D4 // Evening "Eva" Rhode [DONE]

( N A M E ) Evening "eva" Rhode
( A G E ) Eighteen
( D I S T R I C T) Four
( G E N D E R ) Female

You either love it or guess you don't.
You're such a pretty thing,
To be running from anyone
A vision with nowhere to go.
So tell me right now,

( B I O G R A P H Y )

Most people say that when they look into a mirror they see a person they do not like. Girls who dream of beauty and elegance see a girl that is too this and too that, not good enough, always. They weave into their brains lies that make them appear different. Instead of seeing what is truly there they see their minds images, flab where there is not. Crooked teeth when in reality they are perfect. They create these lies to see something bad, because it appears to me, that being pretty and perfect and who you are is simply not good enough.

Why is it that when there are no flaws you must find fault? Why must a girl seek out the ugliness when there is obvious beauty? For every good thing they see they must find something bad to pull out and pluck and make them fuss over. Girls cry about being depressed because they look so ugly and yet it is them who say it. It is them who only see the grossness when everyone else sees beauty. But even then they shun the words of their loved ones as they tell them that they care perfect, pretty and amazing.

So it evolves in their minds that they cannot be as such. They tell themselves that they can’t be like that. And in the end they become exactly what they say they are: Ugly.

When I take a moment to look in the looking glass that hangs in our bathroom I never deceive myself. I have flaws, yes I can admit that, but unlike girls I don’t care. The slight crook to my teeth means nothing when I smile. When I smile to me they look perfect. I see no wrong in the way that my eyes sit too far apart. There is beauty in that. When you stop and look away from the flaw you see that my eyes are the colour of the warmest kind of brown. They are bright and lively, never a minute when they are cold or hard.

I only waste such bitter emotions on my mother.

I don’t even mind that that my shoulders are broader than most girls. It helps me to be able to lift heavy things. Unlike girls with thin structures, stick-like arms and petite, non-existent muscles, I’m well-muscled, lean hard and strong. Although, I do have to admit that the broad back does make finding perfect clothing hard. Sometimes I have to go into the guy area, because girls are supposed to be perfect and all the same so they don’t have clothes for those of us who are different. A career girl like muscle has iron hard muscle everywhere and yet the designers assume that even with all that muscle we should be able to fit in to extra smalls and smalls, as if.

High cheek bones sit on my face, the give me a slightly gaunt looking expression, but when a smile is drawn across my lips, it all disappears in a flourish of white teeth and brown eyes burning with warmth. A faint pink stains my cheeks, like the soft colour of a rose, just before it blooms in the heat of the afternoon light. When the reds are at their weakest and there is all, but a faint pink on the underside of each soft delicate petal. When I get embarrassed the red blooms as the flower does, and deep reds burst forth in a thousand different shades, across my flat smooth cheeks.

Girls sicken me with their need for perfection, but why must we have such stereotypical perfection when every single one of us already holds it?

You think you're ready for it?
I wanna know why you got me going
So let's go, We'll take it out of here.
I think I'm ready to leap.
I'm ready to live,

”Eve, you-“

This one time there was this guy, he called me Eve. I punched him in the face. No one calls me Eve. You say that and I’ll hit you in the face.

I’m not a girl that takes shit like that lightly. I mean, I’m not mean, I was raised in a family where Ripred was our father, and my real father was not. Well, I’m not sure how he could be, seeing as my mother drowned him. You see, she didn’t see him as our father, but rather as the vessel that simply carried Ripred’s sperm stuff to make me and my sweet little sister real. After she had used him she repaid Ripred on kind, by killing him and forever telling him that she is the only husband that she would ever need –the only husband she would get. She would always then say that father would have been thankful for it.

But seriously? What kind of guy wants to thank you for killing them? More to the point no one wants to drown. It is so slow and painful, she held your breathe until you can’t anymore and then you try to breathe, but when you do the water just fills you and chokes you and eventually your lungs become so full that they burst in your chest.

My mother, the poor blind and ignorant woman has no clue that I know of her little –can I call it little?- secret. She has never told us, but you don’t have to be that clever to figure out that she drowned him. I saw it happen. Mariah, my darling little sister was only a few days old, but mother seemed to have forgotten that little I was already six. Now, six year olds don’t simply sit still and watch things happen around them. They want to touch and move and feel. They need to experience the world around them; they can’t let it go by.

I saw my mother leave the house, with some bug lug of a bag. It weighed her down so that her steps were tiny and short. She was hunched over like and old crow of a hag. She hobbled down the narrow twisting and turning streets. I followed, because well, I was six years old and my mummy was going out of the house into the big bad world. A world where there were heroes and villains, good guys and bad, princesses and princes, knights in shining armour and all the good things in life. Or so the stories told me.

They were the very stories mother made me believe. And so as I stepped out and into the early morning light I tumbled after my mother. I wanted to see the knights and kings and bow down to a queen. So I followed her blissfully unaware of the real things that I would not see. Like the way the bag she carried kicked and let out small groans of annoyance. How do I remember that? I cannot say how, but the idea that my father would not have fought was just ridiculous. It is why I weave these ideas into a story that still gives me nightmares.

I'm ready to go-oh oh oh
(Get me out of my mind)
(Get me out of my mind)
I'm ready to go-oh-oh-oh
Oh-oh-oh-a-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh-a-oh-oh

It was a day where the wind blew down each alleyway, ringing with the heavy silence of doom. I remember the little details that I saw, the colour of the sky as the sun first kissed it and the way that the waves rolled in further then they did outwards. As if they were like long claws, trying desperately to drag itself forwards and out of the ocean, but it can’t because it is part of the ocean. Most of all I remember the way my mother spoke, her words laden with such joyful spirit that it made me cringe. I hated the way she carried a gentle assurance in her words as she plunged his head into the surf. As she watched the waves slowly creep forward and kill him. She smiled.

It was a cruel, knowing smile as if she knew secrets that no one did, but I’ll never forget it, it is what often ends my nightmares before I wake up in bed, clawing at the blankets as though they were the sea and trying to drag me into their deep dark depths as well.

Yet it is not the fact that my mother only calls me Eve that makes me hate it. Anything that woman says to me makes me bubble with rage. There will never be enough ways in which I could dream of killing her to settle my cold heart. I will never be known as Eve because that name was carried by Eve, Eve of the Adam and Eve. It disgusts me to be called the same as she. For I believe in no God, I believe in no greater spirit then my own life, my soul. If there truly was an almighty God then why are we living like this? Why is their death, carnage, rape and murder?

If there was a God there would be no bad in the world, people wouldn’t suffer. And if there is a God he must have simply stopped caring. My mother thinks that giving him gifts, sacrifice’s and basing her children’s lives around laws that would suit him are what she needs. Be good for him and he will be good for you. That is what all the stories say, do good and you get good, be the bad guy and you end up alone, or worse dead.

What if all of us have gotten good and bad wrong? But it is more like there is no one out there watching over us. All those stories, fairy tales and day dreams were wrong.

For that I will never name myself after a girl who was said to start our race. I don’t believe in those lies. To be called the same name as a self-righteous bitch who created people, no. It would never do. I am Evening or Eva. I am not Eve, for I am not the beginning of the human existence and the start of a world built in lies.

I am me.

You've got these little things
You wanted something for 'em.
You'll either get it or guess you won't.
What does it really mean to get nothing from anyone?
What does it really mean to get nothing from anyone?

( C O D E W O R D )

<img src="http://i41.tinypic.com/16h2ibt.png">

So tell me right now,
You think you're ready for it?
I wanna know why you got me going
So let's go, We'll take it out of here.
I think I'm ready to leap, I'm ready to live

( C O M M E N T )

Note: This bio is not intended to offend anyone with the talk of God in it. It is simply the view of my character.

I'm ready to go-oh oh oh
(Get me out of my mind)
(Get me out of my mind)
I'm ready to go-oh-oh-oh
Oh-oh-oh-a-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh-a-oh-oh

( O T H E R )

Template credit to Lalia <3

Faceclaim is Cher Lloyd

Ready to Go by Panic at the Disco

(Ooooh)
(Ooooh)
I think I'm ready, I think I know I'm ready
I know, I think I'm ready, I think I know I'm ready
I know, I think I'm ready, I think I know I'm ready

( T A L K I N G ) FFA052
( O T H E R ) FFB469
( T H I N K I N G ) B0B1A7
( M A I N ) 7AADB7
( H E A R I N G ) 45B8DE

I'm ready to go-oh-oh-oh
(Get me out of my mind)
(Get me out of my mind)
I'm ready to go-oh-oh-oh
Oh-oh-oh-a-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh-a-oh-oh