D5 // TALULLAH LYONS

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INFORMATION

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BIOGRAPHY

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freak 1
n.
1.
A thing or occurrence that is markedly unusual or irregular: A freak of nature produced the midsummer snow.
2. An abnormally formed organism, especially a person or animal regarded as a curiosity or monstrosity.
3. A sudden capricious turn of mind; a whim: "The freaks of the psyche can no more be explained than the Devil" (Maurice Collis).
4. Slang
a. A drug user or addict: a speed freak.
b. An eccentric or nonconformist person, especially a member of a counterculture.
c. An enthusiast: rock music freaks.

"You're all freaks," spat the little boy, and the playground blurred. (Don't cry, Lulah, don't you dare.) I struggled to remember my sister's words: she told me that we never chose to share the blood that pumps through our veins - "We're perfectly sane," she said. I nodded, pretending to be relieved and struggling to slow my heartbeat - she can feel it pounding too. It's a lie.

I feel her beside me always. She's Peregrine Lyons - trapped and helpless, clawing against the confines of the body we share. Yearning for freedom. Surely the sanity she speaks of leads her to desire it - after all, who would want to be tied to their sister for all of eternity, cursed to die the way you were born? Every day I watch her eyes trace the shadows and remind myself than I am just as much of a freak as the boy in the playground declared. Insane, incurable and ever so lost.

"Don't you ever want to be alone?" Rio asked. I shook my head quickly - (Then who would be there to listen to my sins, to hold my hand, to remind me that I'm somebody?) I have never been without Peregrine by my side. Sometimes I fear that without her steady rhythm and quick words I would fall silent and forget to draw air. When we are together (always) I can smile and laugh and play the flute and dance - joy comes easily to me and I am so very brave. Leering schoolchildren don't make me cry anymore.

It's not as though we cannot afford medical assistance - tearing us apart would be fatal in so many more ways than none
. We have money, and although my siblings have often tried to buy their way into the fearful hearts of the district, there is no denying that we are different. (Heart of a Lyon, Lulah. Be proud.)


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I am somebody. Tallulah Lyons - shining, smiling, filled with positivity and grace. I can play almost anything I'm presented with - music plays itself from paper into my mind in a way that words can never manage. I'm the one who makes an effort - (Oh, Lulah, why must you show me up so?) (You don't really mind, do you, Peregrine?) My own words sound fearful and far too quick, as though they are reaching out in desperation. She loves me. I'm sure of that - but presented the chance I do not doubt that she would flee our body and never turn back.

I try to promise myself that without Peregrine, I would still have a reason to walk the District. That I would still smile when it rains and play my clarinet so early that it wakes Denali from slumber. The term other half is tossed around so carelessly. People use it and then file for a divorce, or use the word to describe a partner they never tire of complaining about. To me, the word means so much more - it's infinity stretches far beyond my understanding. I know only one thing. Without Peregrine, I'm not entirely sure I would still be Tallulah.

It's not to say we aren't different - she's louder, and I prefer not to speak if I can help it. (She always knows what I'm about to say the moment before I speak.) Patience is something that comes easily to me - after all, isn't life simply waiting around and doing your very best to enjoy the ride? My mind helps her own to struggle over the things she cannot understand. I don't mind that our answers come out the same. It helps me believe, for the slightest of moments, that we are the same. That she doesn't truly want to walk without me and that her heart flutters in the same concerning way when somebody mentions surgery or scalpels or knives or scissors.


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I prefer to look at Peregrine than in a mirror. (I have to twist around a little to see her right, but she's always there.) When she's sleeping, I watch the heavy rise and fall of her chest and think of all the little specks of oxygen that travel through her lungs and into my blood. My hand comes to rest at my wrist - my pulse strong and resolute. She's pretty, is Peregrine. (I do prefer the way your hair curls under, Lulah, it's much prettier than mine!) (But Peregrine, we look the same!) (We're different.) Perhaps inside, but to me it seems as though on the outside we are equal. The same brown curls outline the same plain faces, with pale skin and wide eyes. I smile more than she does. Tears fall more easily from my eyes despite the perfect mirrors that form her own.

We're two pieces of a puzzle - complete together, interlocking faultlessly with an acquired grace that can only be found after fourteen years without choice. Part of me - the horrible bitter part of me - is glad that there is no choice but to stay as we are. We know nothing else, and now are slender bodies work in perfect harmony. We are a tune, a melody, a lullaby I couldn't sleep without; not ever. I feel her movements in the moments before she makes them and her words push themselves into my mind easily. (Don't cry so, Lulah, you know it upsets me.) (You take the piano and I'll reach for the violin?) (Here, I've got it already.)

I love her rather a lot, you know.

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COMPLETE

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