D[ear] D[earest] D[arlingest] - R[osetta]

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Wonder
Career Tribute

675 POSTS
Pronouns: they/he
last seen Aug 11, 2023 10:06:03 GMT -5

everything is zoe's tbh.

D[ear] D[earest] D[arlingest] - R[osetta] Aug 26, 2012 15:19:14 GMT -5

Post by Wonder on Aug 26, 2012 15:19:14 GMT -5

Maybe next year I'll have no time

Dear, Dearest, Darlingest, I am so lost. White envelopes, beige envelopes and the like filled the mahogany desk with scratches etched upon it's surface by pressing the pen a little too hard whilst writing.

[/size] The idea that perhaps someday I'd be able to help all of these people by simply writing down five-hundred words in hope they take the sincerest of advice to heart was nothing but simply utterly foolish. To believe that I was more than a man was nothing but a cruel misrepresentation of what I truly was, a man, a boy who was in a higher position of power than most.

The darkness had just peeked, cruel black shadows threatening to swallow the maroon walls of the room. The only light peaking from a small desk lamp that created a triangular shape of light splotched across my desk and walls. There was only this small light to brighten the entire room, and somehow it was entirely fitting. One small light in a room full of darkness was what I was trying to achieve, trying to push forward that despite how awful and terrible things are, well there was a light, and that light was me. To be more than a person was treacherous and yet here I was promoting the fact that maybe I was bigger and better than most, bigger and better than the average man.

Dear, dearest, darlingest, the letters start to repeat themselves after a while. But never does the blue ball point pen stop it's frantic scribbling, never does pen stop touching paper, the second that the words stop is the second the momentum is lost. It took a while to sum up enough muse to help other people, and within that time people could go off and do something so incredibly tragic. People could die. There was enough death in the Districts, enough despair surrounding families who have lost someone so important to them. They were a key piece in a game of chess and slowly but surely the king would be targeted. Death was a chain that never quite stopped. There was enough loss in this District without someone going off and losing themselves. And so the pen kept writing.

A small fragile knock at the door signalled that Septimus had arrived, the little boy was his letter carrier, the only person in the entire District who actually knew who he was. The orphan, wasn't even really an orphan, he'd experienced pain on his own at the young age of fourteen and he knew as well as I did the importance behind helping people. "Special delivery." He muttered. Still after months of working for me, he was incredibly shy and withheld, not really muttering much but he was a good listener. He'd had heartbreak. As had I. And we move on from it, if anything he's a comfort to have around, there was no sense of fake surrounding him, like the usual people trying to get into the mayor's good books. Mature beyond his age, he helped, and that's all that really mattered.

"Special?" I took the envelope into my hands, it was nothing spectacular compared to the others, just as plain, the writing just the same as most, though clearly that of a woman's. Men's writing was never as clear and legible.

The boy smirked and nodded, "You'll understand once you read it." He'd seen who'd delivered it. There were times in this business where I knew who had send the letter, it was quite obvious really, but there was still that sense of anonymity behind it all, I wasn't supposed to know what was going on behind the closed doors of a home, yet sometimes it was so critically obvious who it belonged to. I'll understand. If anything, I'd lived in a world of open-mindedness and understanding for far too long.

"Here, special deliveries call for special compensation." I pull out my money pouch and throw him three times the payment of what I usually do. Money was nothing really to my family, we were royalty of District 5, as much as royalty could be, being related to the mayor. "Make sure Lilith gets a good supper for everyone." Scurrying off, Septimus is out the door quickly, no questions asked, money was money. I opened the letter quickly, it could be anyone writing this but clearly it was somebody special.

'Dear ___,'

[/blockquote]

The space after the dear was smudged and unable to be seen as if it were wiped off with a thumb, despite the fact it was written in pen. No one, it could be to absolutely anyone, including myself, and yet it was private. All letters were private of course, but still this letter was already curious, dear.

'In the Arena, I waited for people. They never came. Their faces appeared in the night sky, but at the time, I didn't know who they were. It was maddeningly, really. ~~Staring at those faces and knowing they were someone I once knew, but staring at them like I was seeing them for the first time when really they were the bodies between myself and death.~~'

Parts of the letter were scribbled and scratched out, though still legible. It was clear from the first line alone who this was from. There was only really one victor in district five, and that was Lethe Turner. She waited. The replays played each year, every day even to remember, everyone was meant to remember her victory and her time in the games. She had waited time and time again, losing allies left and right, Anya, Saskia, Razor. She'd waited time and time again never to find some of them. Anya died before her very eyes.

It was sickening, her time in the games in the hot African weather. As all times were sick in the Games, but the poor girl couldn't catch a break. Anya died, leaving her all alone, Saskia left too and having to kill her sole remaining ally in the finale. Perhaps it only seemed so brutal because she was from home, my home, it wasn't so bad seeing some years I suppose. Our tributes had a knack for dying either early or at the end. But the fact that Lethe had come home made it all so much worse, every second of it. They were all tortured souls, the victors, and clearly with a letter to me, Lethe was no different.

'I can recognize people now. And I know what you look like and I know what our child looks like. I don't have to wake up every morning in fear of the beautiful blonde child in my house, wondering who she is. I know who she is.

She's ours.

But, the scary thing is, despite the cure that cursed, I'm forgetting what you look like. After a year of your absence, I can still tell people what color eyes you have, but not the slope of your nose, the nose I think about all the time or your height. I can't remember if you're taller than me or not. Sometimes, I'll go to our baby's bed in the night and stare at her, memerizing what's mine and what's yours. It's crazy. I feel like ~~the monster~~ I'm losing it again. All because of you.'[/blockquote]

The monster crossed out, did she really believe she was a monster? I'd seen Lethe Turner a few times in my life, being a victor put her in constant touch with my aunt. I've seen her blonde ragged curls bounce through the halls, and I've seen them sometimes in the District whenever I dared to step out. Her feet plodding and skipping about the cobblestone roads and her small smirk, despite how haunted so ever beautiful. She was never a monster to me. Despite the knife that had pierced so many, and despite the haunting that she'd gone through time and time again, she was just a girl, not a monster.

She was nothing more than human, just as I. We all think too much of ourselves these days. I forget, sometimes, that she has a child. As do most people, no longer the young soul who graced our flickering television, twenty and the opposite of the definition of youth, she now had herself a youngling to care for. Some Capitol guy, they say. Tabloids had been all over that story, victor's having children was an amazement in itself since most swore to celibacy, praying never to have their young fight for their lives as they once had.

Had they left each other? Flicking through memories I try to remember seeing anything about their relationship on the news, never had I thought they were together still and yet, that was the problem I suppose, the reason in which the letter was written in the first place. Dear smudge, smudge being the boy who once suited her fancy, the boy who once upon a time swept her off the feet and made her feel like an angel not a monster. But that was all once upon a time, Lethe Turner with youth in hand thought she was a demon, and that's what I wanted to help, it continued.

'After I had her, I realized I didn't make a mistake that night at that party. She's beautiful. She's perfect. But, sometimes I wonder if you're the mistake. You didn't even care to contact me during these past Games. I was in the same city as you, yet you seemed so far away. I tried to find you, but they said you graduated from school and they told me they weren't sure where you were living now. One would've thought that you might've cared about your child at least. She's doing fine, thanks for asking. She can talk, but there's one word she can't say yet.

Father.'[/blockquote]

The word bolded as if written over more than a few times in order to make a point, it felt almost like intruding. Should I try and deliver this letter to smudge? I don't think that was the point. There were letters time and time again in which they were written to others and this one was new different. And yet, never in the history of writing and reading these letters had I found myself caring so much. I did care. Maybe perhaps it was because our only recent victor was hurting in an unimaginable way, there was no one around to help a girl who was in an out-of-district relationship since there were seldom people who actually managed to make there way outside the confines of their home, and if there were they were hunted down.

I cared. As each new word appeared on the paper, I grabbed the letter firmer until the sides were crinkled, every word was one last breath underwater that I needed to take, this was a look into the life of the mysterious girl with the blonde hair, and I cared ever so much in a way I hadn't ever before. Two people who were more than people. Two people who'd had accomplishments and mistakes, and I was confided in. I wasn't smudge, I wasn't a name rubbed off the paper, but I was the person meant to help.

'She can say "mother" just fine, but not what you're supposed to be. She's getting too old to accompany me to the Capitol anymore. You lost what was probably your last chance. And I seem to be the only one upset about it. My daughter needs a father. She has an overwhelming amount of aunts and uncles and she has grandparents who spoil her and she's got me, but she's growing to grow up and look around and see all of the other little girls with fathers. I know you're stuck where you are. I understand that. But, you could've at least tried to contact me. I have a phone now and I was going to give you my house number. At least she'd be able to hear your voice.

I'm losing my faith in you. My parents say I'm getting older now and I have a child. I need to settle down. The first year, I remember lying each night in my bed, so afraid that when I finally met you again, not wasted, you'd be a jerk, you'd deny what happened that night and that you'd turn away our child. But, when I came home after those Games, I would lie in bed and smile and even wish you were beside me.

Now, I'm not so sure. I'm lost without you and I'm afraid that when I next go to the Capitol, I'll again not find you. Or you'll refuse me. I don't think this is how love is supposed to feel.'[/blockquote]

The words of the letter were becoming slowly more pointed and unclear, as if it were each letter was now becoming a fierce knife battle in itself, an arena of it's own. Tears stained the white paper making some letters smudged and near unable to read, drawn out ink from water. There were lots of tears. Lethe Turner, a girl once so strong and sure turning into a mess, a girlish monster and not knowing what to do with herself.

I wonder if the name was blocked out by tears. If that smudge that covered the name at the top was nothing but a mass of tears brought together to erase the name from existence, from memory. The name that clearly had become so bitter on her tongue was erased out of my knowledge to be only known as Smudge. A father who was no longer around and doubted ever being around was erased completely from once ever being present in her life, in the life of her child. The tears, the smudge, each stroke getting harder and harder made it a painful read, more than some letters. Perhaps knowing who it was from made it all the more difficult to read, all the more harder to reply to as well.

The tears and words were slowly becoming one and the same, the letter was becoming shorter in sentences and choppy, each eloquent thought was now choppy and unsure nearing the ending. Lost and confused.[/color]

'~~I keep asking myself, am I in love?~~ I keep asking myself, am I in love?'

The sentence crossed out and rewritten with more distinction, was the girl who pretended to be powerful losing herself? Slowly falling to bits with no where left to stand. How sure was she of what she was feeling and where she was going? Was she in love? Or was she just lost? In a world full of people leaving all the time without ever coming back, each year being partly responsible for the death of two children, there was such a need for confirmation even in the worst of company, and Smudge seemed like the worst.

'I need you to tell me if I am.'

[/blockquote]

No. I answer the question myself as if I'd known the girl my entire life, Lethe Turner was only a girl on the television to me, a girl who I'd watched survive the unsurvivable, and there wasn't a doubt in my mind that if she was in love, it wasn't, or it shouldn't be with the man who wouldn't call the broken girl.

'If I was. I need to see your nose. I need to see if you're taller than me. I need you to make an effort. And not just for me. For our little girl. She needs a father and I need you. You let me down. ~~Please~~'

[/blockquote]

Crossed out, again, so many desperate pleas crossed out as if realizing maybe she didn't need to ask, maybe she just needed to demand.

'Don't do it again.'

'Next time I go to the Capitol, I'll be waiting for you. Then, maybe, I'll know the answer to my question.'

'Maybe with love,

L'

[/size][/blockquote]

Maybe with love, Lethe Turner. The finishing of the letter brings a wave of emotion over me that is never usually quite there from these letters. There are tons of dark things that I've read about in my time. Suicide, death, pregnancy, every single type of problem that anyone could face in their lives and yet the total feeling of uselessness that envelopped the girl who was supposed to be the strongest of the strong, the fittest of the fit was absolutely in every way possible, heart breaking. Never had I ever felt anything like this in my time of giving advice, a sense of caring beyond that of what I'm used to. How in any way was I supposed to explain in five-hundred words how to turn with her life when she was shipwrecked on an island where no one could access her.

Alone in the world with nothing but a child to a man who abandoned her and left her for good and I'm supposed to help. The tear-stained letter lay carelessly on the desk as I gather myself, how am I supposed to help through only words on a page, there was only so much that a person could do while writing down their thoughts, there was no contact really between two people. There's no way that I could help with Smudge, help with her eternal waiting for someone to come and stay for once through a simple Dear. There was no way, and yet perhaps I could help.

There were a not of never's that seemed to be surrounding the idea of Lethe Turner, never had I revealed myself to anyone besides Septimus. That was a big never and yet it seemed like the only plausible way to go about these types of things.[/size]

'Dearest L~~ethe~~,' In writing her whole name, I forget that she wished only to be known as L. The deed was done yet, quickly I scratch through the rest of her name, only wanting to respect her wishes.

'I'm not the boy who left you with child, and I can guarantee that my nose is nothing really special if only stubby and small.' Starting out with comedy was always better anyways. 'I'm not the boy who left you smudging his name across a letter, and yet I'm here to help as I'm sure you have heard from others - always here to help. There is no mistaken that I know who you are, there is no sense in scratching out your name as I have because it's clear who you are and I think of you no less for it.

Dearest L,

I want to help. I do. I think it may be best - for us - for this - for you, if we talk about this, face to face maybe? I understand the circumstance is, a little different than most, a little bizarre, and I'm sure that there is nothing I could scrawl across this page that will help you in any way possible, there is no words that I could string together that'll make you feel better. However, I can offer a shoulder, and an attempt to use my words through, well, my mouth, as most people do. If you would like to - I will be waiting, tomorrow, at the park, on a bench, I'm sure you'll recognize me from solely my button nose, or the fact that I am taller than you.

Not Smudge.'

I enclosed the envelope and sent for Septimus. It was a waiting game now, I would have him deliver it to her door, and ring the doorbell. Tomorrow, I would go. Tomorrow I would help.

For L.[/blockquote][/size][/justify]

To think about the questions to address.

All the green Lethe colour stuff is clearly written by Rosetta <3

Last Edit: Aug 26, 2012 16:35:56 GMT -5 by Wonder

peri-snot styler

Rosetta
Retired Staff

1,872 POSTS
last seen Aug 5, 2020 8:28:28 GMT -5

D[ear] D[earest] D[arlingest] - R[osetta] Sept 4, 2012 0:56:41 GMT -5

Post by Rosetta on Sept 4, 2012 0:56:41 GMT -5

Lethe Turner

[/center]
Good things didn't come in envelopes, in little slips of paper. Lethe Turner knew that all too well. Her name had come on a little slip of paper, one of twenty four doomed. The full outlining of what the Capitol doctors had actually done to her, the terrible error they'd made in her brain, in her already damaged brain, came in an envelope, delivered by a tiny Avox, so that she couldn't demand further answers. The doctor handed her her test results on a little slip of paper and left her alone to open it with trembling hands herself and see "positive" stamped across the top. News of Edana's adoption to parents who would teach her to find joy in her mother's murder had arrived in an envelope as did the news of the Quell, dooming another twenty four kids. A never-ending cycle.

And so, the envelope frightened her. She'd awoken to it, the cherry on top of a horror-filled night. Last night, it had been Eden's name in that awful glass bowl, Eden's name to be projected out to District Five and Eden's neck on the line. Waking up in a cold sweat was nothing new to her, but running to her child's bed and checking on her, to see her tiny chest rising and falling, that she was still breathing, her pale skin smooth and clean. Reassured that her daughter had another eight years before that dream could become a terrible reality-and Lethe prayed every day not-she opened the window in order to catch the last warm glances of the summer morning and leave Eden to sleep.

The gasp surely woke the child then. White and crisp on the windowsill outside Eden's window, the envelope was. Except it wasn't for the child. The delicate L written across the envelope could only be for one person. With trembling hands, Lethe reached for it. What could it be now?

"Mom?"

Lethe jumped and turned slowly, stuffing the envelope in the elastic waistband on her pajama pants. "Yes, sweetheart?" Rubbing her bright eyes, Eden sat up in bed and shielded her face against the gleaming window that Lethe stood before.

"I'm hungry." Lethe forced a small smile.

"I'll go make breakfast, love. Come on, Camalia." Eden giggled as Camalia, who'd taken to sleeping in Eden's bed, tail curled around her body, skittered across Eden's nightgown and to Lethe's outstretched arm, finally resting on her shoulder. Escaping Eden's room, Lethe hastily made it to the kitchen and collapsed at the table. It was still early, too early for the remaining occupants in the house-Lethe's parents and a few of her younger siblings, nearing their adult years-to be up, to snoop around Lethe's business, the letter.

Fishing it out of her waistband, Lethe placed it on the table, delicately, as if it would explode. Then, she stared it. It could be anything. It couldn't be anything good though and the possibilities of the horrors it may contain sent shivers galloping down Lethe's rigid back.

What if it had to do with Eden? Lethe's breath caught in her throat. It had been outside Eden's window...swiftly, Lethe reached forward and grabbed the envelope tightly, wrinkling it under her tight grip. Her heart was hammering. It couldn't be about her Eden. No, it couldn't.

Being well-versed in the "now or never" policy, Lethe's other fingers tightened around the top of the envelope and in one quick breath, she'd torn it open, tearing the slip of paper inside. Lethe cursed under her breath and held the two sides of the paper against each other to read the now-fractured writing inside.

’Dearest L.[/i]

Dearest? Lethe's eyes widened. Eric! But, scanning the letter hastily, Lethe's heart sank. That wasn't his handwriting. She'd taken to memorizing it...in case he did send her letter. Even more, the writer had made it quite clear that they weren’t Eric. Slipping down in her seat, the Victor began to read and with each new word, the previous excitement-or perhaps jitters-inside of her intensified with each hammer of her heart. Whoever was writing this knew her...wanted to meet her...Lethe's skin began to crawl. Who were they and how did they know...? Then, with a jolt, causing her to sit up in her seat, startling Camalia who frantically began to lick the erect hairs on the back of her neck. The letter.

She'd written it with hard strokes of her hand, with tears in her green eyes, dribbling down her chin and onto the paper. And each time she made an error, she would strike so hard at the page with her pen, she'd make cuts in the paper that bleed wood desk underneath. It was the day she was so done. Eden was crying because a boy had pushed her down at pre-school. Mrs. Turner was babbling on and on with her friend about Lethe's older sister who was about to get married-they had enough for the rare, extravagant ceremony- and casting looks at Lethe. She was unpacking from her recent visit to the Capitol-the Games had just ended-and again, she'd come home weighed down with clothing from Mel. "Green is your color!" she had gushed as Lethe held up three green shirts and an elegant green dress (for her sister's wedding). As she pulled out another green cardigan, Lethe stumbled across a dress with bloodstains on it. Except it wasn't human blood.

He'd been covered in animal blood that day, but not even that could keep her from wanting him. He'd set his blood-soaked apron aside, but later, she'd sat on it without realizing and was left with a nice souvenir. She'd absent-mindedly packed it for her next visit to the Capitol as a Mentor, unpacked and then buried it back in her luggage upon realizing. Now, when she found it, she pressed it to her nose, desperate to catch any trace of him, his smell. But, her nostrils were only filled with the metallic smell of blood and she jerked her head away, gagging, for she'd smelled enough blood in her life. He was gone. Just like during these past Games.

Not one visit, not one call. No good-news envelopes. Nothing. She'd contacted the school that he used to attend who connected her to his house, but there was no answer. Nothing. Sitting on the floor, suitcase open beside her, Lethe realized he was gone. And suddenly trembling at this injustice, Lethe had flown to her feet, passed Camalia to Eden to calm her down, and had written the letter. She was still grinding her teeth when she set out in the light drizzle, her letter tightly bound in an envelope. She'd probably walked for about ten minutes before she realized she had no place to go. She'd have to wait until she got to the Capitol to send it, but even then, where would it go? His house even had no answers. Lethe's legs had felt weak and suddenly, her knees had given way and she was collapsed on the wet street, tears pouring down her face, tense fingers crumpling the paper and throwing it, far far away from her, into a gutter. Where she hoped it would be forgotten.

Apparently not. Lethe stared uneasily at the letter. Should she got meet this mysterious person? ‘Not Smudge’, they called themselves. In other words, not him and it ached her bones. Not Smudge had picked the park, a public place. They couldn't be a creep if they didn't care if other people saw them. Lethe frowned and rubbed her tense temples. It could be anyone though...curiosity was gnawing at her insides. Whoever had found her letter was seriously interested in meeting her. In getting into her business. Lethe frowned. They had no business in her business as far as she was concerned. Ears slightly humming by this, Lethe got to her feet. Today, it was dated yesterday, so today she’d go to the park and give this person a piece of her mind. At that moment, as Lethe stood there, clutching the envelope, Eden came padding in, blond hair awry, picking her nose and Lethe gave a tiny smile. After she took care of Eden.

Two hours later, Lethe was dressed in green, pocketing the letter into her teal pants. They were conspicuous, too much so for her, but she was too distracted by Not Smudge. Was it someone she knew? Who did she know anyway? Slightly fazed by this realization that she hardly had even had any friends, Lethe teetered for a moment in her spot. So, it was a stranger. For a moment, Lethe stood quite still in the threshold of her house, but then Camalia, still on her shoulder, licked her neck. She was only going to the park. She was quite safe. Eden would be home with her mother. They would be safe. This envelope couldn’t hurt them. With a deep breath, Lethe strode out into the warm day, the letter in her pocket burning into her thigh.

With each step, another word from the letter flooded back to her, her mind turning them over and over until they were stale.

'I'm not the boy who left you with child’ He isn’t the one who took her virginity in a bathtub as they both lay sodden with alcohol, not the one who caused that little slip of paper to read “positive.” ‘Always here to help,’ he’d said before proceeding to inform her that he knew exactly who she was. That was fair. She’d made herself quite clear in her letter, speaking about the Arena and all…the Arena…Lethe felt her legs suddenly go heavy…he’d read that part...her dry lips parted and her stomach began to churn. That was something she never shared with anyone, let alone strangers. Writing about to Eric was something special and this boy, he’d seen it and he wanted to talk to her about it. What if he was just interested in the Arena? Interested in her being a Victor? Lethe felt a deep stab in her stomach and she crunched over slightly as she walked, forcing Camalia to skitter to the back of her neck, licking all the way there. What if he only cared for her cursed title and not the monster within the girl she truly was. What if-a surge of indignation brought Lethe to full height as she neared the park and the lizard on her neck licked her way to her shoulder frantically. Her hands were balled into fists, one fishing the note from her pocket and gripping it so tightly it crumpled in her hand.

The park was full of people, all enjoying the last traces of summer, but most of the benches were vacant, children preferring the grassy hills and the adults favoring the shade underneath the willows. All of the benches were vacant, actually, except one…Lethe’s heart skipped a beat. There he was. Facing away from her, a boy sat. Alone. She didn’t need to check for the button nose or the height. She knew it was him. She knew. Mother’s instinct, she supposed. She knew things.

And with a clenched jaw, holding that little slip of paper that had come from the envelope, Lethe strode forward and before she had even fully thought it through, she’d grabbed him by the shoulder from behind and growled out, “Who are you and why did you write this?”

Lethe Turner had learned many things in her life since becoming a Victor. One was that good things didn’t come from envelopes and little slips paper. And another was that asking for things never got you anywhere.

You had to demand them. [/color][/size][/blockquote]