Surviving Of Ashes - hunger games

I lean against the factory doorframe, fingers absently picking at the splinters in the wood. The edges bite into my skin, but I don't pull away. The whistle hasn't blown yet, but people are already gathering outside. Their faces look as pale as the ashen dust they're carry in from the mills, as if every step steals a little more of their spirit. Their eyes are hollow, movements sluggish like they've been drained dry before the day has even begun.
I will take a wild guess, that it's either hunger that has stolen their strength or simply the endless grind of surviving another day.
It is like watching dead leaves caught in a slow-moving current—they're just dragging themselves toward another shift.

I don't have to look hard to see myself in them. Same soot-streaked skin. Same rough, splintered hands. Same hollow resignation clouding their eyes.

I shift my weight , the soles of my boots scraping against the dusty floor, and glance towards The Square. My father's late again. He's probably passed out at the table or crumpled in a heap on the floor—of course with a bottle in his hand.

With a sigh, I reach into my pocket and pull out the wooden bird I carved last night.
It's small, no bigger than my thumb, and uneven—one wing sharper than the other, and the tail a little too short. I turn it over in my palm, my fingers finding every groove, every ridge. The wood feels warm, like it might still be alive.
There's something comforting about the feel of it, it's like I'm holding on to a piece of something alive.

"You're going to be late"

I flinch and look up to see Rhea leaning against the wall, her arms crossed. Her dark  beautiful braids catching the morning light, and her deep brown eyes flick down to the carving in my hand.

"A new one?" She asks, with a somewhat sympathetic look, but with a teasing tone.

I close my fingers around it and shove it back in my pocket. "Nope."

Her brow arches like she's about to say something smart.  I know why. She's convinced these carvings mean something.

I carve things—animals, shapes, whatever comes to mind. It keeps my hands busy, and my thoughts quiet. Rhea's convinced they have some kind of sentimental value, that they're pieces of me I'm too scared to show—too scared to say out loud. Maybe she's right, but I will never admit it. If anyone asks, they're just wood carvings I give away. Just boredom, carved into something to keep my hands busy. That's all.

"You know, pretending you don't care doesn't actually mean you don't care." And there it was.

"Really? Someone should tell The Capitol,"

She doesn't laugh, but the corner of her mouth twitches, so I'll count that as a win.

The Capitol.

My stomach twists just thinking about them. They take everything—every single thing—and they have the nerve to pretend it's fair.
I don't think it's a secret how much I despise the Capitol. They force children to fight each other to the death—like our lives are nothing but currency to pay off one ancient debt. And in their eyes, the districts will always owe them. I know for a fact that we don't owe them shit, but I have absolutely no say in that.

The Capitol isn't just responsible for the hundreds of children who've died, torn from their families and thrown into an arena with no promise of ever coming home. No, that's not enough for them. They turn it into a spectacle—watching and placing bets like it's all just some sick game.
They have the audacity to cheer while we bleed for their entertainment.

But they're more than murderers. They're thieves. The Capitol didn't just take lives in the arena. They took mine too. They stole my mom. They stole my sister. And no matter how much they take, it's never enough for them.

"What are you thinking about?" Rhea asks, pulling me out of my trance.

"Nothing."

She doesn't believe me. She crosses her arms, and gives me that look. The narrowed eyes, the slightly tilted head and her staring into my soul like she's trying to read my mind.

"Why?" I ask, already bracing for the answer.

"I don't know. Maybe because you look like you're two seconds away from burning the Capitol to the ground," she says "And because you are strangling that poor little bird in your hand."

I glance down, realizing I've been gripping the carved wooden bird so tightly the edges are digging into my palms. I loosen my hold and roll it between my fingers, trying to play it off. "Wouldn't that be something?" I mutter.

"It'd be suicide," Her voice is flat, but there's a crack in it, just enough to betray the fear underneath.
She knows as well as I do that people don't survive rebellion—not here, not in District 7.

"Suicide doesn't sound that bad does it?" I tease. The words linger in the dry air, longer than I meant them to be.

Death.

I would never intentionally take my own life, I have people to take care of. But I think about death more than I should—probably more than what's considered normal. But then again, what part of this life is normal?

Sometimes I wonder if death has been following me since the day I was born, like I came into this world with some kind of curse. My grandmother died seven hours after little innocent me, saw light for the first time. Seven hours. That's all it took for death to leave its mark on me. She died of something as absurd as an allergic reaction to red cedar. Can you imagine?
A tree killed her.
A tree.

"That's kind of how I got my name you know," I say, my voice softer now.
"Diana. Goddess of the hunt. Fitting, right? You know since everyone wound me keep dropping like prey."

I expect Rhea to roll her eyes or brush it off, but she doesn't. She just looks at me with that same worried expression she's too stubborn to hide.

I force a smirk and lean back, pretending the words didn't just come out of my mouth. "Relax," I tell her. "I'm not planning on dying anytime soon. The Capitol's not getting that satisfaction."

And I can't leave Eli—alone, with no family except a father who drowns his sorrow at the bottom of a bottle and calls it survival.

There's a part of me that doesn't quite believe the words. Because ever since I was twelve-since my mom and sister were ripped away—I haven't been able to decide what scares me more. Dying... or surviving without them.
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I am new to this, so we listen and don't judge🤞🏼💕
Idk how I feel about the ending. I don't think it makes sense🙃

This is just a start, I swear it'll be way more interesting!!!

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