skeeter laine {one} fin
Jun 14, 2017 17:37:45 GMT -5
Post by solo on Jun 14, 2017 17:37:45 GMT -5
Skeeter Laine, D1
When I was seven, I ran away from home. It wasn't that I didn't like it there, or that my parents didn't treat me well, or that it wasn't safe. It was the tales I'd read in the books from our library. Well, I guess it's not really a library, more so a room with bookshelves instead of walls. It was my castle when I was a boy. I would spend hours in there, tucked away in a corner, reading through book after book after book. The Tales of King Arthur, Little Red Riding Hood, Alice in Wonderland. I read all of them. And then, when I'd finished every single book in the room, I'd read through them again.
I don't think Charlie liked it all that much. She's two years older than me, (I'm now seventeen and she's nineteen) but when we were little, she wanted nothing more than to play a game of tag or hide and seek. I remember she'd poke her head in my little cave an call for me, telling me to come outside for once. Just one more page, I would say, one more page and I'll come out. I was never all that good at keeping promises.
Right from the start, Mum was worried the fairy tales would get to my head. I could hear her at night, talking to Da, asking why we needed so many books. He always told her it was good for me. She said we shouldn't have so many fictional stories, but his reply would be that the District was filled to overflowing with non-fiction books, and he was tired of them. After all, what was the harm in a little fairy tale? With everything going on around us, he thought a bit of imagination might help me escape. And it did, for a while.
But ultimately, Mum was right. The stories did get to my head. I wanted to be like Huckleberry Finn, or Peter Pan. I wanted to explore and discover the world.
Oliver Twist had never been one of my favorite books, it was a bit too serious for my taste at the time, and some of the characters frightened me. But it still caught my attention, and I had read it more than once by the time I was seven. The warehouse had always intrigued me. It sounded a bit like the community home on the edge of town, where the children with no parents went. I became so fascinated with the concept, I wanted nothing more than to experience it myself.
I ran away from home that night. Not the smartest decision of my life, but I didn't particularly care at the time. I picked out the oldest set of clothes I had, rolled around in the dirt outside, and made my way through the streets to the home. It took me a while to get there. Obviously, I'm about as book-smart as anyone can get, but street-smart is another matter entirely. It's one thing to be able to look at a map of Neverland and point out where Hook's ship is and where you could find Pan's hideout, but it's another thing entirely to navigate the streets and allies of One without getting lost. I managed alright I think, because I was at the home by morning.
It was fairly easy to sneak in alongside the other children there. Even for District One, there's a lot of kids there, and they don't really notice if another one joins them. I learned later that the Keepers bring in kids off the street all the time.
My visit lasted a grand total of twenty-four hours. It wasn't nearly as exciting as I thought it'd be, and the other children thought I was crazy when I asked if they wanted to play a game or go on an adventure. The food was terrible, although that was expected. When I left I remember wondering why the concept of an orphanage had appealed to me so much in the first place. They didn't even have any good books to read.
It was Charlie who figured out where I'd gone. She'd seen me reading the book, and she had a feeling I'd gone to the home. Of course, she was right.
They all showed up together. I remember the moment well, mostly because Da was furious with the owner of the home. He couldn't believe they'd taken a runaway, that they hadn't even thought to ask around. Mum was crying and relieved that they'd finally found me. I think Charlie was just amused by the whole thing.
It's ironic I guess that I don't enjoy writing stories. I had to do a couple for school, but I was never pleased with them. Either they weren't good enough or they were too similar to the ones I had already read. Mum kept telling me over and over again that it's just because I'm a perfectionist. She's right, I suppose. My room is flawlessly clean. I hate leaving a project unfinished. I become discourage if I don't get something right the first time. Most people find it annoying, and at times so do I.
Mum and Da were surprised when I didn't do well in training. They figure that I'd work at it until it was perfect, but I hardly cared for things like hand-to-hand combat or fencing. Charlie loved it, I think because it was how she made friends. But I didn't. I never had any interest in the Games, I didn't want to compete, I didn't want my story to end. I paid no attention when the instructors spoke. I hated holding any sort of weapon in my grasp, I had lousy hand-eye coordination, I could hardly lift some of the weights they had there. Charlie tried helping me a few times. She's always liked teaching, but it's hard when your student doesn't want to learn.
There's some good stuff about me though. Aside from my insistence on becoming a hermit, my border-line OCD, my loner tendencies, and my physical incapacity, I'm a good listener. Okay, I guess that doesn't sound all that great when you compare it to everything else. But Charlie appreciates it. She's always been more talkative than I, and far more dramatic. I don't mind it. When I do finally take a break from reading, I like listening to her, mostly because I realize how glad I am that I don't have a lot of friends. It's so much less stress. All I have to worry about are my books and the characters and the plot and what will happen next.
I don't think Charlie liked it all that much. She's two years older than me, (I'm now seventeen and she's nineteen) but when we were little, she wanted nothing more than to play a game of tag or hide and seek. I remember she'd poke her head in my little cave an call for me, telling me to come outside for once. Just one more page, I would say, one more page and I'll come out. I was never all that good at keeping promises.
Right from the start, Mum was worried the fairy tales would get to my head. I could hear her at night, talking to Da, asking why we needed so many books. He always told her it was good for me. She said we shouldn't have so many fictional stories, but his reply would be that the District was filled to overflowing with non-fiction books, and he was tired of them. After all, what was the harm in a little fairy tale? With everything going on around us, he thought a bit of imagination might help me escape. And it did, for a while.
But ultimately, Mum was right. The stories did get to my head. I wanted to be like Huckleberry Finn, or Peter Pan. I wanted to explore and discover the world.
Oliver Twist had never been one of my favorite books, it was a bit too serious for my taste at the time, and some of the characters frightened me. But it still caught my attention, and I had read it more than once by the time I was seven. The warehouse had always intrigued me. It sounded a bit like the community home on the edge of town, where the children with no parents went. I became so fascinated with the concept, I wanted nothing more than to experience it myself.
I ran away from home that night. Not the smartest decision of my life, but I didn't particularly care at the time. I picked out the oldest set of clothes I had, rolled around in the dirt outside, and made my way through the streets to the home. It took me a while to get there. Obviously, I'm about as book-smart as anyone can get, but street-smart is another matter entirely. It's one thing to be able to look at a map of Neverland and point out where Hook's ship is and where you could find Pan's hideout, but it's another thing entirely to navigate the streets and allies of One without getting lost. I managed alright I think, because I was at the home by morning.
It was fairly easy to sneak in alongside the other children there. Even for District One, there's a lot of kids there, and they don't really notice if another one joins them. I learned later that the Keepers bring in kids off the street all the time.
My visit lasted a grand total of twenty-four hours. It wasn't nearly as exciting as I thought it'd be, and the other children thought I was crazy when I asked if they wanted to play a game or go on an adventure. The food was terrible, although that was expected. When I left I remember wondering why the concept of an orphanage had appealed to me so much in the first place. They didn't even have any good books to read.
It was Charlie who figured out where I'd gone. She'd seen me reading the book, and she had a feeling I'd gone to the home. Of course, she was right.
They all showed up together. I remember the moment well, mostly because Da was furious with the owner of the home. He couldn't believe they'd taken a runaway, that they hadn't even thought to ask around. Mum was crying and relieved that they'd finally found me. I think Charlie was just amused by the whole thing.
It's ironic I guess that I don't enjoy writing stories. I had to do a couple for school, but I was never pleased with them. Either they weren't good enough or they were too similar to the ones I had already read. Mum kept telling me over and over again that it's just because I'm a perfectionist. She's right, I suppose. My room is flawlessly clean. I hate leaving a project unfinished. I become discourage if I don't get something right the first time. Most people find it annoying, and at times so do I.
Mum and Da were surprised when I didn't do well in training. They figure that I'd work at it until it was perfect, but I hardly cared for things like hand-to-hand combat or fencing. Charlie loved it, I think because it was how she made friends. But I didn't. I never had any interest in the Games, I didn't want to compete, I didn't want my story to end. I paid no attention when the instructors spoke. I hated holding any sort of weapon in my grasp, I had lousy hand-eye coordination, I could hardly lift some of the weights they had there. Charlie tried helping me a few times. She's always liked teaching, but it's hard when your student doesn't want to learn.
There's some good stuff about me though. Aside from my insistence on becoming a hermit, my border-line OCD, my loner tendencies, and my physical incapacity, I'm a good listener. Okay, I guess that doesn't sound all that great when you compare it to everything else. But Charlie appreciates it. She's always been more talkative than I, and far more dramatic. I don't mind it. When I do finally take a break from reading, I like listening to her, mostly because I realize how glad I am that I don't have a lot of friends. It's so much less stress. All I have to worry about are my books and the characters and the plot and what will happen next.
