Elbow Grease- A Very Short Narrative

I wrote this for a homework in English, in which we were told we had to write a diary entry for a character for the Hunger games. Ugh. So, I kinda slightly a little bit modified the homework, and just wrote a narrative from five minutes of a typical day. The character is Greasy Sae, the Soup lady at the Hob.

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1. Elbow Grease

Some weirdo sits down.

Crap.

I turn to face him, attemptin to casually slip the half carcass of a dog into a corner. I make eye contact, and put on my usual "everything's fine" friendly face. That doesn't work, as he is staring at where I thought I hid the corpse. I turn to follow his gazze, feigning innocence. There's one rotting leg hanging off the low shelf, dangling by a flap of skin and a tendon.

Crap.

"Now, what kind of a business you running here, Sae?"

An illegal one, and it's Susan to you, Peacekeeper bastard. I can't stand Peacekeepers. When you're in District 12, you're all in the same boat, "equal", or more accurately "equally poor, starving and expendable". But these idiots, Oh No, they don't need to fend for themselves. They sponge off the Capitol and get a healthy living pretending they're better than us, then finish work and go back to being "equal". I hate it. And I hate them.

"Well, sir, not everyone's as privelaged as you are."

He doesn't know how to respond for a second. Good, you inglorious wan

"Well, madam, I have something privelaged from you instead."

I daresay that didn't come a moment too soon.

"Beef", I say, pretending to search my shelves for the premier meat. "Beef". There is no beef there, hasn't been for years, but I pretend there is and pull out a leg of something. Probably another dog. Still, this idiot can't tell. He wouldn't have realised the other one hadn't it been for the mangled, festering head.

Actually, it's about time for him to make some small talk.

And...

"So, I've heard it's the reaping next week".

I nearly cut my hand off.

Still, I soldier on. The probably dog goes into the bowl, along with the already boiling water. Rather than stabbing him, I take out by bubbling anger on the carrots. The result is a mangled mess, with pieces of skin and bone from the knife falling in, too. Into the soup.

"Reapings aren't taken lightly around here," I drop in. Perfectly executed.

"We're adults, we're safe. We can just watch the fun, though, can't we?"

I slam the soup on the counter, nearly spilling it on his repugnently perfect uniform. "Perhaps you're in the wrong district, then," I say, with as much venom in my voice as I can give. This startles him, and he looks down at his soup guiltily.

Good.

He finishes his soup impressively quickly, and leaves with no words. He throws a cartridge from one of his weapons onto the counter as he goes, for payment. You could buy a whole cow with that. Obviously sorry. I hope he is. I hope he dies. I hope the Capitol dies. But they won't. Oh well.

Viva lá revolúción.

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