Smell of Meat, Taste of Blood [Open]
Jan 16, 2012 16:49:49 GMT -5
Post by rook on Jan 16, 2012 16:49:49 GMT -5
Jude Langmead
It's becoming increasingly apparent to me that I am not a Winter person. It's too cold to do anything as precise as rewiring the circuit box in a Capitol Hovercraft. It's hard enough to get feeling in my fingers during the active months, let alone in the Winter. Yet complaining is going to get me nowhere.
As I stand... Well, crouch by the old Hovercraft, I try to strip the red wire with a seemingly ancient pair of wire-strippers. The metal is rusty and the plastic handle is uncomfortable to hold. After trying numerous times to expose the copper wire from within, I finally get some success. I sigh at this, my breath forming a clear cloud in front of my face. Now I must begin the process of welding the two wires together to re-link the circuit.
The Capitol sends old, decommissioned Hovercrafts to us, to repair. Once fixed, they are usually used for patrols in poorer districts, or even simple work in the Capitol. They pay us, we eat. That's all I care about. I grab the welder, which is a small blowtorch instrument, attached to a canister of gas, no bigger than my arm.
No sooner have I lifted the tool when I know the canister is empty. Swearing viciously, I half-heartily kick a spanner. There is nothing I can do. Clearly I'll have to order some more gas, which is hard in Winter, gas is in high demand. I could tell my Father, but that would only add to his anxiety. He has enough on his hands with trying to get more Hovercrafts in. This is a hard time of the year for all of us, we have to hope the Capitol machines get Engine Freeze or something. Deciding there is little I can do in the workshop, I grab my gloves and hat, before heading outside.
Snow falls gently on the earth of District Six. There is already a thick layer from last night, yet there is still more to come. I rub my hands together, the fabric of my gloves prevents me from getting the desired effect of friction. I head down the path into the cobbled stone street. The crunch of snow under my boots is the only audible sound. That and the faint wail of a child.
Now I'm hungry, and my feet lead me towards the market. I have no money, and I'm not the type to steal, yet I find some comfort in being around food. I'd rather know it exists than have daydreams about it. Besides, it gives me something to do other than sit around the workshop waiting for someone to dismiss me. Lord knows what Ol' Pike would do if he caught me out of the workshop mid-shift, but for some reason, I don't care. He usually doses at around eleven, before waking at noon-ish, so this gives me an hour's escape.
The smell of meat entices me, draws me in like a moth to a flame. I have to be careful not to get burned. I find myself staring at the Butchers, knowing full-well that our family could never afford quality meat from there. We get by on scraps from those who hunt, or from small agricultural families who raise Groose or Hens. Other than that, we stick to broths and soups. It's simple, but it keeps the six of us going.
I walk past the butcher's, still staring. Heaven forbid, I'm not looking where I'm going. I turn, twist and slip on the ice. The solid ground rushes up from behind me, smacking the rear of my head and my back. The wind escapes me in a few seconds, before I lie there with a distinctive groan. I raise my hand to the back of my head; a warm sticky liquid is now on my fingers. I taste blood in my mouth. This should be fun to explain to Pike.
))
