as Caith's flair for the dangerous goes, this one's pretty tame.
"We're sort of in need of a video person for it. I'm playing in the square…it'll be quiet, and poetic, and if you come help me out I swear I'll bake you cookies." Mm, fresh, hand-made cookies. Pathetically, that makes my stomach grumble. I look at him, with his bright carefree smile and flush against his face and just this generic image of him being happy, and I can't say no. Had I said it, things might be different.
And of course I loved him at the time. This is District 1, remember, we live out our comfortable lives and only very rarely take notice of those around us. I wish I had taken more notice of him, that day, under a bright dusk summer's day and so vibrantly there. Because that was the last time I saw him alive and out of danger, and I regret it so much, my silly lovely impulse to tell tales.