You blink in quiet confusion when the woman in the brightly washed uniform hands you the clipboard with a careful smile. You don't recognize the beginnings of pity in her face and smile back, pleasantly oblivious.

(i've always been unusually attracted to smiles. always)

"Fill in the forms, okay, honey?" She says and you grin back, nodding your consent. You aren't sure exactly why they want you to considering there is already your name and picture at the front, but go along with it anyway. Long fingers take the offered pen and your eyes scan down the forms, reading slowly to make sure you don't miss anything like you usually do. Feet tap an unheard rhythm, rocking gently in the seat as you begin to scribble down the answers.

Basic Information:

First Name: Jessalyn
Middle Name: Naya
Last Name: Colbier
Date of Birth: October 4th, 40th Hunger Games
Height: 5"8
Weight: 132 pounds



It takes time but you carefully print it out in that gorgeous scrawl of yours.

(words don't come by often - if they do at all - and should be pretty to look at and not taken for granted)

The woman in her monochromatic brilliance nods at you and asks for the papers; you hand them back to her but keep the pen, rolling it over and over in your fingers. She flips a page and quirks an eyebrow, handing it back over to you and pointing to a series of questions that remain blank. "You still have to fill these out, Jessalyn. All of them." Your full name sounds funny on her tongue but you just nod again, furrowing your brow in a determined glare and delivering another blinding smile. "Okay."

Facts - Appearance:

Is your hair: Blonde - Brown - Black - Red - Other
Are you: Underweight - Normal Range - Overweight - Obese
Are you tall?: Yes - No
Is your skin: Pale - Tanned - Black
Are your eyes: Blue - Green - Brown - Other
Do you like the way you look?: Yes - No - I Don't Know
If No/I Don't Know, specify: I think I'm pretty, but people call me stupid. That means I'm ugly, right?

This time she doesn't ask for them back and it takes a moment to figure out why - there is a little blank space at the bottom in wide, chunky lettering that makes your nose wrinkle slightly. It says Describe Yourself and you scratch it out before penning over it in your looping letters with an extra flourish to mask the ugly words.

Describe Yourself
Describe Yourself: I have blue eyes and blonde hair. Pale skin and long legs. My hair is long. I have muscle because I dance. I like bright clothes.

You frown at the words but can make no more come forth from your pen - they taunt you with their perfectly aligned scrawl and graceful curves. After the exact phrasing disappears for the nth time you put aside your pen and hold the clipboard up to the woman with an unhappy frown because you know there is more to yourself but you can't manage to put it down into tangible form.

(i have all these notions that keep running away from me inside my head. they don't love me enough to come outside and play.)

A glimmer of light catches your eye (you are always drawn to bright things) and you find yourself moving without restraint, fingers absently touching the reflective surface and gaze dancing upon the familiar but all too foreign features of the girl staring back at you. It's simple to get lost for hours in a task as such, and as people pass you by, you can't help but be drawn into the mirror image that holds a common stranger. She is what the rest of the world sees you as, and you delve deep in an attempt to figure out how they're able to describe you much more aptly than yourself.

What She Sees In The Mirror

She seems so very lonely standing in her dull, flowey clothes with long blonde hair that curls gently across her shoulders. Currently clean but not always so, it's difficult to tame the split ends that come from too much sun and not enough money. Though streaked by the occasional flash of darker color the strands are a vibrant, bleached gold, lending her a halo of sorts when the backlights hit her scalp.
You blink slowly and she reciprocates in kind, watching you with vibrant cerulean eyes that hold a noticeable slant; soft around the edges and never angry. Yet, even through all those thick lashes and sparkling color there is a bizarre lack of something inside - an absent gaze reinforced by the distant feeling that she isn't quite there. You can't put words to it (and honestly, when is that ever new?), but it makes your chest ache quietly.

You travel from those half-empty eyes downwards, taking in the nose that looks just a bit too big for her face. It looks to be prone to breaking from the thickened nasal bone, but she doesn't seem to mind even as you touch at the enlarged areas. Hidden by curtains of hair are large, sloped ears with rigid linings and complicated swirls, you tuck back a portion of golden locks and watch her do the same in return. Small studs glimmer in the soft lighting from overhead, and you study them hard, turning them over and over until they become nothing but a whitegold blur and your lobe throbs gently.

Unbeknownst in your ministrations you have caught your firm bottom lip between rows of large teeth and pause, hesitantly lifting the corners of your mouth until it pulls into a large smile that seizes you with the sudden urge to just hold it and watch for hours upon hours.

In the harsh glare from the overhead lighting her skin appears almost milk white, robbing whatever peach complexion she's managed to snare from countless hours in the sun. You know that despite picking apples in the sweltering heat her skin tone barely changes color in the peaking glare of the summer's sun, a lightlight bronze that could still classify at beige.

Oddly free of uneven complexion save for cheeks that turn bright red in the sunlight and linger for hours, you are fascinated by the defined angle of her jaw that is visible underneath the surface. You run fingers over the lines, deftly prodding at every turn; you trace gentle cheekbones intensely visible only when she smiles, defined sockets lined with hooked eyebrows and a firm jaw ending in a wide chin. This strong elegance is likewise mirrored throughout her whole frame, and you draw eyes downwards still.

(sometimes I don't recognize myself, is that okay? people see me but they don't, like they see through me. is that okay?)

You tilt her (strong, stubborn) jaw upwards and take in the expanse of unbroken cream skin, muscles pressing gently from the confines, crowding around her spine and straining when you roll your head and watch the resulting movement with rapture. Her neck is loose and long but it hurts her sometimes, and your eyes narrow slightly when you press just below your jaw and watch the flesh around it twitch angrily.
The glimmer of your necklace draws you back down to her collarbone that is the forefront of wide, sloping shoulders roped with lean muscle. Prone to bruising, you narrow your eyes in neutral study at the array of different colors marring the pale flesh.

Covered by a hospital slip you watch the gentle rise and fall of her chest, mesmerized by the continuous motion. You curl your fingers into the bland fabric (so very dull and quiet) and lift up slightly, exposing taut musculature and hidden ribs. You ghost fingernails across the peach skin and impassively watch the trail of red streaks they leave behind, coupled with goosebumps that rise to the base of your skull.
A fingertip brushes the underside of her breast and traces the crease in the skin, watching how she stares back at you with a half-lidded gaze as you prod gently at the softly rounded globe. From another mirror placed behind it's simple to see the delicate arch and curl of her spine as it snakes up the expanse of her back. You bend for a better look and frown at the vertebrae that make themselves known, a result of not enough nutrients and long days in the fields. A fist curls in the center of her chest and presses hard, willing it to diminish the constant ache that you can never put into words but stalks your waking hours.

No outside signs dance across her face as you press into the fading sunburn against her slim biceps, musculature perhaps too evident from the extensive dancing and orchard tending since she was a young child. Skinned elbows lead to lanky forearms and large palms, slender fingers with scarred tips and ragged nails. Impassively, you turn the hand over in front of your face and look at the sharply defined bones and tendons, curling it inwards to witness them stand starkly and appear as little snakes decked with uneven fangs. A compulsive habit to tear off the existing nail and make it bleed, they have become warped over time and almost never grow back enough to be of proper use. You touch at one jagged end and jump at the jolt from her overly sensitive skin, burn wounds long since healed over but lending to a constant sensory overload.

(i don't know how to describe myself. people always think I'm stupid so I guess I'm flawed, but that's okay.)

A cold breeze floats by quietly and you flick your cerulean gaze down to her legs; long and lithe, they give her the height she has by running on forever. Large dancer thighs with taut plains of muscle stand out almost strangely against hips narrow by comparison, you glare half-heartedly at the constricting bandage wrapping around one knee. Due to a previous injury it must be tensored almost constantly until you find a way to ease the discomfort, but you hate the constricting feeling - like somebody is trying to box you in.
They end in large feet with distinguished curves and a smooth top. You flex the straight toes and watch how they instinctively point, tendons straining from over the surface and skin pulling against the hardened soles of her feet. Though she are used to being upright for hours on end, her flat arches make her muscles throb on an almost daily basis. They strain with tendons popping out of place as she rapidly rocks back and forth, a mechanism so deeply implanted that she doesn't realize she's doing it any more.

What she wears currently doesn't reflect her daily wardrobe. Her skin is almost always stained in from hand-dying the bland clothes that dominate District Eleven. Sometime you feel as if you'll just fade away (like the countless people who walk by without even knowing your name) so you adorn yourself with brightbright colors that remind you to smile and laugh and be. Large shoes from the curse of big feet, they are the only splash of neutrality in a sea of brightly lit backdrops.

(sometimes i don't know what to feel, so i smile and let people tell me what i should be)

---

A gentle hand touches your shoulder and you trace the tired nails upwards to the same nurse that's been shadowing your footsteps, watching you with something you believe is anxiety. You stop rocking once the pressure increases, feeling so suddenly trapped without the soothing motion to ease your fears. Her eyes flicker to the clock and despite yourself you look - you've been aimlessly studying yourself for an hour and fifteen minutes now. You look at her, blinking traces of stupor out of your brightbright eyes.

"Darling, are you okay?"

You hate these kinds of questions because they're always so much more complicated than they seem - there is something you wish to say but it presses hard against your throat and renders you mute. These words you wish to weave are yours to mold but every time something coherent comes forth they are swept away in an incredible tide of unnamed frustration; instead you smile as radiant as the rising sun and take one last look at the mirror. "I'm okay."

She smiles back (you have gotten better at reading faces, but you are still inept at deciphering hidden meanings) and guides you by the elbow back to your seat, once again taking out a clipboard and handing it to you. There is a fresh sheet of paper and different questions written in that ugly blocky print - you wrinkle your nose but accept the offered pen. "Fill these out and then a doctor will come and see you, okay?" You are already too far lost in your concentration to pay her any heed, and she disappears back into the sterile-lit hallways.

Facts - Personality:

Do you like people?: Yes - No
Do you like to be alone?: Yes - No
Are you stubborn: Yes - No
What are you scared of?: Spiders - Heights - Snakes - Elevators - Dark - Other: Being alone. Being forgotten. No sound.
Are you happy most of the time? Yes - No

You frown, pen coming to a halt as you stare motionlessly at the letters on the page.

Are you sad most of the time?: Yes - No

You hesitate at the simple wording. Are you sad most of the time?: Yes or No. You are tempted to circle no but a churning feeling inside your stomach and the reminder of your mother's face as you gaze out listlessly for days on end prevents the pen from coming down. From a distant memory you remember her cradling your head in her hands and coming through with the distinct impression she thought you so empty and hollow that she just wanted to hide you from the world and cry. Her face tries not to be sad but her words mean a completely different thing, and it makes you sad that you're the cause of this confusion. This alters your decision and though you are never sure of anything, mother knows best. Your pen shakily circles 'yes' with palpable hesitance.

Are you sad most of the time?: Yes - No

(i can't sleep in the dark sometimes. it feels like the lack of everything will swallow me.)

"Jessalyn, can you hear me?" You glance up in puzzlement, never once halting the gentle roll of your utensil in your lithe fingers. Of course you can hear her; she's right there.

"Yep." You reply with a smile, looking up at her expectantly.

People don't usually talk to you unless they want something, anyway, unless you've managed to make friends with them. And even then, sometimes they run away after a while. You don't know why.

The nurse tells you to come with her, and after hesitating for a moment (you're never supposed to go anywhere with strangers) you figure she's so small that you could run away easily thanks to your dancer physique. You pad quietly through the white washed halls, bare feet making no sound upon the harsh flooring.

Eventually, you come into a section with darkly lit walls. All the black hurts your eyes so you close them stubbornly and walk blindly through the corridors, relying heavily on your sensitive hearing in order to navigate your way through the sparse obstacles, still managing to bump into several on the way there. The nurse takes you gently by the arm and guides you into a room - you are aware of the suffocating nothingness retreating farther away so you hesitantly open them again. Green is lightly painted on the walls and you smile; you like green because it reminds you how to breathe.

"Hello there, Jessalyn." Comes a voice and you flick your eyes over to the man in the whitewhite coat, hands clasped behind his face and smile too old for his young face. You are tempted to return the grin but something is wrong with his shiny teeth and open eyes. It doesn't look genuine, like he's trying too hard; Denver said they pity you when they do that and you hate it.

So instead you remain silent, meeting his gaze with wary eyes and folding protective arms over your chest. "Hi." There is quiet silence for a few seconds (it hurts your ears) before he strides to the front of the room and takes a seat in a large, plush chair. The nurse vanishes, and suddenly you're all alone.

As much as you suddenly dislike this man, you've grown tired of standing and carefully take a seat opposite him. You focus on the wall to his right as he studies you, and you try hard not to make any sudden movements that he could look into (people always hate brain doctors. they call them quacks - but why is being compared to a duck a bad thing?) with his special doctor abilities.

Maybe if you wore the coat, you'd be smart.
You contemplate grabbing it and running.

"So, do you know what you're here for?" Your tongue remains limp in your mouth, soft orbs gliding over to his face momentarily. When you blink, he takes it as a sign to keep going.

"We need to be able to know you, Jessalyn." Inside your mouth, your tongue twitches to correct him from saying your full name, but some unknown pressure in the base of your throat prevents the words from coming forth. Your feet twitch in rapid succession on the flooring, trying to deliver a sort of solace to replace the eerie silence. "So that we know how to help you."

(i feel alone. i always feel alone even when i'm with somebody. is that okay?)

When She Sings To Her Heart, It Croons Back

He gestures down to the table in front and your eyes fall upon an array of different blocks in multiple colors. Some are so loud they seem to scream i'm lonely, pick me while others slink into the background and shun your loving touch. You watch them in rapture, barely registering his voice that explains the newest exercise.

"You like colors, right? You're going to pick the block that is what you feel most of the time, and then write that feeling down on this sheet of paper. Okay? You get to pick three colors."

So maybe you judged him too quickly, and give a beaming smile in return though you don't take your eyes off the colorful display.

"Okay!" Without hesitation you grab the sunny, yellow block (Denver said once you were like the rising sun) and turn it over and over in your hands, sensitive fingertips brushing against the cool, glossy surface. Happy is imprinted in bold and you think that is right and wrong both at once; you can't really describe the hazy smile that stretches your face in half without meaning to, a slow contentment that doesn't seep into your bones. Perhaps happy isn't exactly the right word, but it's the closest thing your infamously blurred mind can currently conjure - you are easy to please but hard to really make happy.

Even as your fingers caress the smooth sides, your brightbright eyes are drawn to the dejected, sullen blue on the other end of the table. Your heart twinges in response and you hesitate only a second before reaching for it, weight feeling so much heavier in your open palm. It settles in the pit of your throat and throbs a haphazard beat. Sad is engraved in looping letters and you carefully trace the indents with your thumb, swallowing the hazy desperation that creeps up quietly from some unknown abyss. It matches perfectly with the strange pressure in your chest that never breaks, never fades, but just retracts once in a while so it allows you to breathe in deep and forget the world. "Can you choose one more, Jessa?"

A tongue wets your lips as you scan the array of colors, blocks pinching your skin on the sides. When you can't decide, he smiles slightly and it reminds you of Papa always saying follow your heart, darling. That was always confusing because your heart is always loud and irritates your insides with its incessant murmuring. When it speaks you respond but when you need to talk it remains stubbornly silent save for the rapid swish of blood pumping through your veins. Listen to your heart but there is nothing to listen to. A blank space where your thoughts should be.

Of its own accord your hand has clasped the white block. Nothing is written on it but you believe it is for the best, because then you wouldn't be able to call it white. It would be flawed. The doctor man raises his eyebrows.

"Empty?"

You speak in that soft, gone voice that always manages to scare people away. "Yeah."

(i don't feel rage. i see hate in people's eyes but i'm always blank. blank like a fresh sheet of dreams.)

Doctor-man picks up your sheet and flicks through it while you stack the blocks one on top of the other, switching switching but never stopping because the clunking noise they make is reassurance in its basest form. He rustles and you stack, eyes narrowed in concentration and world fading away. Something doesn't want you to stop, like your life depends on it and these three simple objects---

"Jessalyn?" Your concentration is broken easily and you glance up, noting his smile that has increased. That's wrong, nothing's happened to make him smile. You distinctly remember that grin - all teeth and no warmth - before the doctors do anything bad to you so you shuffle backwards, tracking him but not saying a word. "You said in your paper that you're afraid of the dark?"

Secretly, you like the woman you talk to back home (all smiles and dimples and stickybright eyes) because she takes you away from your oppressive bedroom - so very dark and frightening - and into her seablue walls identical to your eyes. The blackness will swallow you whole and your deepest fear is never being heard from again, shadows smothering your faltering verbalizations.

"Yeah."

He purses his lips, and you push yourself back into the couch, willing it to swallow you and take you far away from here. "I need you to listen to me." And you can't help but look at him because he is bright and white and soso alive. "I'm going to turn off the lights, and then you're going to tell me how you feel. Okay?" It seems that your heart freezes in your throat and all you can conjure is a scared whimper, bringing your knees up to your chest and watching him with wide and terrified eyes. He reaches for the switch but you have barely time to moan a strangled warning before all the lights go out.

All of a sudden your world is plunged into blackness. You can't see, can't hear. There is nothing beyond your fingertips and your throat is clamped in a state of constant paralysis, eyes wide open in the dark. His breathing barely registers and it presses against your head, thrumming a steady scream inside the hollow of your skull. To alleviate the quickly growing panic you shift your gaze somewhere in the room (this way the dark can't creep up behind you) and twist into an awkward position, body facing the plush cushions but eyes refusing to leave the silhouette of the deeper dark that his closet presents.

"Jessa, how do you feel?" That question is stupid because he knows, knows you hate the dark and the silence and the nothing and just -everything- but still insists. You attempt to work words past your throat but only manage stilted lettering, your fractured punctuation lending a broken flow (it grates at your ears). "I don't like it. Turn them on. Please. Just stop... stopstopstopSTOP."

Palms smack hard on your temples and you squeeze at the blocks so hard that you feel your nails splintering upwards, familiar tension running high strung through your body. Panic has seized the reins and you are just along for the ride, you scream and cry and shout but that doesn't lift the writhing shadows that play around your vision. You are usually so glossy and lost (waiting for somebody to guide you through a life of concepts that you don't understand) but in this moment you are raw and scared, blank dreams melting away for a more feral emotion.

Usually you can just go sleep on the couch or the kitchen with the lights softly on and the steady thrum of an overhead fan drowning out your suffocating thoughts, but there is nowhere to run now and it renders you close to hysterics, punctuated by the constant humming from your chest or the gentle one-two stutter of the doctor-man's breathing.

You must have sound because that means you're still here and alive and your whole body twitches at spastic intervals with the disjointed tempo, eyes wide and unseeing.

When the lights come back on you are a shivering mess; head buried in your knees and nails sunk in so deep to your scalp blood dribbles down the sides. The blocks are scattered everywhere, and he takes in the desperation with quiet significance. "Okay, that's enough. You can go."

(people always want me to be smart when they least expect it. like hidden intelligence is hidden somewhere inside even though it's all locked up here. sometimes it's like i'm trapped in a room and they keep hitting at the walls to get me out, but it hurts my head.)


---


By the time you've cleaned the blood from under your nails and wiped the redness from your eyes it's gotten dark and the lights buzz a fluorescent tune overhead. They sit you down and worry over the marks on your scalp but you stare straight ahead, basking in the harsh glare and fingers twitching absently with the low humming you haven't yet stopped since you escaped the gentle green room. When one nurse presses a cotton patch to your head you don't even seem to notice, staring instead at the familiar clipboard with the rough edges pressing into your scarred fingers.

The words are chunky again but you can't summon the will to scratch them out - instead writing the slots as quickly as possible because you just want to be out of this place that smells all wrong and sterile with strange smiles and emotions that don't reach their eyes.


Facts - History:

How old are you?: Seventeen
Where do you live?: District Eleven
Do you have parents and siblings?: I don't have any brothers or sisters.
Are you in school?: Yes.
Have you ever had a job?: No.
What bad has happened in your life?: My friend died last year.

When you keep it the mere thought of staying here is enough to trigger the swaying motion again, teeth worrying a lower lip anxiously as the air conditioner blasts stray strands of spun gold out of your eyes. It reminds you of cold days on the swings with blonde hair in your face and you're laughinglaughing because Denver and Lydia are there and you can't tell them apart from this high up and you feel like you're going to fly even as your leg vibrates viciously--

At first your mom just thought it was the dance and all the nervous energy you keep inside. That confused you because how can something make you nervous if you loved doing it? but it seemed to make her happy so you went along with it.

But as the years went by and your feet twitched to the invisible beat, she never said that it was dance any more. It was just that - it (it; said with the grim eyes and tight expression, the way she'd hold you tight and whisper soundless words you couldn't comprehend, how they saved up so much to buy you a music player so you could walk around in perpetual melody).

While it didn't stop the rocking, the earbuds allowed your movements a bit more fluidity, and suddenly you fit in a little better.

Some days you don't need the music, but other times it's like you can't bear to be separated. It's the only thing that stops the breakingcryingscreaming brought on by scary, silent nights.

You try and sear the lyrics into your mind so that it might replace your own stuttered syllables, so that maybe your parents don't get that hopelessly sad look ever time you plug yourself in and away. They run on loop until you can't remember anything, until the notes all blur together, until you're blissfully exempt from the hidden bottle in your dresser with words like anti-depressants and lithium.

"Sweetheart, are you okay?"

A soft hand stills your rapidly jumping leg, eyes never leaving their focus on the floor but studying the immaculate nail beds and freshly painted nails. You feel the warmth seep into the firm muscle underneath flimsy pants and smile quietly while relaxing the inner toil of tension that has begun to accumulate deep inside your core. Fingers relax their grip on the clipboard and you finally meet greenbrown eyes, blinking remnants of daze from your own.

"I guess so." Without meaning to make her uncomfortable you toy with her perfect nails, tilting your head to the side and watching in rapture as the light reflects off the shining surface.

(all the words i ever want to say are mine to use but end up falling apart.)

Vaguely you realize that they have asked for your history in pictures - you think that's for the best, anyway - and it works out but sometimes you don't know how to put the emotion down on paper, how Denver randomly holds you tight because he can't handle the way your eyes look sometimes (like you're suffocating in yourself, like one day you won't wake up because all these secrets will drown you)

When Her Story Started, They Must Have Used Different Ink

"Can I see what you're drawing?" She asks and because her eyes make you smile and think yeah, that's it, you readily agree.




"Is that you?" You grin and feel the strange flutter in your chest whenever you know you'll really like someone, whether it be because you like the same ice cream or they can move to the same silent tempo as you. Her eyes are so very bright and it fills you with a daring warmth (climbing a sunlit tree, your cat stretching in the heat, dancing away at the peak of noon).

"Yeah."



It's no surprise that you aren't the smartest of people. Things often confuse you and people know when you get that dazed look (like you're in another world) that it's a lost cause. But school is worse because it's impossible to hide; all the books and the work tie your brain into knots.

"Why are they saying that?"

"Because I'm different. I'm not smart. School, um. It's... different. No, not that. School is hard and I don't like it."



The vibrant blonde hair makes you smile and run your fingers over the drying ink, smudging the lines and wiping the eyes off of the shortest figure.

"I like them." You offer in explanation. They don't say it out loud but you know it doesn't matter that you're dumb, you can still be friends. "They don't make fun of me."

"It's a pretty picture."

"Thanks."

And you mean it.



"This is my lady." You say, staring hard at the picture to relay the simple figure to somebody with brightbright eyes and smiles that make you want to reach out and run lithe fingers all along her face.

Three times a week she listens to you try and speak, aiding your broken constructions into beautiful metaphors and definitions that will never come out when they truly count. "She helps me sleep at night."



"Jessa..." There is a warning in her tone like when you do something wrong, but you can't figure out what because you haven't even done something stupid yet. Maybe you heard it wrong; it happens a lot. People laugh at you for that.

"They make me not so dumb, you know." They aren't even supposed to be yours but your mother have so many hidden away that you can drown yourself in them without her noticing. While they clear one part of your mind they just further the detachment between your language and yourself, stumbling over sentences and forgetting even simple wording. You don't take them every day if you can help it, though - the alienation from your wants and fears scares you more than you'll ever care to admit.

(so i shadow my sorrow with stolen expressions as bright flashy clothes hide the pockets with white little pills.)




Your fingers trace the grave sadly and you can almost feel her underneath your fingertips. A craving settles in the pit of your chest and nags at the back of your memory - it wants summer days and happy laughs. She shifts next to you, peering down with sad greenbrown eyes. "Is that your friend?"

"Lydia. She died."

"I'm sorry." A moment of silence before the blonde breaks the beginnings of remembrance.

"Do you miss her?

You shrug, tracing the single rose with the pad of your thumb. "I guess. I... I go the the dead place," she gently corrects your wording and you smile slightly. "and talk. She can understand me." She shifts beside you, a bright blonde blur against the edges of her vision.

"But do you wish you could see her again?"
"Sometimes. But when Denver smiles it's not Denver. It's... it's..." you struggle for the correct wording, teeth clamping desperately on some semblance of coherency "Lydia. Denver never smiles. It's always Lydia."

And she smiles in turn (and she looks like a fragmented rainbow, all sad and hopeful and unsure).

---

You walk out into the bright light of day, closing glassy eyes and letting the life soak in through your skin. In your hand clutches a certificate like a lifeline (like if you let go you'll forget who you are, that you even exist). While a diagnosis of PDD-NOS doesn't change anything because you're still you, everything has shifted because there is no longer just a nagging suspicion, a doubt that this is something bigger.

While it is a fancy term for autism, it does not deny the underlying current of retard. People will treat you not just as slow and dim - you are now certifiably stupid and will never just be Jessa anymore. You aren't sure if you're okay with that, but only time will tell.

Watching the sky, you let go of your last picture that your new friend asked you to draw.

"Jessa, what does the dark make you feel like?"



fin.

---

Other notes: Beautiful, beautiful thing. I hope you enjoyed her as much as I did.
Face Claim: Heather Morris
Codeword: Odair

because it's awesome