Spiranza Ariel Lacewing D4 // {FIN}

                   The brushstrokes of her creators masterful hands managed to gift her the wispy light blond hair that rooted from her scalp. It never quite managed to flow right, but that's what her artist wanted. Hair that flowed wavy and naturally past the midriff. Thus that's how it lay, describing the snow-white pale skin it trespassed among; The strokes that couldn't hide the bags under imperfect eyes.
                   Porcelain Doll managed to describe the figure's appearance the best. She had been sculpted as the fragile statuette should, to be admired by gazing eyes instead of harsh hands, appearing as a simple wind could carry the figurine away. Even while stowing away in the make-shift museum that had been splattered with neons to pastels, the moonlight skin radiated as if against a black-blank canvas. Or it would, had paint not camouflaged the majority of the sparse wardrobe under her claim.

                   Majority believed Spirit's creator had planned a draft instead of a final structure. Building only on the smallest portion of a character, skin. Moonlit skin and honeydew hair could only run so far on its own, requiring assistance from leading factors, emotions, morals and dreams.Even despite the attempts, she never achieved to "feel"; The floods of anger or jealousy never appeared, leaving nothing more but a dried up spill of liquid colours with no bases to paint upon. Sadness never resided to dwell either, tears never trailing down the pale face that longed for the very thought. Yet she held some far to close to heart, such as confusion. Confusion had been around since before she received even her first brush, developing into almost a friend to Spirit. It remained a friend, as it was one thing she could feel, for being neutral almost frightened her. For being neutral was to equal to being grey, lasting in the middle of vibrancy and elegance, the land where nothing but lack luster materials stand their ground.
                   Confusion did fit Spirit after all, and it fit her well. Even despite not being able to understand truly not understanding, it seemed to fixate around her. Being covered head to toe with differentiating hues seemed more logical, and rather logical, compared to the general acts of the rest of her district. Even the act of judging others but a set of appearance flaws made her feel, and feel a strong feel. The only feel she seemed to feel. Comparing one another by only the gifts of somebody else's work seemed more than morally wrong. Competition was to be decided on the gifts and skills that surrounded a model rather than the looks they received with little to no effort.
                   

                   Even in her youth, Spirit had loved art; the sketches she gave life to, even in the lower grades, had been praised as beautiful portraits. It was a talent her mother gave to her, as she was the driving force to pursue the act. Even as her mom withered attempted to constrain a drunkard problem, the words of uprising spirits led into Spiranza's own. Whenever her father, usually already around his third bottle of alcohol, attempted to shun the only life form he hadn't yet corrupted, her mother had painted Spiranza the idea of optimism. The only mother she would to know bestowed her with high-spirits much like herself, attempting to protect the fragile girl who hoped to never realize the worst that can come out of terrible lies. Despite being bonded with the name "Spiranza" at birth, rarely had she been called as such. Her mother had not called her Spiranza either, as she labeled her "Spirit" as it resembled her more. A single wisp that held more potential than the eye could see, yet never fully revealing itself.
                   Being sheltered under the right wing of a caring mother had protected her from much physically and emotionally, yet not everything. The morals that screamed to continue had betrayed her more than once. Accidental drips of paint finding their way innocently into open eyes clouded her vision, damaging insight and eyesight. The drops of paint clouded the image of her very mother, who she'd imagined to be brave and proud, instead of a slowly dying rose, attempting to protect the poor spirit who depended on her.
                   Since birth Spirit had managed to be analytical, observing every aspect of the daily portrait of life around her. Thoughts being lost in translation halfway amongst thinking, leading to half-completed actions. Independent voice that her mother had carried in her genes failed to represent in her kin, instead painting the recipe for a fragile innocent diverting from the hypothesized portrait of being loud-mouthed and confident. Her father on the other hand had been born and raised with short-tempers. The only rule was to follow him as leader, no differentiation of his procedures.
                   As he one-by-one assisted his wife into the grave, he refused to acknowledge the aftermath that would presume. Bruised and cuts were nothing as if to him, they would be healed before the next week and the affects would wash off as wet paint could. Eventually, the bumps afflicted by him stopped washing away however, and began to add up. The bruises that scatter arm and legs and stomach and even her face managed to hide after long, but group together underneath. Above the skin she appeared healed as time managed to etch on, yet below her ideas broke up and the thoughts divided. One day, the bruises and bumps and scrapes and scraps grew upon each other, burying Spirit's guide and protector into the ground.
                   Colours upon colours managed to masquerade the truths that threatened to swallow her whole as it did her mom. In fact, the colours were bestowed upon Spirit by her mom, to cover up the grey-neutral territory that managed to bring the unknown along with itself. Her mom attempted to assist her daughter, even as she was inaccessible. Spirit realized it too, picking up or hunting down anything that even resembled as a sign obviously sent by her own. For example, even her name sake had been a sign. "Spirit" had been her mark since when her mom even could access her, but now she wasn't the only one in her family.

Confession Hour: I was really stressed for time on the "History" section because I have a summer reading assignment to do and ehhh. So I'm just gonna say it's finished now, but I'll probably revise it later. If there's a problem besides horrible ratchetness, I'll fix it when I come back online^^