Birdie Holmes :: D4 :: fin

appearance.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?” The voice, loud and price, spilt though the still air. My fingers small, but nimble, tremble on the handle of the small knife that balances in my hands. The voice seems to echo in my head as I turn my warm blue gaze onto the man who stood I front of me. “That is not how I have taught you to hold a knife! I taught you how to hold it with love, with adoration! Bot with power, not with a trembling hand!!” The man moves towards me and I try not to flinch as his rough hands brush against mine, removing my shaking fingers rom the hold of the knife. For years this man had tried to teach me how to wield such a weapon, and for years I have failed. He tells me over and over again that the knife is my friend that I have to trust it first- in order for it to trust me.

“Now child, Hold it like this. Run your fingers tentatively along its blade. Memorise its feel against your skin- come on now.” Demonstrating, he holds the knife gentle in his hands, and runs a long finger across the blade- just like a mother would, to soothe her crying baby. Then he pulls away from the blade and hands it back to me. Copying is every movement I run a gentle hand of the blade, trying to understand it, trying to become its friend. But all I can think of is the damage that it could cause with one strike. Beads of sweat begin to form on my fore head as my tiny heart begins to pick up speed. With a nervous hand I brush back my long dark strands of hair. I hate weapons, I hated everything there is to hate about them… but my mother and father didn’t care. They made me train, they made me hold a knife and use it for violence. It made me feel sick- but what choice did I have?

“Is this better?” I ask in a small voice. My body is relaxed- on the outside. My small arms and legs spread in a comfortable stance as the knife- once again- is pressed into my hands, my feet shoulder width wide. I stand still, my small body not even reaching the height of the man’s shoulder, and wait for him to tell me what to do next.

personality.

Right now I wished I was outside I wished I was outside riding the ocean waves- or climbing the tallest tree. I have never been one to like being trapped away inside a building, learning how to gut and slit the throat of another human begin. I wanted to help other! I wanted to be a nurse- like the ones I had been from the victory tour in D6. I wanted to help others, to nurse them back from sickness, to be the one to save others’ lives. But no, I was trapped like a cage bird. I was trapped and I had to learn. I had to learn all these techniques, my parents tell me over and over again.

When I was younger I used to go out every morning to watch the sea break over the shore of my home. I used to watch and listen to the sound of the waves as they crashed with the sandy earth. I had dreamed of being just like the ocean, free and unpredictable. The ocean did not only soothe me, calm me down, but it also made me happy, it was one of my most favourite things in the world. Mother never understood why I would run away as soon as the suns first light peaked above the horizon, she didn’t understand my passion for the ocean, or the emotions that it brought to me… But the one things she had understood was that it had made me happy. And back then, that’s one of the only things that she- my mother- would ever want for me. To see me happy.

But now? Now she seemed to only want to see me miserable. She would drag me out here to see this man each day, telling me that it was for the best, that one day I might need the skills that he is teaching me in order to survive… But I didn’t se it that way, I only saw it as her being cruel, as her wanting to see me miserable and unhappy… But deep down, deep down I knew that all this, all this was her just trying to show me that she loved me... But that was deep down somewhere hidden within me, and I hadn’t found it yet.

history.

‘My parents’ are not actually my blood parents. They are my adopted ones. They took me in from a very young age, and age so young that I cannot even remember the faces of my real parents. It hurt to think that somewhere in the district were two people who didn’t want me, who had given me away without second thought. My adopted parents- the people who I see as my real parents- never talk about them. Even when I ask, they quickly move onto a new topic, avoiding my questions entirely. That’s when I would shut up and let them speak to my two older siblings. They were my half brother and sister, they were the actual children of my parents. Sometimes I tried to ask them about my parents- but them to seem to avoid the topic. It hurt to think that they knew something about them but refused to tell me.

Sometimes I just felt an undying desire to find my real parents and to beg them to tell me why they left me, why they left me to die on the doorstep of my new family… But I knew I would never find them, I knew they were long gone. I sometimes wandered if they saw me in the streets and if I brought a smile to their lips, I wander if I had made them proud, but it only made me hurt… so I tried to avoid the thoughts of them to the best of my abilities, but it was hard! It was hard to try and ignore the fact that I still loved these people, even though I didn’t know them and that they had given me away, I still loved them.

Does the pain ever go away? I don’t know. But I do know that this family that I have now- is my real family. They take care of me, they love me. My parents treat me like one of their own, and my sister and brother act like real brothers and sisters. They make me happy, they numb some of the pain. But most of all- they make me feel loved. And that feeling, that feeling of love is what you need most in this world. I may only be thirteen, but I knew more than some people older than me, that love is something that can break people, but it is also something that can help rebuild others.