✄ .・。.・゜✭・. all around me are familiar faces worn out places, worn out faces ━━━
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██ 001. / SONS OF SLAVES
█ ✄ ... / BENEATH themonotonic moan of the machine noise, the clustered whispers were about to send Paisley's head reeling. It was always like this — filled with noise, the slaves of District Eight finding any opportunity they could to proclaim their true feelings without their words finding the wrong ears. With their voices buried beneath the clambering sounds of the continuous vibrations, the Stiffs spoke freely in hushed tones as they worked away, breaking up every movement with a couple sharp words of discontent. Most of the workers revelled in their freedom to speak, taking as much advantage of the sheltered sound as they could, but Paisley preferred to work in silence. The whispers were just too distracting — too great a temptation — and the four hours of mandatory work that Paisley put in each day was the only time that she ever allowed herself to think.
Here, behind the busying movements of the machinery, Paisley found her mind too occupied to go wandering. Here, as she picked at yarn and punched holes through plastic, Paisley's thoughts were free of the darker visions that filled her mind at night, when her body was languid enough to let her demons run loose.
Little blood circulated through her fingers as she worked, her firm press around the cotton threads turning her fingertips white. The harsh texture of the fibres irritated her blemished skin until it was calloused and raw, but she didn't seem to mind. Working the loom wasn't one of the easiest jobs, or even the most rewarding, but Paisley had always found it more enjoyable than turning wheels or carting yards upon yards of fabric.
Still, the racket of the factory made it so much worse.
Most people assumed the industrial noise was what made Eight so audibly unbearable, but Paisley had always found that to be a misconception. After several years of exposure to the thundering whirs, your ears tended to grow numb to the sound, and the buzzing became nothing but a little white noise. No, it wasn't the machines that drove Paisley to insanity. It was always the whispers — the throbbing combination of mindless gossip and zealous words that were practically impossible to tune out.
Beside her, Meryl worked frivolously, her fingers moving lazily as her eyes found their attention drawn elsewhere. They were supposed to be working together - the same tedious movements as they wove the threads through the machine - but Meryl had never been quite as contained as Paisley. She couldn't trudge through her full four hours in silence.
"Psst."
Paisley attempted to ignore her at first, feeling the phantom chill of eyes piercing the back of her head as she worked, but it wouldn't be any use.
