In the beginning, back when he first arrived in Panem, he might have trusted this man. He might have heard his plea for help and given him a warm place to stay, some apples. Katurian had always been a creature of cynicism, but he had also been a creature of hope (or maybe denial?), clawing and grasping for the soft and caring humanity he always wanted to find in other people — but so rarely did.
“You won’t hurt me,” he repeated with a gasping laugh. Anxiety and skepticism and weariness. It was the fourth week. This stranger would peal him like a carrot if it meant he would live a little longer. “Are you serious?”
Katurian held his knife like some people might hold their car keys. The handle was soft against his palm, and the blade was opened and tucked gently between his index and middle fingers. It wasn’t so easy to see, half-hidden by his hand, cloaked in the darkness of his glove.
He stepped backwards.
“L-Listen, I don’t — I don’t have anything for you, I’ve got nothing that’s going to help you. I can’t help.”
no subject
“You won’t hurt me,” he repeated with a gasping laugh. Anxiety and skepticism and weariness. It was the fourth week. This stranger would peal him like a carrot if it meant he would live a little longer. “Are you serious?”
Katurian held his knife like some people might hold their car keys. The handle was soft against his palm, and the blade was opened and tucked gently between his index and middle fingers. It wasn’t so easy to see, half-hidden by his hand, cloaked in the darkness of his glove.
He stepped backwards.
“L-Listen, I don’t — I don’t have anything for you, I’ve got nothing that’s going to help you. I can’t help.”