Young Writers Society

I gather the snow and put it into my jug. The cold wetness soaks through my thin gloves freezing my hands, but it is better than having nothing to protect them. We depend on the snow to survive, soon it will all have melted away, leaving us to depend on what we have stockpiled and rations for the entire summer. Rain will come, but it is never enough.

The rushing water of the stream can be heard underneath the thin ice. Beyond the stream are endless amounts of trees, but no more than a couple meters into them the silver of the fence shines in the last bit of sunlight.

I jump, the sound of a stick cracking off to my right making me drop my jug into the snow. I quickly, but quietly back away to the left before rushing into the trees. 

I run through every scenario that ends well in less than a second. The only one eliminated by the continued sounds of the person's approach, too far apart to be an animal. If I run now I might make it away safely, but something stops me, something I don't want to feel, curiosity.

Who are they? Maybe it is Clare. I hope, but I know that it isn't. The words that make up our code don't come. Everyone at the house knows this is my spot to collect and they know to stay away or else face the wrath of the unwritten rules. I have only two years left before I go.

Only left with the worst scenarios, I continue to stand there, my curiosity fighting its way out until I find myself looking around the tree for my doom.

At last I see them, their hair visible between a couple trees, it’s white like mine, and I breathe knowing they aren't a guard, but who are they? I peek out farther as they come more and more into view, but once they are there I freeze. It's not right they shouldn't be here. It’s worse than a guard. He is my death.

I pull myself away hiding behind the tree, my breathing becomes labored as I struggle to control my thoughts, my vision blurs away into blackness and the bang of a gun sounds over and over. The memory doesn’t stop, but continues on and on. I begin to loose myself and I feel my body sink towards the ground. I hit it hard, in harmony with the sound of one last shot.

I regain my senses slowly, first feeling the bitter cold of the snow that is now seeping its way into all my clothes and soaking my hair. Next, comes my hearing and a quiet curse from a voice that is unrecognizable. Finally, my sight returns as I open my eyes, everything is sideways and blurry. I blink repeatedly trying to focus on what is in front of me. More, slightly louder curses come from behind me, the voice clearer, but still strange. I turn slowly my head pounding as I see the person who spoke and one last curse comes clear as day.

From my mouth,"Fuck.”

I push myself up off the ground and into a defensive position, but it won’t do much good even if I wasn’t so dizzy. It was the first thing we learned when training began when we were eight. I should have chosen something more advanced, a mistake like this would have cost me my consciousness in training.

I take in my opponent quickly, he stands just over six feet high and he is definitely strong. He hasn’t taken a defensive stance himself, but he does stand balanced and won’t be taken down by a simple surprise attack. Finally, I look at his face, he’s quite handsome, no signs of anger or any other emotion that will lead to an attack show, but he does seem slightly scared. Of what?

Me. I tended to keep my face clear of emotions, but during fights I would always show a little of just the right things to help intimidate. I’m glad that this habit has become completely involuntary, it hides all of what I feel inside. Pain and terror.

I bring it up a notch grinning a little more maniacally. I push my laughter away as his fear increases becoming even more apparent. But then he surprises me and my grin fades just slightly as he speaks.

“I don’t want to fight you,” he states calmly. His fear doesn't seep into his voice, making him seem more confident and additionally cocky, like I should be afraid to fight him. Truly I am, but letting him know that would lose me my only advantage.

“Yeah, scaredy boy? Neither do I, I’d hate to crush that pretty face of yours.” I say taking the risk of angering him as I trash talk. It’s a tactic I really don’t use, better to strike and end the fight as quickly as possible in training, but here it’s almost fun, and hopefully it will help me.

“I’m not so sure you could do that.” He retorts back and in return I give him a look that asks 'really?' “At least not with your hair in your face like that.” he continues.I let the smallest bit of terror slip through my mask as I realize what he says is true. I had let my hair down when I started gathering snow. Even with it barely going past my shoulders it would be easier to fight if it were up in a bun like normal.

When he reaches out I’m not sure if he means to attack or just maybe swipe my hair away from my face, but my instincts kick in. Luckily for him I just dodge backing up a few feet instead of counterattacking.

“No harm intended!” He says raising his arms in surrender temporarily before dropping them down to his sides again. I am about to respond when we hear the loud clang of the bells, a warning. I have only half an hour until check in time. That’s only half the time I normally give myself to get back. I’m dead.

As I return my gaze to him, I see the look of understanding and the same worry from my face that I don’t have time or energy to hide. Without another word we both run, but in opposite directions, him towards the fence and me away from it.

I don’t stop running until I reach the front door. As I enter the halls are quite empty, everyone is in their rooms for check in. I rush through the main hallway to the east wing where my room is. When I reach the door, I take a deep breath before rushing into what I know will be hectic, it always is.