~*Palm Tree Color*~
"War, terrible war."
The president's speech couldn't headlock my attention.
The heavy raindrop travelers whose presence coats the air couldn't dare do it.
Even my father who rams his fidgety, needy eyes into my vision from afar never touches it.
But he does. Even though he's not present, he is. Such an adamant personality worn by such an adamant boy. Wise eyes leading up to a positive heart. A younger mind teaching massive lessons to my fatigued one. How could an absent body be so constant in my thoughts? I didn't think of his name yet, but it popped up in my head. Finnick's name.
The weighed down droplets began to pounce down on the grim faces of District 4. We all despise this retched time of year. Where lobster season is ten too many months away. The fisherman would rather nestle inside and hunch over half-completed fishing nets. The selected children are strained to fiddle with what toys they own inside. Which impels my thoughts back to Finn.
"Nerina Actassi? Nerina..? Come up, dear!" "Nerina" composed herself as only one or two years ahead of Finnick. Her rarefied hair tint was as unlikely as her disarrayed orbs. A maroon russet color that slips to her dampened shoulders. And those eyes. A pair of lambent, cerulean circles clawing at Effie. How light in contrast they are gives it a fake impression. But they have to be real. Citizens can't afford to have false contact lenses unless you live in the Capitol.
She seems out of order as a man with relative features aids her with a tremulous palm. His hand lulls for a bit before colliding with a conveniently nearby tree.
"She's blind! Nerina's blind and you're calling her u-" a bullet interrupts his outrage and takes shelter in the pits of his abdomen. He deludes to the grainy ground. Raw blood interacting with the constant pour.
Four more shots glissade to their victims in a hassle.
I don't think, I move.
The chance of ammunition pummeling in me and the discombobulated crowd are against me as I bound towards Nerina. As I inch towards her, those orbs double in seldom. Full of stupefaction and awe. They yearn for sturdy assistance. Which persuades me to help her even more. When I'm in ear shot, my quavering fingers locates her wrist.
" Nerina, I'm not here to hurt you, ok? Listen for my footsteps."
My tone comes off hoarser then expected. I sense the tremor of my condensed jaw and I'm now aware why.
A meager nod from her head was enough for me. My now sabulous feet take into action. I don't feel the toll of the rapid relay undergoing. The newly formed hail gems has no affect. Every element dimmed except the nescience forearm cradled by myself.
We end up at the rear of the Justice Building. What now? Dead end. Standoff. Roadblock. The final option is the body of waves with the other side being District 1. I don't need to question if she can swim or not. The cross-grained, irascible current would surely end her.
"You have eyes the color of palm tree leaves, yeah?"
A conflicting pang was heard behind us before the outlandish question could submerse in my thoughts. Somebody's gunning at us.
The adrenaline of the gun shot propels an idea. I'm in unison with the wind cruising bullets as I practically leap through the sand to my target. Leaving Nerina staggering. Midway my rugged hands dip to weakened calfs to heft her weight. An expected yip sailed from her mouth.
My finish line is the disheveled sand hollows illustrated by the downpour. Mother turtles would take advantage of these and place their frangible eggs in them instead of digging their own indents. They capture nostalgic vibes of coconut shavings, palm tree shade, and a wonder struck Finnick prodding at the eggs to hatch.
Fidgety fingers rest Nerina on the dank bottom of the pit.
"Stay here now. You're safe."
I clarify grasping words to her. Solicitous knees brings herself standing. I continue:
"My eyes are that color."
My clammy brows coil at the thought: " How'd you know that?".
The bullets revisit. Firing in doubles. Letting my jolted legs think for me, they relocate to a fallen Peacekeeper, gory, weapon still skimming his spiritless palm. Still thoughtless, my grasp binds the gun. My vision breaks apart the foreign device. Sickening iron sculpted to a death trap. Who'd dare test his heart to put together something like this? I lay my pointer atop a holder where I'm guessing your finger rests. I dread that I have one too many sins on my soul for having skin feel the beastly invention.
I feel the machine shudder violently underneath my hold. So violently the butt of it takes a hit at my chin. An explosive pop waves out simultaneously. My unknowingly compacted finger eases up on the now known "trigger". Realization pings. "
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