{Oh} mirror in the sky what is love? | Chaos

[Meeka]

Kaya Lentach

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- - -
Took this love and I took it down
Climbed a mountain and I turned around[/center][/size]

It is cold out today. But I always prefer it when it is cold, at least then I have an excuse to hide the hair that the other children constantly tease me about. There is nothing particularly beautiful about the snow... not in the same way that it is described in the few tattered children's books I own.

In those books the children rejoice at the first sight of snow, excited at the very thought of snowball fights, of creating fresh tracks in the untouched snow. I've learned that snow is not beautiful. For there is no beauty in starvation, in fingers frozen from the cold, in cheeks flushed red from the frigid wind, in thick icicles forming inside our bedrooms - though I pretend not to see them, hiding under my blanket at night. Ice. Snow. Winter. It is dangerous.

I stare down at my boots, deliberately stepping onto any fresh snow that I can find. I like the sound it makes underneath the soles of my boots and a smile briefly lights my face when I hear the satisfying crunch. I am not very bothered by the heavy snowfall, unlike mother who is cursing with every breath she takes, practically dragging me along behind her. She wants me to make an effort but I am in no mood for it. I wanted to stay at home but she insisted that she would need my help to carry all the herbs and the produce back home. After I protested and father very nearly did not miss me while taking a swing with the saucepan, I thought it smarter to accompany her. I don't like staying at home when father is in another of his moods.

I hear mother's annoyed snort from above when I determinedly zero in on the next pile of untouched snow.

"Do pick up your feet, Kaya!" I barely even hear the hiss in my mother's voice, but I do feel the sharp pain when she tugs my arm along fiercly. "You are no help at all! Go stand outside the shop while I make my purchases. Don't leave, do you hear me?" I mutter a response that she barely acknowledges before disappearing into the shops.
"Bye, mom."
I don't care much about shopping to want to accompany her anyway, so I am not bitter. I hate having to go down to the market with her because then she is always in her worst mood. I shuffle my feet a little in order to loosen my boots of some of the snow and then tug the blue wool of my hat down to cover my ears. I wish that it would cover my hair as well, but no such luck; some braids and a few stubborn locks still peek out from under it.

Sighing, I glance around, hoping not to meet anyone from school. Mother has been gone for a while now, probably exchanging gossip with other women in the store. I am beginning to grow rather bored, so I search through the pockets of my jacket for anything of interest. My treasure hunt is brief and the treasure itself is meager and a bit pathetic. All that I discover is a few dried out leaves from the past autumn; a rusty piece of metal that I have no idea what to do with; an old harmonica; the string from a yo-yo; a handful of chestnuts; and a couple of copper coins that I had borrowed from my mothers' money jar a week ago.

My hands are numb from the cold. I forgot where I put my mittens and I was too afraid to tell mother or father about it, for fear that father would lash out in one of his drunken tirades. Father has been drinking alcohol more and more now and I think that winter is to blame. Everyone grows more tired and angry once the winter comes. It's because the food is scarce, warmth is scarcer and people are consantly dying.

I remember when my aunt died a winter ago. Her body had to remain inside of the house for a week because we had to wait for a storm to subside. During that time aunts' body had become so stiff that father had to ask the neighbouring men for help. I did not care much. People died all the time and all my aunt had been good for was to steal my portion of food at dinner.

I am beginning to think that mother won't return at all and that perhaps my aunts' threats of leaving me out for the predators are coming true. I know that mother would not do something like that. Father might, but never mother. I put my hands into my pockets and look around once more, finally crouching down to sit in the snow because my legs are growing tired from all the standing.

[/blockquote]

- - -
And I saw my reflection in the snow covered hills
Till the landslide brought me down

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[sadniss everdeen]

“Hey!” There is the crack of bone against my fist and the cry is stopped, feral bright eyes narrowing in irritation as the shock travels up my muscles to rest carefully in my ribs where it will hum for hours. The boy in question almost seems to crumple under my unexpected display of violence, knees buckling in slow motion until he’s thigh deep in the blankets of snow. Red spills out from his clenched fingers in harrowing designs, painting a morbid picture against a pure canvas for all to marvel at. I chuckle deeply and shift tangled raven hair from my eyes, covering the wince when my bruised fingers rake a little too hard against my skin.

Yes. A simple word and I jerk my head away from the invisible voice by my ear, licking my lips from nervous habit. It has become more and more common and it’s starting to scare me in that way that nothing else does, because this isn’t something that I can fix with my own bare hands. It reminds me of grandmami howling in broken tongues as the doctors check her over and over, unable to soothe her torment as old age robbed her mind and the way the girls that come in and out of our house - all battered and bruised and broken – have the hollow eyes that nothing can repair. I bite my lip and shake myself out of daydreams, painting the impassively cold expression against my countenance for the boy to see. “You don’t touch me. I don’t want you, you’re way older than me. Nobody does. You’re nothing.” We meet gazes, and something deep inside me hums content at the stricken lines in his face. “Get it?”

He nods once, and I allow a wicked grin to split my pale lips, showcasing a hint of bright teeth. “Good. If I see you again I’ll make you eat it.” I gesture at the snow and he blanches, looking at his creation before scrambling to his feet and vanishing. A trail of crimson tells the story of his escape.

It’s not like I ask for it. People confront me and the smirks they sport fuel something inside of me that I can’t control. It grows and grows until I can’t hold it in and they’re floored and cracked and then I feel so good that I want to hate it but can’t. My methods are crude and unable to stand up to polished skill but there, raw and waiting to be uncovered. Jackal watches me sometimes when I wrap my fists in preparation in that way he does when he thinks so deeply about things – he was a Victor a long time ago in the days long past. It has corroded his grasp on reality but his instincts are still razor-sharp , and I can respect that. I’ve been taught to hurt and hate others before they do the same to me and it seems the most logical option.

My fingers twang in pain and I allow myself to grimace, shaking out the slowly swelling digits and watching as the caramel skin grows into a reddish hue before my eyes. They need to be bound but I’m once again low on money – I’m a terrible thief and can’t hunt worth anything. The only thing I can do is fight and fling insults (but let’s face it, those aren’t the most productive ways of earning money).

Unbidden, my feet have moved me towards the town square where the merchants peddle their goods and business deals go on in the shady dark of the alleyways – even the winding labyrinths of the Sewers that are nothing but a legend on solid ground. When my fingers brush against a piece of expensive jewelry I am chased out with a broom, covering my head from the irate jeweler that throws choice curses I’ve only heard after sneaking into a tavern once or twice. Scowling, I brush off the snow that’s appeared on my aging jacket and rub the flakes from my head, regaining some of my dignity and trekking off further into the town.

A few boys from school nod at me when I walk by and I return the gesture – they are three years older than me and thinking themselves so cool with the cigarettes that they clench between cherry-red fingers. My height allows me the respect I would have to work twice as hard to earn, as it makes it easier to face up to the people that would question my tentative grasp on these streets. I am already 5”8 at nine years old, and my teacher believes me to have an old soul. Whatever that means I’m not sure, but I haven’t decided yet if I like the ring it bears.

There is the clink of copper that catches my eye and I zero in like a hawk to the kill, fingers twitching in preparation even as I glance around for a Keeper that could potentially ruin my parade before it’s even begun. She has fire-red hair that looks vaguely familiar, flashes of tendrils against the pristine playground I rule. Her mittenless hands clutch various pieces of miscellaneous items, and my knuckles throb in remembrance of the bandages I require. Making up my mind, I allow my feet to make as little noise as possible as I stalk carefully towards my prey.

Soon enough I am hovering behind her and my eyebrows raise by themselves at how young she is – any hesitation felt is squashed by the ruthless mantra I’ve begun to project and adopt (if I repeat it enough it will become true, and I can’t afford to be weak in this place), setting my jaw and flexing my fingers. A moment of silence before my tips rake up the copper coins, securing them into a now clenched fist and already beginning to sprint, throwing a quick smirk and a yelled thanks behind me.

Stealing always makes me feel so alive, even if it’s nothing more than a few pieces. Just the fact that I’m doing something I’m not supposed to makes a shiver of pleasure crawl up my spine, distinct from the cold that has begun to seep in through my bones.

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[Meeka]

Kaya Lentach

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- - -
Oh, mirror in the sky
What is love?[/center][/size]

The cold is so relentless that I am afraid to sit much longer. Part of me believes that the blood in my veins will freeze beneath my cracked skin, and looking down at my frozen palms, I begin to imagine it doing so. Hastily, I breathe into my hands, but even my breath is a cold, fine mist on this winters day. So I give up and look around at the growing crowd of people.

The marketplace always seems full of frolicking men and women. And the occasional child, pushing past the jungle of arms and legs, and ducking through the crowd. Even in this cold, I spot faces alight with laughter, belonging to children who share forbidden looks of glee. I don't have very many friends. I like keeping to myself, so I can't share those stolen, brief looks.

It's then that I feel something. Like a sudden breeze, but warm and sudden. And then it's gone. I turn on the spot instinctively and spot a girl, taller than I am, but young. I can see that she is young by her face. My eyes meet hers and I am startled for a second. Her eyes a yellow. The edge of her mouth turns up in a grin, then a bark-like laugh as she thanks me for something. It's only then that I feel the absence of the copper coins that until then had still been safely tucked into my hand. I gasp as realisation dawns on me. That... she just... she stole from me! Bits and pieces, like some giant jigsaw puzzle, click into place in my head and it makes sense. Not giving a second thought, and stubbornly forgetting my mothers' warning - Don't leave, do you hear me? - I give chase.

"Hey!" I shout, knowing that any chance of her hearing my voice over the roar of the wind would be futile. The biting wind seems to claw at my face and my eyes sting as I rush through the crowd of people. I elbow some woman in the hip, who tuts and yells something that I can't hear. Several children shout and giggle, pointing and the running red-head and wondering why I am in such a rush.

I don't bother to look back to see whether mother is finished shopping, and whether she is scanning the throng of people for signs of me. I know that I can expect trouble upon returning home, but the loss of the few coins would hurt more. Not to mention the loss of my pride.

"Stop!" I yell.

Then I pause, bend down and quickly scoop up a pile of snow. It's mixed with bits of dirt and rocks and decaying leaves from the past autumn, but I don't care. I throw the icy ball at her in hopes of hitting her frame and then continue to give chase, eventually running right at her back. In school, I've always hated sports. I usually spent more time standing at the back of the group of squirming, excited school boys and girls, hoping to be the last to get picked for football - with a beaten-up, deflated ball, mind you. But I've always been good at running. It pays to be small and slim sometimes. I run headlong into her, hitting the small of her back hard and I hope that it brings her to fall.

"I want my money back!" I announce angrily.

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- - -
Can the child within my heart rise above?

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