recette lemongrass | d9 | fin
Jul 1, 2017 5:16:42 GMT -5
Post by Lyn𝛿is on Jul 1, 2017 5:16:42 GMT -5
[googlefont="Coming Soon:400"]
recette lemongrass
sixteen. female. district nine
sixteen. female. district nine
She should be used to the silence by now.
Windows closed to keep out the stench of factory smoke and the sounds of street-men arguing, the flat becomes a numbing prison.
It's been like this since her father left four weeks ago. One day, she comes home from school to find he is nowhere in sight. His shoes are missing, his jacket and some food and even the shaving razor is missing, no sign of a struggle but instead all meticulously packed away.
Every morning she sees the empty spaces, looks in the closet and the hallway and bathroom cabinet as though looking hard enough would change her reality back to what it once was. And then there are the awful rumors, talk of wanderers on the outskirts and how hunting is in District Nine's blood -
Did he abandon her?
Within these closed walls he'd often talked of wilderness and freedom, of colonies of people living away from the Capitol, the kind of treasonous thoughts one could only entertain in the privacy of home, among trusted family.
But if she was trusted family, why would he leave her an empty, too-large house that no longer felt like a home?
The first days she cleans the house and cooks her own meals and stacks the dishes in neat rising piles as a desperate attempt to distract herself, for if she stopped finding tasks to do she would be forced to confront the looming emptiness. She imagines that if she continued her routine as it always was then one day the door will open and everything will be all right again.
Eventually, she gives up hoping.
Once she lets go, it becomes terrifyingly easy to get used to living alone. Wake up, go to school, make sure not to give the authorities any reason to suspect anything is amiss. Dread returning to an empty house, and go to bed early out of boredom.
Even the Peacekeepers are more of an abstract afterthought than a true fear, and yet there's a knot of anxiety that remains in her stomach. An unknown fear, whispering that something, anything, everything could go wrong.
Most nights, those fears remains at bay, and she can almost convince herself that everything is all right.
Then one evening, there is a knock on her door.
*
Where are your parents, kid?
I... I don't know. I haven't seen Papa for more than five weeks now - oh, please don't tell the Peacekeepers! They might think he's gone and wandered from the district, and then they'll cut my tongue out and torture me and turn me into an avox -
Calm yourself. I'm not here for that.
Then, what are you here for?
I'm here on behalf of some business with your father. Although, seeing that he's gone, I'll just have to negotiate with you instead...
Uhhh, what are you talking about?
I've come to collect on the debt.
*
Option 1: The loan shark repossesses the flat, taking a loss on her investment, and little Recette is kicked out onto the streets.
Option 2: She works for her instead to pay it off.
Was there ever really a choice?
She's never worked a day in her life before - always coddled by her father, apparently beyond his means - but she wakes up bright and early the next morning, ready to do her best. A package of books, ready to be delivered to an old man some ways from the city center, and she marches off with a purpose.
Yay! I did it! she thinks to herself. Little old me, going on important missions for important people.
It's not just delivering books, though. She'll take orders for everything from books and clothing to strange necklaces, bags of powder, and mysterious vials of a clear, viscous liquid.
For the right price, nearly anything can be purchased in District Nine. The trick to a successful sale, though, is to know the customer - know how much money they have, what they're willing to pay, how long to haggle with them before they get annoyed and storm off.
And, oh, every day is a sea of new people to meet and old customers to encounter. She remembers the little girl with an endless appetite for candy, the old man who asked for a bottle of moonshine with every order, the housewife who commended her on how quickly her aqua-fortis orders always came in. (As for what a housewife was doing with all that acid, well, she wasn't one to judge.)
She goes to bed tired and wakes up excited, and as long as the stream of customers continues she'll never have to feel lonely again. Her mind briefly wonders why a loan shark would be willing to turn her life around, but it's never something she dwells on for long.
After all, why question good fortune?
Windows closed to keep out the stench of factory smoke and the sounds of street-men arguing, the flat becomes a numbing prison.
It's been like this since her father left four weeks ago. One day, she comes home from school to find he is nowhere in sight. His shoes are missing, his jacket and some food and even the shaving razor is missing, no sign of a struggle but instead all meticulously packed away.
Every morning she sees the empty spaces, looks in the closet and the hallway and bathroom cabinet as though looking hard enough would change her reality back to what it once was. And then there are the awful rumors, talk of wanderers on the outskirts and how hunting is in District Nine's blood -
Did he abandon her?
Within these closed walls he'd often talked of wilderness and freedom, of colonies of people living away from the Capitol, the kind of treasonous thoughts one could only entertain in the privacy of home, among trusted family.
But if she was trusted family, why would he leave her an empty, too-large house that no longer felt like a home?
The first days she cleans the house and cooks her own meals and stacks the dishes in neat rising piles as a desperate attempt to distract herself, for if she stopped finding tasks to do she would be forced to confront the looming emptiness. She imagines that if she continued her routine as it always was then one day the door will open and everything will be all right again.
Eventually, she gives up hoping.
Once she lets go, it becomes terrifyingly easy to get used to living alone. Wake up, go to school, make sure not to give the authorities any reason to suspect anything is amiss. Dread returning to an empty house, and go to bed early out of boredom.
Even the Peacekeepers are more of an abstract afterthought than a true fear, and yet there's a knot of anxiety that remains in her stomach. An unknown fear, whispering that something, anything, everything could go wrong.
Most nights, those fears remains at bay, and she can almost convince herself that everything is all right.
Then one evening, there is a knock on her door.
*
Where are your parents, kid?
I... I don't know. I haven't seen Papa for more than five weeks now - oh, please don't tell the Peacekeepers! They might think he's gone and wandered from the district, and then they'll cut my tongue out and torture me and turn me into an avox -
Calm yourself. I'm not here for that.
Then, what are you here for?
I'm here on behalf of some business with your father. Although, seeing that he's gone, I'll just have to negotiate with you instead...
Uhhh, what are you talking about?
I've come to collect on the debt.
*
Option 1: The loan shark repossesses the flat, taking a loss on her investment, and little Recette is kicked out onto the streets.
Option 2: She works for her instead to pay it off.
Was there ever really a choice?
She's never worked a day in her life before - always coddled by her father, apparently beyond his means - but she wakes up bright and early the next morning, ready to do her best. A package of books, ready to be delivered to an old man some ways from the city center, and she marches off with a purpose.
Yay! I did it! she thinks to herself. Little old me, going on important missions for important people.
It's not just delivering books, though. She'll take orders for everything from books and clothing to strange necklaces, bags of powder, and mysterious vials of a clear, viscous liquid.
For the right price, nearly anything can be purchased in District Nine. The trick to a successful sale, though, is to know the customer - know how much money they have, what they're willing to pay, how long to haggle with them before they get annoyed and storm off.
And, oh, every day is a sea of new people to meet and old customers to encounter. She remembers the little girl with an endless appetite for candy, the old man who asked for a bottle of moonshine with every order, the housewife who commended her on how quickly her aqua-fortis orders always came in. (As for what a housewife was doing with all that acid, well, she wasn't one to judge.)
She goes to bed tired and wakes up excited, and as long as the stream of customers continues she'll never have to feel lonely again. Her mind briefly wonders why a loan shark would be willing to turn her life around, but it's never something she dwells on for long.
After all, why question good fortune?
