The revolution is not an apple that falls when it is ripe. You have to make it fall.
- Che Guevara
Nerissa Doppler
18. District Three.
District Three was, to Nerissa Doppler, a frustratingly boring place to be born. The district held a large middle-class population, although it wasn't lacking in its impoverished, but, despite it, a sullen mood seemed to emanate from it. It was as if all anyone had the capacity to do was work, eat and sleep with no hope or imagination for what life could be. However, as with all bad things, it had its exceptions, and tonight was one of them. The District Centre was afire with the lights proudly built by its engineers, and music blared from place to place, intending to entice.
Nerissa's silk, blood-red dress hugged tightly to her figure. She had spent hours honing her appearance, choosing every detail meticulously from the eyeliner that circled her emerald green eyes to the dark stilettos that rose her above her typical 5 '5 stature.
Her smile was bright and welcoming as she ushered people into the grand hall, greeting them with a 'good evening' and a 'it's so great to see you'. As she shook the hand of a pompous man with tall, sky blue hair, it dawned on her once more that they were all here for her. She'd known that all along, of course, but the hundreds that crowded the auditorium meant it was a tough pill to swallow.
Only very few mattered to Nerissa, though. This showcasing wasn't for District 3 or the self-important ruling classes that strided through the door, their heads raised high with an illusion of pride. Her film was intended for only one audience, the Capitol, and she knew the producers who saw it tonight would be sure to pick it up because if there was one thing Nerissa could be certain of, it was that she had a talent that deserved to be shared with the very best of Panem.
"Ms Doppler." A voice sounded in her ear, high-pitched and screechy.
"Yes?" She replied, pressing the earpiece.
"We're ready to begin."
That was all she needed to hear. She was smiles and waves as she detached herself from the entrance of the auditorium. They complimented her dress as she passed, people who had likely never heard her name until now, and congratulated her on the success of her premiere. Nerissa couldn't help but snort as one man labelled it a 'privilege' to be joined by so many of the District Three 'elite'.
What a sad, sad district. Their elite likely don't even compare to the working classes of the Capitol. It's embarrassing, really.
She recognised that she was among the citizens of District Three, at least legally, but she had never resonated with the focus placed on academics, and her true home was the Capitol. That was where her parents had once resided, at least.
"There you are!" A girl squeals as she walks through the curtains backstage. She hadn't bothered to learn the girl's name, but she had been assigned as her assistant for tonight's event, and Nerissa was happy to allow her the pleasure of working under her.
"Here I am!" Nerissa returned, her smile as dazzling as always.
Through the backstage speakers, a voice began to boom. "Thank you all for coming tonight!" The roar of the crowd behind the curtains quickened the beat of her heart. She wanted that noise to play in her mind forever, the incessant shouts of a following that she had created. People who admired her and her work. It was all she had ever wanted, and, in that moment, she was content to take it all in. "Without further ado, Nerissa Droppler, everybody!"
Her assistant squealed from beside her. "Oh my, you're going to miss your cue!" She began to push gently at Nerissa's back, ushering her to the stage.
Nerissa walked with surety as the bright lights of the auditorium lit her up to be the star that she was born to be. Her brilliant white teeth flashed at the crowd, and her wave was gracious as her eyes connected with as many as possible. She wanted them to remember her, and she wanted them to think she remembered them.
"Hello, everybody!" She said, her voice amplified through the microphone. The crowd clapped their hands together. (Was it truly that easy to work a crowd?) "I'm so grateful to have you all here today for the premiere of my short movie 'Rose'." The sound was thunderous as people stood from their seats, hollering and whistling. Her smile only grew, stretching her plump lips thin as they touched her cheekbones. "Without further ado, let's begin."
The giant screen that hung from the ceiling flickered on, and Nerissa was quick to rush to her seat. The first shot was very simple, really, but she knew the audience had already been drawn in by the way they leaned forward in their seats. A stem of green shot up from the dirt of the image and, quickly, began to curl. She had taken the shot over months, analysing the life of a rose with fervent curiosity. What the story was truly about, though, lay in the third act of the film. The rose began to wilt, its blood-red petals turning a sullen brown as they drooped. It continued until the rose died, having been alone its entire life with only a camera to accompany it to death. She found that most fascinating of all, the way something (or someone) could die without any fulfilment.
What was the point? She often thought, and that's truly what her film was about: finding that point. To Nerissa, death was not an end but a story in and of itself. To die was to have lived, and her film presented the eerie truth that some stories were greater than others. And some deaths were more enthralling of a story than a simple rose, that left her unsatisfied, squirming in her seat as the film came to an end.
Yet, the burst of applause pulled her from her sulk and back into her life of stardom.
…
The film had been a success in District Three. In District Three.
She scoffed at the thought. Who cared what those fools thought about her film? They didn't know a damn thing about her genius. It was the Capitol that she wanted her film to be played in. And it had, for a week or so before she'd faded into oblivion with the rest of the one-hit wonders of the industry. If there was another thing she was sure of, it was that Nerissa Doppler was not born to be a one-hit wonder. She deserved her name plastered over every billboard in the Capitol, not sitting in some history book about television twenty years earlier.
Her hands reached for the television remote that sat on her desk, its touch glossy and smooth on her skin. She popped open the back with a click and began to create a story. That always calmed her down, and damn it, she needed a distraction right now. She cut around the back of the remote with a knife, savouring the feeling of it cutting through the dark plastic. The circuit board popped out as she clawed at it; she had no patience for being gentle. Sometimes death wasn't eerie or mysterious; sometimes it was plain violence. She snapped the green rectangle in half, her heart beating as she did, then she began to pull. A resistor, a capacitor, an inductor. It didn't matter. She plucked them from the circuit and threw them to the ground.
When she was done, she turned the remote back around and pushed the ON/OFF button. The TV that hung from the far wall of her bedroom did not flicker. She savoured that moment, knowing she had killed something, but the thrill fled from her quickly. It wasn't how it used to be. Her heart used to beat faster than this; the story used to be more thrilling.
That was it, wasn't it? A remote. A rose. Even a rat. They were all child's toys. The stories of their deaths were unsettling, sure, but nothing more than that. Her audience would think about it for a moment, possibly a day, and then it would leave their mind like what they had for dinner or the weather of the day. She wanted her films, her stories, to grip people and never leave them, and if she wanted to do that, then she would have to go one step further.
Her mind, as it always seemed to, returned to the idea that she had held onto for the last three years.
Her vision of the perfect movie. Not just unsettling but horrifying, raw, and unforgettable. Nerissa had killed animals and machines, but she had never gone so far as to kill a human. It wasn't that she was afraid; it was that she was lacking a stage. What was the point of death if you could not share the story of it with an audience? She didn't want to kill for the sake of it; that was stupid, but rather to finally have her big moment.
Nerissa sat at her desk, took out a pen, and began to write.
…
Two weeks later, she woke to a knocking at her door.
Her vision was black and fuzzy, despite her opening her eyes, and her heart skipped a beat – had she died or gone blind? Then, she remembered that she had not ended the day with her head pressed against her pillow. She lifted up from where she lay against her desk, a large sheet of paper acting as her pillow.
The knock came again.
"Come in!" She said, accompanied by a yawn and a rub at her eyes.
I must look like a mess. She recalled that she hadn't fallen asleep until the early hours of this morning and shook her head at herself.
Her door opened with a click, and her mother entered with a tooth-filled smile. Nerissa had to stop herself from rolling her eyes (did she always have to be such a bother?), instead choosing to match her mother's smile. "Good morning, darling!" She looked Nerissa up and down, taking in her appearance. "Don't tell me you fell asleep on that desk again." She sighed, her hand rubbing itself against her temple.
"Sorry."
"Still working on your movie?" She asked, those all-knowing eyes staring Nerissa down. She could lie to her mother if she wished to; it's not like she would be able to tell, but Nerissa was never one to be shy about her talent.
"Yeah." She said, making sure to cover the paper as her mother peered over. She didn't need her plan to be ruined by her mother of all people.
"I do wish you would try something else." She said, cocking her head to the side with those puppy dog eyes. Her mother had never been able to accept her ambitions, not after her husband, Nerissa's father, ruined their family name in the Capitol with his own movie. Nerissa had once thought her parents would find solace in her building up the family name to the glory it was intended for with her art, but they had chosen the cowardly response by pretending their past did not exist instead.
"Sorry, Mom, why are you here?" She snapped as her mother continued to hover. Her mother's eyes widened slightly. It was rare that Nerissa let her temper get the better of her, but there were times when her sweet persona got so tiresome.
Her mom's smile grew strained. "Sorry, darling. I just wanted to let you know that I picked up a Reaping Day dress for you when I went shopping. It's downstairs…"
But Nerissa wasn't listening anymore because it hit her just then.
Reaping Day. The greatest stage in all of Panem. For weeks she had been trying to decide a setting for her newest film, and this had to be it.
She was quick to shoo her mother out of her room after that, thanking her for the dress, so she could return to her work. As her imagination came to life, a plan began to form in her mind. And it began with volunteering for the Hunger Games.
Ferral Thronsden
18. District Four.
His daggers whipped through the air with unbridled focus. Ferral had never been the strongest, nor the smartest, but he had always been the quickest. Years of endless practice had ensured that his blade was unwavering as it sliced toward his sparring partner.
The other trainee bounced back, stumbling slightly as he did, and Ferral snatched the advantage. He dominated the rest of the fight, using both daggers to parry any attack his partner managed. The rest of the time, he was striking with a fierce focus – like a cobra snapping at its prey.
When Ferral fought, he did so with no care for his opponent. His fist swung, dagger still gripped in his palm, and landed across the cheek of the other boy. He yelped, and Ferral had to hold back a laugh. He could end the fight here and now if he wanted to, but where was the fun in that? He'd much prefer to have some fun first.
The boy tried for a swipe, but it was slow, his energy having been drained by the fight. Ferral stepped back to dodge it, as if he hadn't a care in the world. He grinned at his partner, tilting his head to the side with a smirk. "Not so quick now, are we?"
He growled, and Ferral chuckled, preparing for his next trick. Then, he caught Malik's eye. His trainer shook his head with a disapproving glare, earning an eye roll from Ferral. "Let's finish this, then." He muttered, backing away into his fighting stance.
I'll let him come to me and give him one final shot at making a hit.
As was often the case, Ferral was much too quick for his opponent, and, just like that, he slammed the hilt of his dagger into the boy's resistant vest and knocked him to the floor. He looked back to Malik and found that familiar sparkle in his trainer's eyes. He allowed himself a moment of celebration (and Ferral Thronsden pulled it off again!) before Malik's words entered his head.
Humility, Ferral. Your opponents need not be your enemies.
With a huff, he outstretched his hand to the panting boy; he was sprawled out on the gymnasium floor with his tanned skin drenched in sweat. He almost made a quip about giving him a workout but shoved it down for Mailk's sake. Once the boy gripped onto him, he pulled him up and gave him a reassuring pat on the back. Sure, he liked to have a little fun when fighting, but he wasn't a total ass. Besides, it wasn't like this was an unexpected victory; Ferral had been predicted to make the final of the combat round for weeks, and this win had cemented that. In truth, he hadn't even bothered to learn the boy's name, and he would never need to now. Just like that, his hopes of being a volunteer had been stripped from him.
Others might have felt guilty, but he knew how much work he had put in, so what was the use in that?
Malik ruffled his bush of ginger hair with a grin on his face.
"Fuck off!" Ferral said, shoving him away, but he couldn't help but match that grin. The two of them had been up since 3 in the morning, perfecting everything for this fight, and now it had paid off. Here he was, one round away from victory. "Told you I'd get here."
"Never doubted you, kid."
If anyone else had told him that, he would've grimaced, but for once, Ferral believed it to be true. Malik had believed in him when the whole world seemed to turn their back on him, and for that, he would be forever grateful.
"Just one fight left –"
"Hey!"
Ferral spun around. "Speak of the fucking devil." He sighed, and he meant it quite literally. Dylan O'Connely was to Ferral, in many ways, the bane of all evil. While it was Ferral who had been predicted to win the semi-final round, it was Dylan who people had placed their bets on for this year's volunteer. He told himself that he was fine with that – that he would just have to prove everybody wrong – but in truth it reinforced the fact that nobody truly had his back. He learnt that lesson a long time ago.
"Couldn't finish a fight against Jason Fisher in less than two minutes?" Dylan chuckled, and Ferral scrunched up his face.
"Brilliant observation, Dylan! Maybe next time you could time it with a stopwatch and give me a detailed report? Only, that would be completely pointless seeing as I dominated that fight." Mocking has always been his go-to defence. When you couldn't use your fists, a few words could beat someone down just as hard.
"Oh, yeah? Well, we'll see who dominates tomorrow." He sneered, baring his dazzling pearls of teeth. He knew what the odds were; people would take one look at Dylan and make an immediate assumption. His waves of blonde hair, the muscles stretching through his T-shirt and the way he towered over him – Ferral was actually quite tall, but damn, did Dylan make him feel the total opposite.
"I suppose we will."
Dylan spun on his heel, marching out of the gymnasium with his posse at his back. Ferral rolled his eyes, turning back to Malik, who kept his eyes trained on Dylan until the gymnasium door shut behind him.
"You better beat his ass."
"Oh, I will."
The two outcasts shared a crooked grin, with mischief on their mind.
…
His skin was bright red and drenched in sweat, his fire of hair flat and damp. It felt like they had been fighting for hours, Ferral with his daggers and Dylan with his longsword, but it couldn't have been more than 10 minutes. Still, Ferral had been beaten down. He blamed it on bad luck, mostly to keep his head in the fight, but in many ways Dylan was able to best him.
Brute strength for one. Ferral stumbled back as Dylan threw his parry back with his longsword, twisting his wrist as he did. He cried out in pain and bit his lip.
Focus, Ferral, goddamn it!
It was more than simply the volunteer spot; it was about everything Dylan had represented for the last 6 years of his life. His paranoia, his distrust, his loneliness. As his opponent approached, his broad shoulders and towering stature took Ferral back to a day he had tried to forget. He had only been trying to do what was right; Dylan had been picking on some defenceless kid, and what was the good in that? Everyone was equal in Ferral's eyes, and so he was forced to say something. The day had ended in expulsion and begun his isolation.
But even though he had been unjustly punished for it, he had stood up to Dylan that day, and fuck, did he want to do it again. As his opponent approached one more time, slicing through the air with his blade, Ferral channelled the courage he had felt that day to stand up to a boy who seemed worlds above him, and this time, he knew, the consequences would be much more favourable.
Dylan's sword flew above his head, then crashed down toward Ferral. His instincts worked quicker than his mind, and he held out his blades to protect him, steel clashing on steel as he pushed back against the attack. It took everything in him to keep the sword from smashing into his head; his arms shook violently with the pressure. But he was fast; Malik had told him that would always be his strength, and so he, without warning, let go of the daggers and dived. He wrapped his arms tightly around the other boy's waist and threw them both to the biting gymnasium floor.
Dylan's sword clashed to the ground, flying out of reach.
Good. He had been counting on that.
He savoured the first punch, his fist shooting into the other boy's nose with a devastating crack. It took him back to that day, years ago, when the people who stood around him now, cheering for him, betrayed him in favour of their golden boy. It made his blood boil, and with every punch, he felt as if he was taking back his life, little by little.
By the time Dylan yielded, his features were unrecognisable. His large blue eyes, straight and narrow nose and perfect cheekbones had turned to a bloody pulp. As Ferral stood, his opponent groaned, his breathing heavy.
If it had been anyone else, perhaps Ferral would've felt guilt. But as he stood over Dylan, he knew his actions had been just. An eye for an eye. Yet, Dylan would never get that chance for retribution. After all, Ferral would soon be a victor, and nothing could hold him back then.
…
His fist wavered as it reached for the white oak door. A thousand thoughts crowded into his head. His heart began to race.
Would they want to see him? Did he want to see them?
He supposed the fact that he had shown up at his old house had confirmed the latter. It had always seemed empty to him (haunted, in a way), but today more than ever. The blinds were shut and the lawn overgrown; his parents had never been ones to take pride in their home. They spent much more time on the ocean, but the home seemed hardly recognisable from his childhood.
Back before he knew the truth of the world.
He took a shaky breath in. And then he knocked. Three quick raps. His palms grew sweaty, and he bounced back and forth on his feet.
Was that somebody's footsteps? The click of the door unlocking?
It took him five minutes to accept that they weren't coming. Whether nobody was home or whether they didn't care enough to see him, he did not know. He backed away from the house, his limbs dragging, and walked as quickly as he could out of the neighbourhood. In hindsight, he didn't know why he had come; it had been stupid to hold onto that hope.
Besides, he had promised to stop caring about what his parents thought of him a long time ago. When he put his feelings on the line, this was what happened. He got hurt. And Ferral was so fucking sick of people letting him down.
Malik found him on the beach. He had been watching his feet sink into the sand; the waves crashing against the shore served to drown out his thoughts.
"I take it that didn't go very well?" The gruff man asked, kneeling on the white sand beside him.
"Nothing more than I should've expected." He said, not allowing any emotion to take over his voice. He would not go down this path again. He had Malik now, and that was all he needed. "How did your parents react when you told them you were volunteering?"
Malik huffed. "They laughed at me."
Ferral's toothy grin returned, looking up at his trainer. "You're serious?"
"Deadly."
He laughed. "'Least yours reacted."
He grunted in return. "You'll have more attention than ever in just a few months. By the time you come home, you won't even give your parents a second thought."
Ferral imagined the crowds of the Capitol cheering for him, his district applauding his return. It was enough to fill the void, for now at least, and he held onto that vision. "I'm so ready for that, Malik, more than you know."
"I know. But it's not going to be easy, believe me. There's a difference between slashing the throat of a dummy and that of a child."
"But they die either way, right? I plan to give them a quick death, a merciful one." Ferral sighed; he had thought long and hard about this. He wasn't prepared to give up his pride of defending the defenceless so easily. "There's duty in that, I think, at least."
"There is." He shrugged. "But you won't know until it happens. I just want you to be ready for that."
"I am."
And he was. The Hunger Games had dominated every aspect of Ferral Thronsden's life for the past 6 years; he had never fought for something so hard. He knew he couldn't stop until he had seen it, though, and he wouldn't. Ferral had to leave the arena as a victor; otherwise, he would be leaving as nothing at all.
Sailie Montefuego
16. District Five.
The citizens of District Five had become quickly accustomed to the hypnotic hum of the city. After all, the power plants that surrounded them laboured without pause. Sailie tended to tune into that hum when the world seemed so loud. If those around her paid attention, they might wonder why a young girl was sitting in the corner of a bar at ten minutes past midnight, her dark pit of eyes peering from beneath her hooded cloak.
Yet, the patrons were too focused on their own lives, and Sailie supposed she couldn't fault them for that. The working class of Five toiled late hours, and the bars came alive at night with citizens looking to drown their despair in a glass of, well, whatever the bar had been able to cook up the night before. There wasn't much choice in Five, and people quickly grew familiar with being let down.
Sailie wasn't here tonight for those same reasons, though. In fact, her reason had just entered the bar. Her dark, green eyes were wide and timid as the door shut with a slam behind her. Sailie half-expected her to turn around and leave, watching her fidget with her hands as she looked around at the liveliness around her. Then, they locked eyes. Finch tucked a strand of auburn hair behind her ear and met Sailie with a shy smile.
"Hi, Finch." She smiled, pulling down her hood to reveal her waves of dark hair. "Please, take a seat." She pulled out a chair opposite her, leaning over the round table.
"Hey, Sailie." She replied, taking the seat. "How are things?"
"Oh, you know…" Her chuckle was soft. "Are you going to get a drink?"
Finch's lips twitched. "I'm sorry, Sailie…"
"You didn't do it?" She pouted slightly, her deep pupils seeming to grow bigger as her eyes widened with pity. "Oh, Finch… We talked about this." She lightly brushed her fingers across the hand of her friend. It was instinctual, really; she only meant it as a comfort.
"Things are tight at the moment, and…" She looked down. "Well, he's my dad; I don't want to steal from him."
It hurt Sailie to hear her friend in such distress, so much so that her chest grew tight. She breathed in deeply through her nose. "I know, sweetheart, but you deserve nice things too. You know that. We both know that."
"I know." She nodded with a sniff. "But I can do without a drink today, you know?"
Life had treated Finch poorly. While Sailie had climbed out of the impoverished streets of Five that sat beside its power stations, Finch had been left behind. And Sailie regretted that. She wished she could've taken her friend to her new life, so now she did what she could in order to help her. After all, that's what Sailie did. Sometimes, she wondered if it was all she knew how to do.
"This one's on me." She smiled, squeezing her friend's frigid hand against the warmth of her own. "You can't have a night out without having a drink."
"Oh, Sailie, you mustn't!"
"Don't be silly, Finch."
"Oh god, that's only going to make me feel more guilty." Finch sighed, and Sailie fought back a smile. Perhaps next time her friend would slip that cash from her father, taking what she rightly deserved. But Sailie knew she couldn't push it; guidance was key.
"Well, don't!" She grabbed her friend by the arm and made her way over to the bar, her stretched out smile never leaving her face. "It makes me happy to make you happy. Truly." Finch's eyes glazed over slightly at that.
"Oh, Sailie, you're too good to me."
That's all she ever wanted to hear. That she was doing good for somebody, that she was being a good friend because, oh, how often she doubted that. Her hand reached instinctively down to her cloak pocket. The pictures sat there, a constant reminder of all that she had lost.
"What will it be for you ladies?"
She turned to Finch. "What will it be?"
"Just your liquor of the day, please." She blushed.
Once the money had been exchanged, Sailie digging around in her pocket to find a few coins, and the drink served, the girls found their way back to their table in the darkest corner of the bar. The Peacekeepers would turn a blind eye to underage drinking, so long as they did their best to not make it obvious. Either way, Sailie was good at blending in.
The two friends spent the rest of the night at that table. Each taking sips from Finch's glass (she had insisted that Sailie share the liquor) and laughing about their times at school together. Sailie did her best to guide the conversation back to Finch's underappreciation for herself; she wanted so very badly for her friend to see how much she truly deserved, but, again, she knew she couldn't push it.
Because when Sailie pushed too hard, that was when things went wrong. And oh, how painful it would be to have to leave Finch. She vowed to herself that this time she wouldn't disappear; she couldn't. Finch needed her, and she wouldn't turn her back on her, this time would be different. It had to be.
…
The seat at the far end of the dining table had not always been hers. Once, the chair had simply been a hope of the family that Trenton and Bonnie Kite had sought to create. Then, Sailie had come to the door one day, and the next day, the chair had been hers.
"How was your night?" Her mother asked, sliding a plate of buttered toast and eggs in front of her. Sailie had quickly picked up the ways of eating in her new world, the knife in her right hand and the fork in her left. She cut small bites of toast and eggs, easily enough to chew without making too loud of a sound.
"It was good." Her head was still pounding from the liquor that she and Finch had shared into the late hours of the night. She was satisfied with the way the night had ended, her friend promising that she would follow her advice more often.
"And what did you get up to?" Her adoptive parents shared a pristine image. Their skin clear, their hair soft and, in her father's case, styled with gel. They were the picture of the middle class that was an entire world away from Sailie's childhood.
She cleared her throat with a glass of water. "Just with a friend."
Her father nodded. She had found that her parents didn't care to know where she was or, for that matter, who she was with, so long as their daughter mirrored their outgoing style, they were happy for her to retain her independence. She was grateful to them for that because, while Sailie had grown a love for her parents, there were things about her that she was not prepared to share. Nor was she likely to ever be ready to share them.
In her mind, keeping her problems to herself was the best way to deal with them. After all, she could handle them, and she would never wish to place that burden on somebody else. No, Finch came to Sailie with her problems, not the other way around, because Sailie knew how to navigate life and Finch did not.
"Could I be excused?" She asked once her meal was finished. Her mother gave her a nod of approval, and she thanked her for breakfast before rushing up the stairs to prepare for school.
Once in her bedroom, she grabbed her cloak from where it hung on her door and swept it over her. She often felt naked without the fine wool to cover her. Instinctively, she reached down to the pocket of her cloak. They were still there, her pictures, and she let out a sigh of relief as she traced her finger across them. She wouldn't go anywhere without those pictures, as they were a reminder. A reminder that she needed.
…
Once the sun fell, Sailie pulled on her knee-high, black combat boots and stepped out into the desolate streets of Five. She had nowhere to be tonight; she might end up in a pub, and she might not, but, for now, she was content with her cloak flapping in the biting night's wind. She had never minded the cold, Papa had often told her she was cold-blooded. The thought of him caught her breath and she shoved it down.
She followed the road for a couple of hours, tuning into the hum of the power stations as she passed by the gates that surrounded them. No trespassing. They read, but Sailie had often climbed over them when in need of an adventure. Not today, though; today she was content with walking along the outskirts, which were also fenced off, and listening intently to the babble of the animals in the woods beyond them. Then came her crows. They swept through the night sky so elegantly with their black feather wings beating rhythmically in the air, releasing a series of loud caws as they glided just above her head.
She couldn't help her soft chuckle as she watched them. Like her, the crows liked to keep to themselves. She wished too that she could fly, as they did, and the wind against her cloak mimicked that of their wings, as if she could get away from anything if she tried. She knew the feeling, too, of soaring away to who knew where with only her cloak and her pictures. So, perhaps, in some ways, Sailie knew what it was to fly as her crows did.
Her hand reached for the pocket of her cloak. This time, she pulled a picture out. She could hardly make out the photo of Papa in the dark, but the outline of him seated in his rocking chair was enough to bring back the memories of him. His dark hair turning grey with age, the beard that he would never let her trim and his soothing voice which meant she never questioned his love for her. But he had been sick, and, naturally, Sailie had wanted to help him.
Take another pill, Papa. Here, take two. A third?
The pills had taken away the man she knew and replaced him with one she did not. She no longer needed to ask to trim his beard as his hair fell out within the year and his soothing voice turned raspy. He couldn't even lift himself out of his chair anymore to pull her into one of his bear hugs. That told her all she needed to know. That she had pushed too hard, that she had destroyed her father by trying to help him. And so she had to leave.
But that hadn't been the last time.
It was like a cliff and a snake; Sailie would push and push to get them as far away from the snake as possible, but as they edged closer to the edge, they were soon hanging on by an inch of their feet. It was then that she would leave (because that was the right thing to do, wasn't it?) and whether they fell because of her or they caught the side of the cliff and pulled themselves back up, Sailie did not know. She supposed she never would know, in the case of her father, and she had to be content with that. Either way, it would be too painful of a truth for her.
She collapsed into the grass, her cloak sprawling around her in a pool of black. She wouldn't be going back to her bed tonight. In fact, she rarely did get a full night's sleep these days. After all, why waste the night when it was the only time she could get some peace and quiet?
A/N: Our second set of intros. These tributes are all very fun in their own right, although completely different!
I'd like to apologise for the delay on this chapter, I'm in my last year of school for the next 2-3 months so things will be slow but as soon as I graduate the pace of this story should quicken. As for submissions, if you have a reservation I'm asking for you to try and get it in by the end of April!
Thank you to Para (Paradigm of Writing) for Nerissa, Astral (AstralKnight98) for Ferral and Pipes (ClearedPipes) for Sailie!