My Life is Burning {Cinder Oneshot}
Feb 7, 2017 14:29:42 GMT -5
Post by kap on Feb 7, 2017 14:29:42 GMT -5
The reaping was something that I feared the gradual approach of for many years of my life. When I finally turned twelve, and it became a reality, the fear only bubbled more and more, getting much more intense. I had gotten up the morning of my first reaping to the cruel, harsh yelling of my step-mother. Her fist pounded on my door and I feared that she’d punch right through it. Nervously, I spoke to her so that she would stop.
“Yes, I’m awake. I’ll get ready in a moment, Ma’am,” I said. She always insisted that I called her Ma’am, so that I was respectful. Although, in all reality, I had no respect for the woman whatsoever. She was abusive and mean. I wanted nothing to do with her. Her presence made me wish that my father still cared about me as much as he used to. Once she appeared, however, our relationship with one another has slowly fallen apart. We’ve grown more and more distance from each other over the years, and it makes me wish that my birth mother were still around, rather than the wretched woman that my father remarried to.
“I want you ready now! Up up up!” her cruel voice snapped as she rapped on the door again. I got out of bed and opened the door to see her scowling down at me. “Now get dressed. The reaping is soon, and I will not be allowing you to be late,” she ordered. I nodded.
“Yes Ma’am,” I complied. After I used the bathroom, I returned to my room to get dressed. Closing the door behind me, I slipped into a pastel purple dress, and brushed out my hair. Then, I headed downstairs. I would be the one making breakfast, as my step-mother refused to cook for me. Therefore, I got something simple for myself that morning. With how stressed I was over the possibility of being chosen to die, I didn’t have much of an appetite. Retrieving an apple from the cupboard, I got a harsh look from the woman that was meant to be my caretaker. I ignored this glare, however, as I didn’t want to get myself any more worked up. If I did, she’d surely punish me.
When I had finished eating, I slipped on my white sandals and opened the door. My father would be walking me there, as my step-mother wanted nothing to do with me. Luckily, this was a bit of a relief. For the first half of the walk, my father and I were both completely silent. The only sounds were that of other people walking to the reaping, any animals that may have been out and about in the early morning, and the thud thud of our feet on the pavement with each step. Eventually, I mustered up the courage to talk to my father, just in case this was the only chance I got while I was still safe. We had no idea what the quell twist would be, after all, so there was no guarantee of my safety.
“Dad?” I asked. The only time I was allowed to call him ‘dad’ rather than ‘father’ was when my step-mother wasn’t around as she ordered that I never call him ‘dad’. For some reason, she found it to sound disrespectful. My father didn’t mind it, though. He often smiled when I called him by the shorter name.
“Yes?” he asked me. There was no smile this time. His facial expression was dull and blank.
“What will you do if I get reaped?” I inquired. He stopped walking for a moment and looked at me with an air of concern to him. I stopped walking as well. He looked at me carefully.
“I would miss you. I wouldn’t want you to leave, sweetheart,” he told me. I hadn’t heard words so kind from him in years. He hadn’t called me sweetheart, or anything even close to it in ages. I gave him a painful smile, and he returned it. Then, we kept walking.
After I checked in at the reaping and went to the section for the twelve year old girls, my legs started to shake out of nervousness. Luckily, though, my panic stopped when the quell twist was announced. Volunteers only. This meant it wasn’t me. I didn’t have to go in. I wasn’t required to fight to the death. Other people would put themselves forward willingly, and not a single person would be forced into that arena this year. I almost breathed a sigh of relief, but remained silent, knowing that I shouldn’t do such a thing. I wasn’t sure why, but it didn’t feel like the right thing to do.
It took a while before anyone actually stepped forward, which didn’t surprise me. I wasn’t sure what person in their right mind would actually volunteer for the Hunger Games. It certainly wasn’t me, and it definitely wasn’t anyone I knew.
When the reaping concluded, I made my way home with my father, this time in complete silence the entire way. As soon as we reached our house, I entered the building and went up to my room to be alone. All the stress of the reaping had exhausted me. Even though I was safe, I felt upset. I wasn’t sure why, but I felt the need to be alone. I lied down on my bed and closed my eyes, allowing myself to fall asleep for just a few moments until my cruel step-mother came into my room, yelling at me for falling asleep in good clothes.
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and looked at her with a look of anger. Normally, I tried to be respectful towards everyone; even her. Right then, though, when I wanted to be left alone, I wasn’t feeling like my usual polite, respectful self.
“Leave me alone,” I told her. She gave me a menacing glare, yet I refused to allow myself to give her an apology. Instead, she gave me a smack across the face, and scolded me for speaking to her that way. When she left the room, I broke down in tears, almost wishing I weren’t safe from the Games. Maybe it would have been a better life for me if I had volunteered this year. Sure, I wasn’t likely to make it, but I wouldn’t have to deal with that bitch in my life anymore.
“Yes, I’m awake. I’ll get ready in a moment, Ma’am,” I said. She always insisted that I called her Ma’am, so that I was respectful. Although, in all reality, I had no respect for the woman whatsoever. She was abusive and mean. I wanted nothing to do with her. Her presence made me wish that my father still cared about me as much as he used to. Once she appeared, however, our relationship with one another has slowly fallen apart. We’ve grown more and more distance from each other over the years, and it makes me wish that my birth mother were still around, rather than the wretched woman that my father remarried to.
“I want you ready now! Up up up!” her cruel voice snapped as she rapped on the door again. I got out of bed and opened the door to see her scowling down at me. “Now get dressed. The reaping is soon, and I will not be allowing you to be late,” she ordered. I nodded.
“Yes Ma’am,” I complied. After I used the bathroom, I returned to my room to get dressed. Closing the door behind me, I slipped into a pastel purple dress, and brushed out my hair. Then, I headed downstairs. I would be the one making breakfast, as my step-mother refused to cook for me. Therefore, I got something simple for myself that morning. With how stressed I was over the possibility of being chosen to die, I didn’t have much of an appetite. Retrieving an apple from the cupboard, I got a harsh look from the woman that was meant to be my caretaker. I ignored this glare, however, as I didn’t want to get myself any more worked up. If I did, she’d surely punish me.
When I had finished eating, I slipped on my white sandals and opened the door. My father would be walking me there, as my step-mother wanted nothing to do with me. Luckily, this was a bit of a relief. For the first half of the walk, my father and I were both completely silent. The only sounds were that of other people walking to the reaping, any animals that may have been out and about in the early morning, and the thud thud of our feet on the pavement with each step. Eventually, I mustered up the courage to talk to my father, just in case this was the only chance I got while I was still safe. We had no idea what the quell twist would be, after all, so there was no guarantee of my safety.
“Dad?” I asked. The only time I was allowed to call him ‘dad’ rather than ‘father’ was when my step-mother wasn’t around as she ordered that I never call him ‘dad’. For some reason, she found it to sound disrespectful. My father didn’t mind it, though. He often smiled when I called him by the shorter name.
“Yes?” he asked me. There was no smile this time. His facial expression was dull and blank.
“What will you do if I get reaped?” I inquired. He stopped walking for a moment and looked at me with an air of concern to him. I stopped walking as well. He looked at me carefully.
“I would miss you. I wouldn’t want you to leave, sweetheart,” he told me. I hadn’t heard words so kind from him in years. He hadn’t called me sweetheart, or anything even close to it in ages. I gave him a painful smile, and he returned it. Then, we kept walking.
After I checked in at the reaping and went to the section for the twelve year old girls, my legs started to shake out of nervousness. Luckily, though, my panic stopped when the quell twist was announced. Volunteers only. This meant it wasn’t me. I didn’t have to go in. I wasn’t required to fight to the death. Other people would put themselves forward willingly, and not a single person would be forced into that arena this year. I almost breathed a sigh of relief, but remained silent, knowing that I shouldn’t do such a thing. I wasn’t sure why, but it didn’t feel like the right thing to do.
It took a while before anyone actually stepped forward, which didn’t surprise me. I wasn’t sure what person in their right mind would actually volunteer for the Hunger Games. It certainly wasn’t me, and it definitely wasn’t anyone I knew.
When the reaping concluded, I made my way home with my father, this time in complete silence the entire way. As soon as we reached our house, I entered the building and went up to my room to be alone. All the stress of the reaping had exhausted me. Even though I was safe, I felt upset. I wasn’t sure why, but I felt the need to be alone. I lied down on my bed and closed my eyes, allowing myself to fall asleep for just a few moments until my cruel step-mother came into my room, yelling at me for falling asleep in good clothes.
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and looked at her with a look of anger. Normally, I tried to be respectful towards everyone; even her. Right then, though, when I wanted to be left alone, I wasn’t feeling like my usual polite, respectful self.
“Leave me alone,” I told her. She gave me a menacing glare, yet I refused to allow myself to give her an apology. Instead, she gave me a smack across the face, and scolded me for speaking to her that way. When she left the room, I broke down in tears, almost wishing I weren’t safe from the Games. Maybe it would have been a better life for me if I had volunteered this year. Sure, I wasn’t likely to make it, but I wouldn’t have to deal with that bitch in my life anymore.
WORDS: 1060
TAGS: oneshot
NOTES: N/A
coded by D3571NY of ADOXOGRAPHY V2
