Euphrasie Cosette Ourvenes -- District Ten

For the wretched of the earth
There is a flame that never dies
Even the darkest night will end
And the sun will rise¹

“ i t i s n o t h i n g t o d i e . i t i s f r i g h t f u l n o t t o l i v e ”

t h e p o w e r o f a g l a n c e h a s b e e n s o m u c h a b u s e d i n l o v e s t o r i e s | euphrasie cosette ourvenes
t h a t i t h a s c o m e t o b e d i s b e l i e v e d i n | cosette
f e w p e o p l e d a r e n o w t o s a y t h a t t w o b e i n g s h a v e f a l l e n i n l o v e | sixteen
b e c a u s e t h e y h a v e l o o k e d a t e a c h o t h e r | female
y e t i t i s i n t h i s w a y t h a t l o v e b e g i n s , a n d i n t h i s w a y o n l y | district ten

“ n o t b e i n g h e a r d i s n o r e a s o n f o r s i l e n c e ”

I am nothing but a ghost.

Anyone who has seen me ― or at least, with a second-long stare to try and get a good grasp of what I look like, my features barely striking enough to carve any of myself in their memory ― would say that, although I can't be too sure that they know what the ethereal creature representing the living dead looks like. I'm guessing no one does, not me, and not even the ones shunned to society (in a state so much worse than what I believe I am in) when the words that they preach just didn't make any sense at all.

With all of the days I have spent enveloped within the thread-weaved worlds, perhaps I have gained insight in what ghosts were supposed to look like, after all, if I'm one of them, I'm at least supposed to know who I am. All I know is that the smooth surface of the mirrors that I tend to pass by inside our dank abode sends a shiver down my spine, because all I happen to see is the ghost of the girl that I once was.

Or have I gone blind and stupid? No, I haven't change. I ―

I was still the same weak girl after all the years that passed by.

Feebleness was permanently etched across my features ― if you could see them. Soft curves and nonexistent edges too mild and modest for their own good (for my own good)

[/color], submissive against the pale pallor of my deathly skin. Maybe that was an exaggeration taken too far into extremities, because my eyes ― brown in color, unlike the striking and heavenly color of the skies that some possess, reaching into their souls, unlike the dirt akin to my own that only meets everyone's soles ― had no need of spectacles and still manage to see where my skin ends and where the stark whiteness of the wall begins. I could, but could others?

Father says 'I'm beautiful,' but I don't believe him. There was never anything beautiful about something so plain. The Capitolites would know, with their skin painted with a thousand symbols and a thousand colors too bright, their eyes attached to a thousand paraphernalia and irises tinted with hue too unnatural to be less unnerving than the way their voices always manage to set everything higher than where they were supposed to be. He says 'your time will come,' and Time proves once again to be as snail-paced as ever, the blossoming glow of womanhood not yet enough to break through the thick block of pallidness that has built up over time. Although what used to be only grime-filled skin and jutting bones now had a little bit more in between them, the only hard edges to be found on me now softening into young curves that certainly was taking all the time in the world. But I certainly don't mind. Fully grown woman or not, I was still Cosette. The same old willowy Cosette, spine curled and shoulders hunched, face forever concentrated in guiding a needle in between her slender thumb and index finger up and down, up and down. The same old Cosette who's sadness showed in her lonely eyes and sad, slow smile. The one with invisible silent grief trailing her footsteps, inaudible just like its mistress.[/color][/color][/justify]



[/color] Many times have I been asked 'excuse me, mad ― mademioselle madame, but could you speak a little louder, please?' whenever it was one of Eight's rare moments of social gatherings, something I felt compelled to attend and put up a respectable front, a simple (yet strangely guilt-eating especially when I know that I could do so much better) act of gratitude for Father. And I do try, despite the blood rushing and threatening to brighten my skin with an obvious flush of red, except this time it wasn't the effort to socialize that was pulling at my vocal chords, it was the swirling vertigo of my own past catching up to my heels and its feral bite wanting to snap off my voice back into the dimunitive position it had crouched just like the years before.

Useless, insolent ―

But the past has never left me, it only stayed quiet in the opposite corner of the room, glaring at me until I finally take courage to acknowledge its presence and meet its eyes that told too much. Ever so quickly, I duck my head down once again, pressing my lips to crush the whimper that nearly escaped, until they turned too pale and I released my grasp ― my only grasp ― and color came flooding back once again. Eyes like the strange combination of rust, dark through time and light against the shining sun, follow the trail of words that line across the page, inaudibly speaking the history and other important information of sewing and the different ways weaving threads could be done. Up, down, up, down...

I ― Up, down, up, down... can't ― Up, down, up ― The threads weren't strong enough, and with a tug, the memories come flowing back with the sardonically sweet swish of release.

"You bastard girl, the star you're wishing on is dead!" Among all of the bits of phrases flung at me ― blood-sucking leech, ugly little rat, unwanted freeloader ― that was the one that my sad heart clung to. My fragile memory ― badly beaten in all the years of actual blows ―[/color] remembered every single detail unlike what I wished it did. I could still remember how I was freezing in the night breeze, shivering under my measly clothing (but what was there to complain? I was thankful I had found a spare roll of clothes to sew a shapeless form to wear)[/color] and huddled in my own arms, but it was worth it ― I think. I was tired to the bone with all the scrubbing off of alcohol that managed to stain the floors, and the smell still stuck to my skin, but a few more minutes of sleep was well-sacrificed. The stars were out, and so was the beautiful moon herself. I wish to think that I've heard of whispers going 'round about how the celestial objects were often carriers of love-lorn dreams, but there is no such thing as that in the smuggling ring. I don't know how I came to the thought that perhaps something so far away could help me from down here, but I needed all the help I could find, didn't I?

"I wish of ―" My hoarse whisper didn't even got close to halfway when a pair of hands grabbed my bones shoulders and roughly pulled me up, and then grabbed a fistful of my hair, matted with dust, sweat, and spit, and in bad need of a bath. I remember Mothe― Mrs. Deschiens (she didn't consider me as her child) face, rage lighting up her features even with the darkness that surrounded us despite the numerous twinkling lights above. I remember a hard slap greeting me awake before I fall into a fear-induced sleep, and an almighty kick in the shins and another tug that pulls the drawstring of my tears open and releasing ―

A teardrop rolls from my cheek and onto the page, and I'm back in reality once more. Hastily wiping the wet trails dry, I take a deep breath. It's alright. It's over now. No one can hurt you ― a shaky hand closes the book, lingering on top of the hard cover, as if drawing strength to release the breath I've been holding in ― yet.[/color][/justify]



c o d e w o r d | odair
a n d w h i l e h e r f a c e | amanda seyfried
r e m a i n s t r u e , l i k e s t a t u e | none
i t b r e a k s | ¹ - epilogue from the musical les miserables; various quotes from the book les miserables by victor hugo

i f w e l i s t e n | narration; BD7F8E
w o u l d w e h e a r | speaking; A9C2BB
h e r c r i e s | others; 85737B
t h a t b u r y t h e m s e l v e s | emphasis; CF9FAB
i n h e r m i n d ? | thoughts; CBD6D3

a n a u t h o r ' s n o t e | january 25, 2013 - edited the template <3[/blockquote][/size][/blockquote]