As the sun dips low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the sprawling fields of the cattle farm, Marisol trudges wearily through the gate, her schoolbag slung over her shoulder. She makes her way towards the nearest cluster of cattle, their gentle lowing filling the air as they lazily roam the pasture. When she was a child, her mother let her and Matteo name the cows whenever the new herd would be born. Marisol stopped once she got a little older and realized what was being done to them.
The familiar scent of hay and earth envelops her, mingling with the cool evening breeze. With practiced ease, she unlatches the gate to the pen and step inside, the wet grass yielding beneath her boots.
The cows watch her with calm curiosity as she moves among them, her hands caressing their warm, rough hides. Each one carried the signs of a day's layabout - dusty coats and weary eyes. While she tends to the water troughs and refilled the feed bins, her thoughts wander back to the lessons of the day at school. The monotonous drone of the teacher's voice, the scrape of chalk on the blackboard - all felt distant now, replaced by the comforting cadence of life at home. Even though it's been well over a decade since the end of the rebellion, the Capitol is insistent on never letting the districts forget. Weekly, Marisol and her classmates are reminded of the war ravaged on the Capitol, and the cost of such insurgence. The Hunger Games. Fourteen years, and District 10 has had one person come home. She comes to the school occasionally, gives speeches on what it's like to be in the games. The thirteenth games was the first in a brand new stadium, where the Capitol watched live from the stands. The tributes were left to fight it out in a sandy field dotted with boulders.
Marisol's family were cattle ranchers, even before the war. Where families were forced into second and third jobs to keep up with the quota, the Baines retained their talents where they began. Even amidst the hurdles her parents faced fifteen years ago, there was a profound sense of pride in belonging to a family whose very existence intertwined with the land. They were custodians of these fields, guardians of these animals, a collective purpose that soared above the war. One day, Marisol and her brother would take over when their parents' backs became too hunched.
Having completed the evening tasks and ensured the cattle were comfortable, Marisol rested against the sturdy wooden fence. Observing the sky ablaze with the final moments of daylight, hues of gold and crimson casting a mesmerizing blanket, she found herself enveloped in the serene beauty of the countryside. In that tranquil moment, it was as though the weight of the day had been gently lifted from my weary shoulders.
Tomorrow promised fresh hurdles, though. Brand spankin' new burdens to bare. Casting one last look over the peaceful scene of the grazing cattle, Marisol pivoted and headed homeward, toward the gentle glow of lamplight emanating from the farmhouse.
Entering its welcoming embrace, the familiar scents of her mother's cooking surrounded Marisol like a comforting hug - the rich aroma of hearty Birria bubbling on the stove, the warm fragrance of freshly baked bread. At the kitchen stove she stood, attention focused on the simmering pot, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Is everything okay, Mami?" Marisol inquired softly, her words barely audible. Her mother pivoted to face her, her dark eyes clouded with concern, yet she mustered a faint smile.
"Everything's alright," she assured her daughter, though her voice carried a hint of weariness. "Just... weary from today."
Marisol offered a nod in response, aware that there was something deeper to her words. Her parents had turned their once-happy home into a battleground of strained silences. The walls are thin, and the whispered arguments have been more frequent than ever.
Marisol's father, occupied the kitchen table, his attention seemingly absorbed by the weathered pages of a newspaper, yet she sensed his thoughts were elsewhere. The tension between them was palpable, and Marisol fought the urge to sigh.
"Marisol," he said gruffly, "How was school today?"
She shrugged, unsure of how to respond. "It was... alright," She offered, though the lie tasted bitter on her tongue. Like the headache medicine her mother used to buy. School had gradually morphed into a sanctuary of sorts, a haven where she could momentarily evade the strain pushing down on her whenever she was home. She couldn't very well tell her father that, though.
Matteo entered the kitchen then, his brow furrowed in concern as he glanced between their parents. "What's going on?" he asked, his voice low. He sounded anxious and tight, like he was afraid of breaking the thinly veiled truce currently at play.
Their mother sighed, her shoulders slumping with exhaustion. "Nothing, mi amor," she said, though her words lacked conviction. "Just... trying to make dinner."
As the Baines congregate around the table, the tension between them seems to hang heavy in the air, thick and suffocating. Casting a glance at Matteo, Marisol noticed the tight set of his jaw.
As their mother dishes out bowls of piping hot stew and slices of hearty bread, the uncomfortable silence is punctuated solely by the soft clinks of utensils against plates. Marisol risks furtive glances at her parents, noting the lines of fatigue etched onto their faces. She isn't sure what got them to the point they are now, but with the reaping looming so closely, they should have more perspective around the current state of their home. Matteo aged out last year, but this year is Marisol's second last. She's got quite the amount of tesserae in the bowl, and she's already screwed being on the older end of the pen. The least they could do is hang on until she's safe.
As they conclude their meal in silence, Marisol extends her hand across the table when her father leaves, grasping her mother's with a gentle squeeze. She meets her gaze, eyes shimmering with unshed tears, and in that fleeting instant, it felt as though a burden had been momentarily lifted from Marisol's weary shoulders. Maybe everything would be okay.
"We'll make it through this, Mami," Marisol murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. In that tranquil moment, surrounded by the comforting ambiance of the farmhouse, she harbors the certainty that regardless of the rocky roads ahead, she could plow over it.