no one pays the sun {mutt/naya}

[Deleted]

Khiyyi Song

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When I wake to the subtle sound of birds in the early morning, the sights beyond the window pull me into a state of awe and wonder. The trees that provide us with extravagant amounts of oxygen; the grass that grows rapidly beneath our feet; and the faithful sun that rises each day never ask for anything in return.

Sometimes, I feel like I am the sunrise, shedding light onto the world continuously, doing so much more than asked for. Yet, I ask for no payment; in fact, I’m the one paying.

The thought suddenly makes me wonder if the sun has ever made a mistake. Maybe the sun is in debt, just as I am. Maybe regret is buried somewhere beneath those brilliant rays, a speck of darkness within the boundless blankets of light.

For a few moments every morning, I watch the sun as it creeps over the horizon, and I think of who I could’ve been, had I not made the mistakes that have haunted me incessantly these many years. However, it is not morning. The sun is not up. There are no birds chirping outside my window.

It is night, and I have job to fulfill before the sunrise exists once again. I have work to do. I lift myself from my bed hesitantly, rubbing my eyes. Another child sleeps on the bed above me, so I try to make as little noise as possible.

My foster parents accommodate many children, although they own a small house. However, they do it for the money. They need the money just as much as these children need parents; but even with the money they receive for taking care of the children, the cost for providing these children with such necessities, evens out to be a bit more. I slip quietly across the room, opening the door as carefully as possible. The slightest movement—a flash of green eyes—causes me to stop. Seven-year old Arabella sits up from her bed, her head perked in curiosity. “Where are you going, Khiyyi?”

“Ssh,” I whisper. “Just need to use the bathroom. I’ll be right back.” I smile at her, trying to make my words sound a bit more convincing. As I shut the door, I barely catch her last words, directed at myself, but said in a whisper, like a sarcastic comment you’re not supposed to hear.

“Again?”

I escape the house through the front door. The faint feeling of drowsiness that overcomes me tells me I haven’t slept quite enough. I am fatigued, but I push the feeling away.

On average, I usually only get a few hours of sleep, but I’ve adapted. Black circles are prevalent beneath my worn eyes, but I don’t worry much about my appearance: not like some of the other girls in the district.

Once I repay this debt that I’ve buried myself in, maybe I’ll find the time to take care of myself again; but for now, my feelings don’t count.

I shiver, even in the heat of the night. I try to walk a bit faster, but my memories have already caught up to me. It’s no use trying to run from them, because my own recollections are the only things that dictate my life.

At least I am happy: most of the time, at least. It feels good to know that I have completely given myself to the idea of selflessness; it feels good to know that there’s someone out there smiling because of what I’ve done; and most of all, it feels good to pay for the lives I may have ended.

Still, it is definitely a challenge to feel happiness when nearly the only thing I can think about is how much food is in my stomach, or how tired I may be. When my mind is somewhere else, and my own choices and actions are torturing my well-being, it is difficult to think of anything else. In a case such as that one, happiness is scarce.

I keep walking, pulling myself further away from my house. I suddenly wonder what people see when they look at me: do they see the cuts along my wrists? Do they see the hole I have buried myself in, the mess I cannot escape? Do they see another devastated citizen at the edge of starvation? Or do they see a girl who is starving herself?

I immediately remember Bailey, the girl who had been much too earnest to help me. I was perfectly fine at that time, yet she had thought differently.

I am still fine, and will always be. I don’t usually understand people who think otherwise.

I pass the fields, making my way down a few more blocks, until I am immersed in the midst of the town. The town is only ever full during the early morning and the evening, for during the daytime, nearly everyone is at work in the fields. It is always a busy place, but never loud. Usually, people’s whispers are quiet, as they attempt to avoid the wrath of the peacekeepers. There is always an air of tension, just as it is in the fields.

However, during the night, the town is normally quite deserted. Of course, there are those few people, such as me, who also work night jobs. Though, the stores are shut down during the night, for most citizens are safe inside their locked houses, lying on their hard mattresses as they try to ignore the nightly heat.

I spot the factory at which I work, but just as I do, a peacekeeper confronts me. I point to the building, explaining that I am an employee there, and he nods, the scowl upon his face unchanging. The factory before me is in charge of packaging and cleaning the foods harvested from the fields, and preparing them to be transported. Yet, I have never liked the place. It has a foul scent, and most of the workers are thieves or liars. Though, I’ve learned to manage.

With my next step, I trip. The street is barely lit, yet there is nothing I could have tripped over. That’s when I realize: it is my evolving weakness that caused me to hit the ground. The fatigue that continues to spread through my body and the lack of food that I have allowed myself, contribute to this feeling. I try to pick myself up, but I have begun to feel lightheaded, my vision becoming blurry. I hear footsteps in the distance, as others hurry to get to work. For a moment, I panic, afraid I might be late. Finally, I manage to force myself to my feet. Unsteadily, I begin walking again.

Yet, my body requires me to stop, for the spots that cloud my vision are too strong. [/color][/size][/blockquote][/justify][/blockquote]

[мυтт]

Doing. Thinking. Speaking. Hearing. Dreaming.

I am alone, running down the winding path to my house. I know what I will find before I get there. I trip and stumble forward, my legs as heavy as all of Panem. When I finally get to the house, it is ablaze. The flame lick at my feet, and still I rush inside. Fear inside of me rises and I begin to sweat. Desperate, I push passed my closed bedroom door and toward Angel's. Her cries burn my ears. The door is locked, and the knob is hot. All around me, fire is dancing. I kick at the door with my foot, but it doesn't budge. Angel's cries grow softer and fade into the night. In the background, Root's laughter expands until he is cackling, choking on his own amusement. I can't speak to him, but I see him rise from his perch on the couch and unlock Angel's door. The sight of her body makes me retch. Her eyes are still wide opened, tinted with unimaginable fear. That soft, succulent skin...it has vanished. It is all an angry red, with bruises and some parts of her body literally falling apart. A sob catches in my throat.

Behind me, Root lunges. He takes ahold of me and then fetches my mother, who has been died to their bed with ropes. My throat is sore from crying as he drags us out to the desolate orchards. He dies my mother and I together. I feel her heart beat faintly against mine, but she is severely injured from the fire. Her burns run against my skin. Within moments, she dies. Every point from then on is an out of body experience; fast forwarded. I watch myself wiggle out, a wild look in my eyes. I feel my hand send the dagger plunging into his leg, and his voice, beyond insane, instructing me to kill him. I swam in his baby blue gaze and stabbed down once, twice, thrusting my arm downward at a slight angle. I scream into the pitch black and bury my face into his chest. It is wet. With blood likely. A river flows from his chest, running red. Red, the hue of my dead sister's skin...

I awaken with a start, my face embedded deep into my pillow. I fling the blankets off of my body and bite my tongue, resisting the urge to scream. I bring my hands to my face slowly. It is tear-streaked. No matter how hard I try, I cannot shake the image of my mother, of Root, of Angel. Painfully, I rise. Distantly, I can hear the persistent song of the birds as they greet all who rise. I head to the bathroom and splash my face with cold water. Still, I cannot be rid of the grotesque scenes in my head. I peer outside the window. The trees are a lush green, dark with pigmentation. Outside it is looking, and even sounding like a beautiful day. Vibrantly, the sun gleams down on us all. I feel sudden thanks for its present. In my life, it has been the only constant. No matter the scenario, the time of day, the latest death; I have always had the sun by my side.

It asks for nothing in return. What it does is grace us with its presence, ever thoughtful of our needs and desires. I wet my dry lips and slide out of my nightclothes into standard clothing; dark pants faded from stains and countless wears, an ill-fitting black shirt that has undoubtedly seen better days; it is ripped unintentionally at the ends, exposing a bit of my torso. Hopefully, people think that this is how the shirt was designed, as a fashion statement. My toes squirm in my shoes. They are much too big for my dainty feet, previously Leilani's. Sir is already out of the house doing who-knows-what, but I can hear the gentle snore of my aunt in the next room. Quietly, I exit the household. It isn't sneaking out, really, but a voice inside me is disbelieving. I can leave without her permission. Knowing her, she would not care.

[/i] There is no self-pity in the thought; only truth.

It is early morning, earlier than I had anticipated. Factually, pale blue is only just licking at the sky. I keep my hands glued to my face to hide the scars as I approach town. People stare, but no more than usual. I hate it when they do such; it is rude. Self-consciously, I slide away from their gazes of criticism and shuffle along. I muse about my nightmare. It isn't an uncommon one, but it was longer than usual. And the skin of my dead sister...it was inaccurate, her body too intact. No, it had been worse, but I don't dare call up the images now. I am so absorbed in my own thoughts that the voice startles me. I literally jump. "What are you doing at this time?"

An official barks at me, their Peacekeeper uniform so white and pristine that I flinch. His eyes squint at me, unforgiving. I haven't done anything wrong, but I am suddenly at a loss for words. "U-um, I'm headed toward the factory to see my..." I pause. I can't say to see my father; Sir is not my father, for one thing, and I haven't even come to see him. It's just that, for some reason, I'm feeling pulled toward that destination, though I usually don't work there. Sir, I know, is there by now. The Peacekeeper is awaiting my reply, so I speak. "...to see my guardian, Sir." His expression softens considerably when I mentioned his name. He motions for me to carry on and I do so, much more wary this time around. I drop my hands from my face, but keep them balled in fists at my side.

Well, I guess I'm headed toward the factory now. 'To see Sir' my behind. More likely, I will just stand outside until I get bored of making observations about everybody. And when I'm finished with that, I will go get a snack. My stomach rumbles on cue. Inwardly, I groan. How typical of me to forget a breakfast before my departure. Oh well; too late now. Unfortunately.

I continue my troubled walk, slightly distracted now. From my peripheral vision, I spot a girl stumble and fall. I can see that she is visibly weak. I widen my eyes. The last time I tripped was years ago-- literally. Ever since I fell face-first into the fire I have been supremely cautious. The sight of her tumbling downward brings a painful memory forward at once. The intense heat, searing my face as brightly as the stars, tattooing me with hurt. It burned away my love for life, stinging at my face, a cruel reminder every day. It was no wonder I hadn't tripped in years. I see her now and dart forward, nearly running. When I get to her, she has only just pulled herself up. I look on with pity rising.

People are walking all around us. Almost all of them are headed toward the factory, some returning from the night shift. I recognize this girl as Khiyyi Song, though she may or may not know me, being one year older. She is slender and visibly fragile. As if she is on the verge of breaking. Or perhaps she is already broken. I want to ask if she is alright, but I stand beside her in silence, closing my eyes to inhale deeply. I wait for a moment and then speak. "Are you okay?" I can't think of anything else to say. Hastily, I avert my eyes.

I have been told that staring is rude.

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{ Template by Bryya }

[Naya]

(formatting, just wanted to post it so that you guys don't have to wait.)

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Have you ever wondered about our old nu-metal friends
And what became of them?
Turns out I saw them a couple of days ago,
They were laughing and drinking and smoking and singing.

My footsteps were as quiet as the cries of a baby who was thrust into a flowing river, carrying the wailing baby to it’s death. I tried to be silent as a snake, but apparently I was failing. Badly. And I knew because, my groggy and still half asleep mother came stumbling down the stairs of our rickety, wooden old house wondering what was going on, and demanded an answer. Even though she knew the answer, I couldn’t really blame her because she was half asleep and her elephant-footed son woke her up at only early morning. Even I was still tired. But, Ruphalia was working nights at the factories in District 11 and my mother forced me to make sure she was safe walking home and back during the warm nights of 11, due to a recent incident.

“Remember…?” My tongue curled on the last syllable, because I was still fairly tired. This wasn’t fair. I know it’s helping my family but still, I always have to be looking after Rue even though she’s perfectly capable of doing it herself. I can’t wait until I’m out of this house. “You told me I had to walk Rue back from the factories. Her shift is about over.”

My mother shifted from one foot to the other in a swift motion, as she let out a big sigh a long with a ‘oh yeah…’ and I could still hear the incredible tiredness on her voice. I put an arm around her shoulder, and let out a sigh of tiredness. Even though I’d sacrifice my family at any given moment, this just wasn’t fair. Child labor. OK, maybe I’m over exaggerating, just a little bit. I lead my half-asleep mother back to her hard bed, where she lay as I told her goodnight like she was my child and I was the father, making sure she was tucked in and didn’t let the bed bugs bite. Good thing is, my father is an incredibly deep sleeper, and if I literally stomped my way through their room, he would stay sound asleep. Maybe he was faking, maybe he wasn’t. I couldn’t really tell anything about anyone these days.

My sister, Ruphalia, is a pain in the neck. She seems to be always getting in trouble and I have to swoop in and save the day, like I was Superman, or some other type of superhero I’ve heard about when I was just a little youngster. She was a clumsy, not very smart girl who was never the one to bend any rules. Well, I might as well disclude the fact that I’m a bit clumsy, and I don’t do very well at school, either. My mother had finally allowed my sister to work in the factories, because she usually harvested crops with a load of petit little girls and wise, old elders with bent backs, and laugh lines, wrinkles, that cover their apple-bottom faces who didn’t have the strength to work as hard enough as the people at the factory do. She was walking alone, when a man came up to her, who I assumed was homeless, and started touching spots of her a normal person would not want a homeless man to touch. Until, a peacekeeper captured the man and the rest was history.

As soon as my mother was tucked in and far asleep, I tiptoed (much quietly than I had before,) out the door of our house, and breathed in a breath of the air that usually smelt like ripening oranges or mangos. District eleven was very scenic place, I have to say. Capitol photographers often came here to take pictures of it to show the Capitol people how amazing the Districts were doing, and in reality we weren't doing so good after all. I continued walking down the twisting paths that lead to the District Square, and near the factories where the produce was cleaned, packaged, and other stuff that I have never heard of (considering I've never worked in the factories. I've been in it once, for a class field trip in Grade 1 so they could show us how great the Agriculture farming industry could be). I mainly work near the factory, not in it. But now, the sun was beginning to rise, creating an orange and purple glow, radiant as ever.

Peacekeepers often patrolled the area at night time, but I really didn't need to worry about them. They are familiar with who I am, not saying that I've gotten into any trouble with them. But, unfortunately, a grueling guy comes stumbling towards me in his white Storm Trooper outfit (as I like to call it), a gun in his hands. "It's way past curfew. Give me a reason to explain why you're out," I bit my lips. I've never been in a situation like this. "Well... you see..." I explained the whole story to him, and watched as he bobbled his head and nodded, he let me go by, patting my shoulder multiple times as he went down an alley to make sure there was no mischief going on down there.

Just as I'm walking, I hear a noise. I can't tell what the noise was, but I could tell that I was walking towards it. I stopped, examined the place. Nobody was to be seen. I started running towards the direction of the noise, making sure that every thing is all right, make sure that my sister didn't try to venture her way back home by herself. I would be in huge trouble if she attempted to do that. But, luckily, it wasn't me. It was a girl, who looked a bit younger than I did. Another girl, was helping her, making sure she didn't hurt herself to badly or something. I look directly at her, but making sure not creepily so that it doesn't make it look like I'm stalking her presence. But, it's early in the morning. I'm not exactly in the mood to flirt. "Yup, just a little trip." I say, even though what I just said doesn't process through my mind properly.