A Light [Open]

[sbeeg]

Benedict Nolan

The night was young, the sun having just passed below the horizon and the first winds of night were blowing over the district. The chill wasn't anything a good, sturdy jacket couldn't handle but, then again, most people in the District didn't have such things. You do, though. A long, jet black leather duster that catches the wind when you walk and gives the impression that you are some on oh so important. Who wouldn't think Benedict Nolan is important? You're a dashing young man living in the prim of his life- a clever teen who's smarter than half the adults in the entire District. Or so you like to think.

Boots click against the pavement of the sidewalk, combining with the crunch of leaves underfoot to form a little choir of trampled things. Back straight, head high you take the District on. Hands in the pockets of your black dress pants and your dark hair styled to perfection. One must never skip out on hair before leaving the house. That is one the features people most remember about you- the jet black locks that are never out of place. Suddenly conscious of how it looks having been exposed to the night air, your fingers fly up to smooth down the sides.

Up ahead you spot two figures dressed in all white. Keepers. Frowning a little, you slip into an alleyway to wait for them to pass. Peacekeepers aren't exactly the type of people to make friends with- especially if they know what you're up to at this time of night. Oh, they all know you. You have made sure as many people know you as possible. Famous. Infamous. Either way, you desire to become a household name. Nolan would be part of everyone's vocabulary if it were up to you.

Starting to lean against the brick wall of the shop you had ducked behind, you stop yourself. Germs, grim, dirt- not on your jacket. No, sir. To occupy yourself, you slip out a cigarette setting it in your mouth before running a match down the red bricks. The red flame bursts to life at the end of the little wooden stick. Blue eyes watch as the fire flickers before finally meeting it to the end of the cigarette. Shaking the match out and dropping it to the ground, black boots crush the match to ashes as lungs suck in the taste of tobacco.

Leaning back, your lips purse to blow the white smoke out, watching as it curls up into the night air before vanishing all together. Your eyes focus on the sky behind the smoke and all the lights that dotted it. Stars. People think so much about stars, you've found. They're supposed to tell the future and show you the direction. He saw it in the stars they always say. Looking now you find nothing special about the display. Just some twinkling lights- no prophecies or anything that you could see. There are testimonies of people looking up into the vastness of space and feeling small and insignificant at the sight of it all. To be honest, you feel bigger than ever. How can one feel tiny when looking at a pinpoint in the sky? What are stars compared to kings? The glowing end of your cigarette is bigger than those dots in the sky.

Scowling, you look around the edge of the corner to find that the Keepers have moved on. Letting the cigarette hang from your lips, you continue down the sidewalk. Finally you reach the corner where the little grocery store is- its windows dark and a little sign painted with the word "CLOSED" hanging on the inside of the door. Crossing the deserted street, you slip around the back of the building coming to the large metal door that led to the storeroom. One quick knock. Pause. Two more knocks. Then the door was open, with two eyes peering out at you over a chain that kept the door attached to the frame. Taking the cigarette from your lips, you give the doorman a dazzling smile, showing off those straight white teeth that not a lot of district citizens could boast about. The door shut for a few moments, the sound of metal jingling behind it met your ears before it flew open again.

The Ring you had dubbed it. An underground betting facility for the gamblers of District Nine. The Games were in session and the the room was packed. How they managed to go undetected was a miracle. However you didn't have time to linger on such thoughts, a wad of cash was heavy in your pocket and a tribute's name was ready on your tongue. Passing an area of tables and chairs facing a TV with the 24 hour Hunger Games coverage showing, you gaze at the other attendants. Underlings some- poor men who wanted a chance at some money but didn't know how to play right just yet. Then there were the ones like yourself, glamorous gamblers who knew the trick of the trade- that is, there isn't a trick. It's a science. Evaluate the tributes, pick the best- not your favorite or your district or who you want to win or anything like that- the best one. The one most likely to take the victor crown home.

Approaching the makeshift counter, you take the money from your jacket, lying it down on the wood and looking up at the handler. "500 on Aria Wolfe." A few eyes dart up to your face, taking in the fact that such a young kid had five hundred dollars to spare. In truth, you don't. Its the money you've worked for in the plants and what is left of the money you won last year beating on the boy from four- which, if he had held out a little longer- would have been worth even more. With every dollar you had to your name placed on the counter you didn't feel risky or inferior or whatever other betters felt. You felt like the kind you are. King Benedict Nolan, ruler of the bets and collector of debts.

[kneedles]

[Birrin Ceps|Seventeen| District 9's grumpy midwife]

[/center]

They paper the walls with sharp suits or battered greatcoats, fingers shoved deep into the pockets or wrapped around betting slips while their shoes- shined, jet black with tar or scuffed with factory dust- are carpeting. Whatever is left underneath, whatever cracked furnishing or chipped paint is supposed to line the Ring is left up to the imagination. To me, though, the men look as though they’ve always belonged here; sinking into the décor, limbs like foundations, lost up in the haze of the cigarette smoke. Misery must be a good business, I think, clutching the slip of paper in my hand and trying to slip through the slim gaps between one suit and another, working out how to slot my feet into the gaps between scuffed boots. One glance into this room and it’s easy to see that there’s money in the blood and the bone. If I get in and get out quickly, then I can avoid having to watch the Hunger Games, avoiding seeing even out of the corner of my eye the smallest flash of steel.

Why are there so few women gamblers? This place is rimed as thick with testosterone as it is the bodies and the smoke. Money is a woman with a siren’s song, I suppose, twisting her body like cigarette smoke rising up into the air and they can’t help but inhale her. Their lust goes lung-deep makes them hungry and impatient. A bet turned good is easy money, isn’t it? A cheap tart with pursed red lips. No wonder they line the walls four men deep. And there’s no point in a woman gambling anyway; I’ve seen three women die in childbirth this year, countless other’s give birth alone to mouths they have no way to feed because the father of their children is long gone. Why bother betting on the death of children when relying on men, when trying simply to live is a gamble enough in itself? There are enough dead children in district nine to worry about, forget our two tributes and the twenty two others up on the screens in the corner.

My grandmother is the exception to the rule I guess, but you could argue that she isn’t a woman, could argue that she’s barely human. More like some kind of reptile; with gnarled leathery hands, thin lips and a long red tongue gaping out through the gaps in her smile- like broken windows missing the panes. Her vices are the dogs though; skeletal greyhounds with bared teeth tearing after a stuffed animal like some grotesque puppet show, a cockfight, a game of bridge from time to time but even she has her limits. They probably think they are being enterprising, weasel words smooth as silk, cold reasoning absolving them of their sins- but with pale green eyes narrowed, I don’t bother to keep disapproval from my face.

As someone who was bought as a girl (my mother sold me to my grandmother for one hundred dollars and a loaf of bread) I know what it’s like to have a price put on your life. Printed out in careful hand, black ink and cold mathematics are the odds; a sheet for the next dog race- my grandmother has given me a name, and a slip to collect her last winnings- and another for the tributes. Pinned to the wall beside the counter, in slips by the tables and chairs, children and greyhounds alike reduced to statistics, scores, pulled apart seam by seam, the very bones of them evaluated for profit. I’m not the bleeding heart type; years with my grandmother elbow deep in the filth and death can do that to a person, standing in the district square watching our tributes get called up this year I didn’t feel much but relief and perhaps the dimmest stirring of pity. But this is too much.

The shuffling workmen, fingers stained dark with tinder and axel grease perhaps I can excuse; they are weak and desperate, mouths quivering around the ends of their cigarettes, eyes tipped up to the screens as though their lives hang in the balance too. They have dreams of better things; a little bread, to taste some meat that isn’t rat after so long- if only their dog will win, if only their tribute will live. But there are others, in suits, educated who understand the numbers- talking amongst themselves with scalpel words to dissect the tributes who I find reprehensible, pulling my coat around myself and shivering- as though the ice in their bodies has made the temperature drop drastically, as though I’m afraid that if they catch even a glimpse of my bare skin their eyes will come and dismember me too, break me up into their dollars and cents. I wonder if anyone would put money down on me if I were ever called. Unlikely; even my own mother thought my worth stopped at around a hundred dollars.

Lucky old Aria Wolfe though, she clearly has a fan- a boy around my age announcing to all assembled the contents of his wallet. The tackiness of throwing away such a huge amount of money when there are people starving, the coarseness of it all leaves a bad taste in my mouth and for one strange minute I’m annoyed that the tribute he picked to spend so much money on wasn’t even from district nine, not one of ours. But I suppose that notion is a laugh; it’s just business, they’ll all say, it’s being smart. I’m being a hypocrite anyway, I won’t be following to support the tributes from the district and I would let them take my place for a thousand years before I ever thought about volunteering for anyone. Rather you than me. The tributes from nine are not ours and two minutes in this room would speak volumes of any community spirit fostered in this district. The shiftwork, the dark funeral gauze of smog lying over us all keeps us separate, penned into our own lives, our own separate rung in this ever turning machine. One part fails, it’s replaced as easy as that. When our tributes fall the men in this room will mourn for their money- and that’s as far as it goes.

Walking up to counter beside his, and handing in my grandmother’s slip, I can’t help myself- let my eyes flicker to the boy and mutter, “Clearly someone thinks he’s a big deal.” My grandmother has won big clearly, as the attendant counts out thirty bucks. It’s not to be sniffed at; the money keeps her in gin, which keeps her off my back. I take five out of the pile of winnings, like I was told, “Five on Zeagle Flashy for the ten forty five tomorrow.” Zeagle Flashy? Sounds like a tribute from district one or something.

[sbeeg]

Benedict Nolan

Despite already placing a bet and having no business up there, you lounge against the counter, letting your eyes scan the room. Most of the occupants were The Usuals- the betters you always saw but never actually talked to or even learned the name of. An old man you nicknamed Chimney was sitting in the corner, slips sprouting from every pocket in his pants, shirt and coat. He had a cig balanced between in his lips as he talked to another person in The Ring, his fingers already pulling another stick out of a pack that somehow managed to fit in one of the paper filled pockets. Besides ol' Chimney there was The Loser. A young kid, younger than even yourself. He had bags under his eyes and had once come up to ask your opinion on a race. Of course you told him to scram and later watched as he cried in despair, his hands clutching the losing ticket.

There were many Usuals you had come to notice during your times down at The Ring but there was one tonight that held your undivided attention. The Legs. She wasn't as regular as Chimney or the Loser but she had been around long enough to catch your eye. See, Benedict Nolan doesn't just walk right up to any girl without examining her fist. You have taste and you want to make sure this particular specimen is suited to your picky pallet. Not a whole lot of women find their way into The Ring and when they do they are never as young and fresh as The Legs. Taking a drag on your cigarette you watched her glide across the room, stopping right beside you to turn in a ticket.

“Clearly someone thinks he’s a big deal.” Your lips frown a little at her tone. You know it was meant to be a whisper and not for your ears, but they picked up the insult anyway. Your teeth find the end of the cigarette and chomp on it angrily. This evaluation has left a bitter taste in your both and despite the anger bubbling up and telling you to forget the stupid girl you stay put, leaning against the counter. Eyes on the television and ears trained on the girl.

“Five on Zeagle Flashy for the ten forty five tomorrow.” That's when the light bulb flashes over your head. Zeagle Flashy, a surefire winner. In fact you have bet a few times on the dog yourself. Perhaps you could play with this girl a bit, maybe then you would be able to choke down this bitter flavor she put out.

"Oh no, you don't want to put any kind of money on him then," you say, taking the cigarette from your lips and blowing smoke across the counter. "By ten forty five he'll have run three other races and won't be up to snuff."

You turn on her, taking in not just her form and legs but her face and her expression. A little smirk, a lean in and you're in your prim. Maybe you could do more than just nibble at this girl. She is quite a stunning specimen and after tonight she'll know better than to slander you.

"At a quarter till eleven, I'd go with Karma Hawk," after scanning the names posted for the race you found that one to be quite suitable for your needs. It was perfect, the hound had never won a race as far as you knew. You slap a finger down on the five The Legs had placed for Zeagle Flashy. The motion brought you closer, leaning just close enough in to enter the personal space zone. Just the right distance to make your intentions known. "And, if I were you, I'd throw a few more bills down."

[kneedles]

[Birrin Ceps|Seventeen| District 9's grumpy midwife]

[/center]

The boy with the money to burn turns to speak to me, words wafting from his mouth wrapped around cigarette smoke like the curling tendrils of twin serpents. I don’t know why, but immediately I steel myself, expecting the smoke swaddled words to drip a kind of poison that I’m determined won’t affect me no matter what. It would have been easier to guard against that, so the advice he gives me slips past whatever hastily constructed defences I’ve put up. Oh no, you don't want to put any kind of money on him then, By ten forty five he'll have run three other races and won't be up to snuff. Glancing back to the bookie, his face is a mask of polished marble giving me clue either way, and I turn back to the young man, struggling to find sincerity, dishonesty or indeed anything helpful in his eyes.

Buzz off and mind your own business, I consider muttering, swatting my hand at him as though he were a mosquito diving bombing against my skin. But I can’t quite- chewing on my bottom lip as I look down at the money. I don’t know anything about the dog races, couldn’t pick out the meaning of any of the numbers scrawled against different names even with a knife pressed against my throat. The smoke creates a haze around my mind, blurring the features of his face, blurring whatever certainty I had. It’s not my money to bet, I remind myself; my grandmother has her specific instructions- a certain amount, on a certain dog at a certain time. The same kind of specific instruction that she barks at me when the scent of blood lingers in my nostrils, urging push and listening to the deep primordial screams of a woman bringing life into the world. And she hasn’t steered me wrong yet.

Do I believe in good Samaritans? I am the type to rely on the kindness of strangers? There’s no motive for the young man to help me, but there’s no motive for him to steer me wrong either. All I can think of though is myself; if my grandmother looses on a dog she picked herself, then that would be one thing- if I blew her winnings on another dog then that would be quite another. Besides, I won’t lose any sleep over my grandmother being proven wrong. It’s good for her. It reminds her that she’s still human. There’s the thought that keeps me feeling rebellious, as opposed to simply a midwife’s willing slave.

“Five on Zeagle Flashy,” I repeat firmly because I’m a coward, because I’m vindictive and because the siren song of money has no affect on me the way that it would on the men assembled. Flashing a look back to the young man, I offer an apologetic shrug, “It’s someone else’s money. I’m only taking orders.” The truth tastes putrid in my mouth and I’m embarrassed to admit how under my grandmother’s thumb I am, even to a stranger. He’s close enough to make out the pebble dash of pores, bringing with him the scent of cigarette smoke that I’m so familiar with, lining my own coat along with the thick unnatural scent of antiseptics from the permanent scrubbing and scraping at the skin on my hands.

But what he’s saying makes sense, doesn’t it? I picture a whippet thin greyhound, staggering around a track having over exerted himself on two previous races and get the shy , sinister curling of an idea. My grandmother won thirty dollars on her last race; I can put down five and say that she lost the money when Zeagle Flashy loses, while if I put down twenty five on a sure thing- which I’m now convincing myself it is- I can pay her back with the winnings and pocket the difference without her ever knowing. Like a payback for all the times I’ve gone out to earn a crust, up all night tending to a woman in labour and she’s squirreled away my wages…for expenses…this money is probably mine, by rights. In reality I should be allowed to do what I want with it. “Wait,” I say quickly as the cashier begins to write up the betting slip, fishing into my pockets for the rest of the winnings. “Five on Zeagle Flashy and twenty five on…what was it…Karma Hawk? On separate betting slips.” That way she’d never have to know, I figure, and for a few minutes I’m impressed with my craftiness wondering why it is that I don’t do this more often.

The act of disobedience makes my chest flutter and squirm excitedly, a grin lingering at the edges of my mouth in a way that I can hardly contain. I’ve stolen her money. My money. I’ve taken back what’s mine.