Re: Blair Dempsey - D1 [DONE]

I see you here. Not many are invited to the Dempsey home. Are you here of their wishes, or perhaps because you believe they are linked to something far darker than a sister sent to (the) slaughter and a mysterious cousin with an affinity for death? No, no, come in. There's no need to be afraid. We cannot hurt you with our stitched-on smiles and our fingerless hands, nor with our bodies of cotton and our little clothes made of scraps. Why don't you come take a look around? It's been so very long since we've had visitors.

Who are we? We are the silenced that can still speak. At one time we all had a fixture in life - we were breathing things that walked the streets and laughed with families. But we were foolish in our youth and thought we could get away with so many things that were the stepping stones for our demise and eventual rebirth.

I was the first.

She made my flesh from cloth and my bones from wood, sewed my eyes to my face and carefully pushed my hair into my scalp. Her mistakes became my scars, jagged little lines of black where her fingers stuttered. Ever so slowly I was given form - hands and feet and a lopsided smile. I used to be like her. With a body that was warm and pumped blood to my organs. I could cry, scream, shout and laugh. But now, I am nothing more than what she has made of me.

No, don't leave yet. Let me explain.

This is her room you're in right now. Blair Dempsey. Maybe you've seen the other pictures on the walls leading here, of a girl barely over twelve years old with a delicate bone structure and cold charcoal eyes devoid of warmth. That was always what drew me. I tried day after day to make a flicker of expression raise on her porcelain complexion , but I almost never succeeded. Maybe it should have clued me in, when she finally became angry and her dark, arching brows drew in that I had unleashed a monster, but I was young. I didn't know what kind of nightmare lurked behind the poster of a girl.

Do you see that? Yes, to your left. The only picture she has on her walls. That's her and her sister, Kiera. The family resemblance isn't obvious, but if you look close enough you can see shadows of her in the narrow nose and high cheekbones they both wear so well. Kiera is... was the only one that really understood Blair and the things that go on inside of her head. Horrible, violent things that she recounts with uncertainty after she winds her long, bony fingers in and around themselves, knotting them together with perhaps the only nervous habit she possesses. She used to chew her lips to shreds, pink, chapped and thin - unlike the rest of her siblings but dropped the habit when she finally learned how to expel her anxiety in different ways.

She was never normal, you know? Always so tiny, as if a wayward breeze could snap her in half. In this District more people go hungry than you think, and you could see it in her just as well as you could see it in everybody else; in the sharp, almost razor slope of her jaw and the bones from her arms, barely hidden under threadbare dresses. Whenever she changes into her pyjamas at night I see the bony fingers of her ribs caress the inside of her skin and the sharp edges of her narrow hips surface from underneath. Sometimes when I'd hit her, my palms would connect with nothing but hard ridges and it would hurt me more than her, even if she hid the pretty purple bruises that bloomed for days within my wake. She holds no grudges, now that I'm safe with her, but sometimes I remember what it was like to possess enough power to harm another living thing.

Go ahead and walk around. If you open her dresser - no, not that one, the other one - you'll see that she owns nothing fancy. Even for the Reaping it is ragged hand-me-downs and things she's stitched up on her own, sewn together from different patches of fabric until her joints ache and crack from holding a needle for too long and it finally fits on her narrow shoulders. They tell her to stop, to take breaks, but they don't understand that Blair does this to pass the long nights where she is the only living soul awake - the reason she has such deep, dark circles living in the hollows under her eyes is also why she's become an artisan in her craft.

What about me, you ask? What do I look like? I don't remember. I've been here so long in this body of cloth that I can't remember what flesh feels like. Sometimes she picks me up and I steal the warmth from her hands and her small, dainty feet, but it always vanishes again when she places me back on the shelf. I was to her what a hyena is to a lion - a nuisance, large enough to be an irritant but never enough to become a true threat. I always tried too hard - kicking at her ankles , ripping her dark stockings wrapped around wiry legs with large knees and tugging relentlessly at hair, wild and messy but always tamed into braids or tails that brought with it the colour of the void she introduced to me with my final breaths. I only remember the sound of my voice, how it drowned out her own deceptively monotone drawl, void of emotion or inflection. She silenced me to the world with a metal bat and a frenzied rage, but I can still talk to her.

And she always listens.

{Miranda}

Do excuse Roger. He's a bit off in the head, being here for so much longer than the rest of us. The two odd years he remained only in Blair's company has tinkered with his thoughts to the point of no return. No shame, really... he was such a stupid little boy. He thinks he's so much better than the rest of us, always vying for Blair's attention.

Oh, where are my manners? My name is Miranda. I would say it's a pleasure to meet you, but I doubt you would believe me anyway. How could you? Stuck on a shelf like this, stitched together with neat little seams, watching the world outside from the window to our right. It's true, perhaps it would be nice to possess a body of my own again... but it isn't going to happen, and there's no use being picky about things we can't change. My fate was sealed years ago. What, you want my story? We don't have time for that. Perhaps Michael could fill you in. He's the most like Blair, always listening in on things that don't involve him. He says it's a hunger for knowledge , but I say he's simply a secret keeper. An unwanted one, at that.

But you didn't come here for us. You came here for her. Maybe you tried to talk to her siblings before - the firstborn who's clueless, the second caught up in her own little world, the third that went away and the fourth who just doesn't understand - or her parents. But none of them know her like we do. Nobody knows what she dreams about when she dreams at all. Nobody knows the fragility underneath the cold, detached girl that everybody else sees. Even fewer find the monster that wears her skin.

Oh, but you already knew, didn't you? You feel it in the way she speaks - curious, observant and how her eyes follow you around the room, constantly watching and waiting , for a flash of weakness and a slim opening. How she calculates your body and the way you walk, how best to manipulate you into doing what is beneficial to her. (Once, when she was younger, she heard the word psychopath and wondered why it sounded so much like her.) On the days where she's managed invite the dark and allowed sleep to visit you have little to fear. It's when the darkness doesn't come and she falls further into herself that your steps have to lighten lest you trigger her attention. You don't want Blair's attention. Good or bad, it might be the very last thing you ever do.

You see, the poor girl doesn't sleep. Nobody knows why, or how. She talks with us at all hours of the night because the darkness refuses to come and take her away. Ever since she was a mere babe she'd spend hours staring at the blank ceiling of her room, developing angry black circles under her eyes, rolling listlessly around in her blankets as the sun slowly returned to set fire to the sky. As she grew, so did her night-time activities. We were the first results of her insomnia - she would hunch from dusk until dawn with a needle and thread, drawing together people from nothingness in the rare relapse of Kaelen's ideology, until her vision blurred and doubled and her hands began to tremor. Upon the first signs of a shake, her family knew to avoid her. Quiet by nature, Blair would cease speaking all together and instead take in the world with eyes that failed her and a mind easily irritated. And so it would continue, her appearance worsening the longer the days continued until her body crowed in resistance and shut her down for blessed hours on end.

I feel for her, I truly do. It is in those sacred times when she's too tired to function but too stubborn to sleep that she opens up, talks in constant spiels of rambling nonsense that only make sense if you listen. A rarity, something to be cherished. All other times you scarcely hear a hint of emotion in her voice or on her face where she chooses to remain impassive to the suffering of others. Blair has few friends for the reason that she simply doesn't care about others, nor the repercussions her actions become. Those she holds close to her heart are few and far between - Kiera, her favourite sister and best friend - her mother, whom will always have the best intentions for her. And us, of course. We will forever be her confidantes, the ones that whisper into her ears when she has run out of ideas to play. Some believe her insane for talking to things that aren't really there, but we just call her... creative.

But we do worry. Blair has the beginnings of sadism - Roger remembers how she smiled when the bat flew down towards his face.

Time is running out for you, my friend. Hurry along now to Michael. He can tell you the remainder of her story while you're still alive to hear it.

{Michael}

Ah, welcome, welcome. Made it this far, have you? I'm impressed. Those that come in wanting to hear their story run out, fleeing the ghosts they've unlocked. But you are different, aren't you? Searching for truth wherever it may lurk. I commend you, then. Few which to brave the combined wrath of the Dempsey sisters and the horrors they hide underneath their skin.

Who am I, you ask? Truly, I don't know anymore. I was an old man, once. Lived a long life of simple riches and prolonged happiness. In the many years I walked the earth I had but one lover and we made many memories together, imprinted them in the minds of our children. I remember a time before the Hunger Games, before all the hatred and the famine and the suffering. But that time was long gone, and I was ready to pay my dues. That was when Blair found me. She was not my murderer, but my... deliverance. I was removed from my frail body and placed in this one, forever watching the world and the wonders it gave me, my wife once again safe by my side. Ah, but this is my story, not hers. That is what you truly wish to know.

Blair Dempsey was born on the eve of the 50th Hunger Games to Laurna and Ambrose Dempsey who were not prepared for her arrival, but loved her none the less. With five girls already taking up the tiny, rundown little house that perched like a vulture upon its street, Blair spent the first few months of her life up in the attic with the spiders and the darkness, the trembling ray of the moon peeking through the dusty window. This is where they first learned that she would never sleep, choosing instead to stare at the outside world with wide eyes and a motionless body. The few doctors they could afford shrugged and gave them meaningless voice they did not have the money to afford - and so she remained awake. She was silent and the house was void of an infant's cries for years.

It was when she began to grow - ever so slowly, ever so slightly - that you could notice the differences. Kiera, the third youngest, was abrasively loud and wanted her presence known. Blair, with her long hair and her dark eyes, would simply melt into the shadows of the room. Whether she was at home or out in the world, she would observe. The life around her was a playground - she watched and waited and saw how a word here or there, an inflexion or a downturn of brows could yield a whole new scenario for her to explore. Such pulling of strings stopped her from gaining respect to morality and the sacredness of emotions. Some argue this is where it all started to go wrong.

The older she got, the less sleep came to her and the more it showed. For days on end she would stay up and it was visible, written all over her body for everybody to see - her hair would become thin and stringy, her face drawn and pale. Gaunt circles would mark her a phantom as she drifted in and out of the day like she was never truly there. Kiera would try her best, but there is only so much help that could be given to the lost. In an effort to help her pass the time, her father gave her a little doll to accompany her on the long, cold nights where the rest of the house grew silent and still. Blair treasured it, brought it with her wherever she went. At school they would sneer at the thing with glass eyes and an open mouth, but grew wary at how its gaze seemed to follow them across the room. Blair, too, seemed to follow them; always a shadow lurking in the corner or across the row. The teachers whispered that she was one of them, one of the Dempseys... but every time they mentioned it they would find themselves with broken windows or strange, hurtful things written on the chalkboards of their classrooms. And always, the doll was there.

Everybody knew not to downgrade the Dempsey family in Blair's presence. Some persisted - and here is where we reach the tragedy of this tale.

There was a boy. It seems there is always a boy in these stories, but this boy was not her prince charming. No, he was her tormentor. Poor Roger knew not what he was getting himself into; big and mean for a little kid, his voice would rally the others and they'd laugh as he pushed Blair into the dirt. Her expression never changed, her anger never showed. She would simply get up, brush the dirt from her messy clothing, and walk away. The more this happened, however, the angrier Roger became. How dare she ignore him! His pranks became rougher, more hurtful. Kiera caught him once - she meant to go tell her mother, but Blair assured her that she had it under control. Little did her sister know that Blair's thoughts were occupied by the salt of blood and the never-ending darkness of death.

It was a month later before it all fell apart.

Upon the deserted playground he had cornered her - there was nobody there to stop him, not the teachers or other kids or her sister that lurked around her like an infuriated bear. Yet, for the first time, she stood up for herself. Blair planted her tiny feet in front of him with her chin held high and monotone voice unusually filled with defiance. And then?

Then he kissed her.

As you might expect, this didn't go very well appreciated. The thoughts Blair harvested for months, of death and blood and carnage, came to the forefront of her mind. She bit his lip hard - he recoiled and cupped his hands over his bleeding mouth, sealing his fate by demanding her silence on the threat of her life. He was nine, and knew not that some people might take these words much more literally than he.

Later that day, as the children trickled from the playground, Roger heard his name being called. Blair stood in the shadow of the alleyway, just half of her face peeking out and the tips of her shoes. She smiled at him - something so rare that Roger thought of nothing else - and beckoned him forward. To apologize, she said. It seems children lose their sense of self-preservation; Roger went with no fear into the darkness and didn't see the gleam of the bat headed towarsd him before it was too late.

Blair doesn't like to remember that time - it shames her that she lost control. Kiera found her after the fact, blood splattered all over the brick walls and a broken body splayed out on the floor. She silently draped her coat around her youngest sister and lead her back home, where it took hours to remove the the blood from underneath her fingernails. Not only did it mark Blair's true beginning, but it solidified the bond between the two siblings as the strongest of them all. Before she left she took a souvenir in the form of a lock of his hair and a shred of his shirt that had been torn trying to escape. Ever since then? Let us simply say she has gotten... more discrete.

Oh, you think that is the end? No, no. There is much more to tell! You see all of us here, watching, waiting. Do you think we came about that same day? There was another three years of living and hating for Blair to perfect her creations. How many, you say? Nobody knows. Some of us were not of her work - Siberia over there, for example. A year ago the District shook and trembled with the earthquake - yes yes, you remember. Families were torn apart, people buried and smothered in the wreckage. For weeks the District burned under the oppressive weight of tragedy as loved ones were lost while others were found. Siberia was one of the fallen. As the ground collapsed underneath her feet she was taken by the storm, buried in the rubble and whisked off to another life. They never found her body, but Blair made a doll regardless to remember what she lost. But she doesn't talk, doesn't Siberia. Mute from the day she was made. It makes Blair suspicious - but so many things make her wary, as is her nature.

There are eight of us that she has made, in the end... but I'm afraid another will soon join our ranks. Do you see the one upon her desk, half finished, yet perfect as it is? That will soon be Kiera's doll. Her sister has been sent to the Games and death will undoubtedly follow soon after. I fear for Blair and her fragile sanity when Kiera finally leaves this world. Kiera, in a sense, was all she had. All she will ever have. When her sole link to friendship disappears, who knows what she will do in an attempt to fill the void?

... you must go. She has returned. Quick, out of the window!

Be safe. Now that you know, you must be prudent with your knowledge. Know too much, and one of them will surely... extinguish the light.

... ah, Blair! Welcome home.

The window? Oh, just a stray breeze.

Codeword: Odair
Face Claim: Jodelle Ferland (with permission from Cass)
Colours: Japanese Doll