D2 ♤ { Adora Bellavigne } ♤ DONE

[/font]
sixteen | female | district two | Teen Idle[/size][/font]


I want to stay inside all day
I want the world to go away
I want blood, guts, and chocolate cake
I want to be a real fake
[/font][/size][/center]

t h e ♤ w a s t e d ♤ y o u t h
appearance

Maybe tomorrow you’ll see the scarlet tributaries, gashed deep in the whites of my eyes during every sleepless night. The dried streams of blood that eventually empty out into the grey seas; setting into a dull stillness only befitting for such a taciturn girl. Maybe tomorrow you’ll see the hide, the proof of my own self-inflicted exile. The consequence of refusing to leave the confines of my bedroom walls: skin naturally bleached to a bacon-fat white. If you saw me beneath the sun, surely you would not recognize me as a girl, much less your daughter. Shoulders high to brace the impact of the world’s fury; back hooked and head down to shy away from those who spit and hiss. Papa said the world is full of serpents. Indestructible, immortal serpents who like to hurt and destroy. And we cannot defeat them, and we cannot hide.

We can only run.

Papa told me to be brave, when I was younger. But he saw far too soon that I wasn’t strong. I was a child of leaves, in a world of storms. The outsiders, the serpents, broke me. Their tongues are laced with venom, the kind of malice you murdered my father with. The kind of spite you used to extinguish his light and smother his cries. He told me you’re their queen; the Empress of the Serpents. And as empress, you adorned your golden locks with flowers every summer. He told me your glance burns the skin worse than fire. That when you first met you skinned him alive. That you have lips of poisoned ivy; shaped like spring’s last blooming flower and as sharp as a double edged sword. But you reserved your words for the stabbing, the murder.

Papa said I mirror you in every detail. And that looking at me is like being burned alive; he recalls every lick of agony you unleashed upon his very being. My mere existence, as a copy of you, torments his every heartstring, effortlessly. You’d be pleased, Mama. If only you’d come home.

Maybe tomorrow you’ll see.

t h e ♤ p r e t t y ♤ l i e s
personality

I trust the sun to rise tomorrow. I trust myself to cry when it rises and I realize another night has passed that my mother has not returned home. I trust myself –should I ever meet her-- to rip her heart out with my bare hand, just to find out if it was beating all along. Just to find out if she was human, like the rest of us.

Papa tried to harden my heart, at first. With knuckles like the dullest of blades ripping across my flesh. He stomped out my screams and the feeling in my legs. He shattered my aspirations alongside my lovely bones. And every day I’d weep waterfalls, but never become as strong as one.

And he saw that. He saw I wasn’t strong or loving enough to be a fighter; to love something so fanatically I’d fight to keep it safe. But I was hateful enough to be a runner.

He taught me how to run from the world, and all its facades and tricks meant to break us. I try to live off as little as possible. Words, trust, love. Too much of any can kill you. The sun in my window has greeted me at dawn and abandoned me in the evening endlessly, without expecting any more than a single sigh. It takes a great deal of thinking to remember what my voice sounds like. If it can speak, don’t trust it. Trust was something designed for gods but given to monsters. For beings that could not only bear the weight of reliance upon their shoulders, but handle the stinging stab of consequence. Papa tells me the world is all monsters and no gods.

I’m a lucky one.

I look too much like my mother to ever be loved by Papa. I hate myself too much to ever love another. I’ve been blessed enough to be born loveless, anchorless, and liberated.

[/color] When Papa wakes up, thrashing and sobbing during the night’s darkest hours, wondering why his lover is gone, he curses my mother’s name with every horrid word. And he’d try to find me, to corrupt the phantom fragments of what is left of his love. But I’d already be running alongside the wind, bitten by the cold fangs of night.

I hate being reminded of how much he adores me.



The bride’s name was Envie.

Her mother thought she was clever, that way. Because she was born so beautiful the stars that shone on her very first night on earth became jealous. Because her aunts were barren and looked on at the small infant in wistful desire. Because she ended up having a singing voice that made the songbirds mute out of humiliation. Because she had a smile that birthed ex-girlfriends and ex-fiances. Because she was Envie Luxe, and there was simply no one in the world you’d rather be.

A more fitting name would’ve been Lucifer.

Because the night she was born she kicked and scratched and all but mutilated her mother during her grand entrance. Because she drowned half a hundred birds and kittens in her family pond by the time she lost her first tooth. Because she’d scream that her father molested her or her mother was beating her if she was ever unhappy. Because she spat the filthiest of curses at young children. Because she was Envie Luxe, and there was simply no one in the world you’d rather murder.

The bride didn’t smile when proposed to, and wasn’t feeling charitable enough to spare a single tear during her wedding. She was a child bred by authority, born into supremacy, and brought up by jealousy. Her toys were the sentiments of others, her lessons were left unlearned.

And when the wedding singer belt out the first song at the reception, she knew he was the one for her. She knew she could, and would, have him. The wedding singer. With his young smile, so awkwardly fitted unto his face she could’ve sworn he was borrowing it for the night. She could’ve sworn District Two had a sudden sandstorm, by the way his nose was dusted with golden freckles. She could’ve sworn, by oath, that they were the only two in the room that night. She could’ve sworn he was made to belong to her.

And he did, if only for that night. But that night was all she needed to know that the wedding singer was another marble in her game of hearts. And that night was all he needed to know that he absolutely worshipped Envie Luxe. He wasn’t in love with Envie, because it takes two to be in love, and in her game of hearts, the wedding singer was playing alone.

And when morning arrived, he begged her to stay. He confessed his love in every language his tongue knew to speak; he called her every sweet name ever spoken. He made promises they both knew were impossible to keep; groveled on the floor like the poorest of beggars sobbing, “Please stay! I adore you!”

”Find someone else to adore.”

And the groom didn’t dare ask where his bride had fled to when she came home. He didn’t dare flinch at the notion of his wife spending their first night as a united body with another man. He was blessed to have Envie agree to marry him, and favored even further when she chose to return to him. So he feigned an artificial bliss to costume the agonizing heartbreak Envie inflicted upon all those she met. And each infidelity only blistered him further, until there was nothing left within him but the fragmented shards of a heart that once only beat for her.

When her belly began to swell, she sighed. There wasn’t a budding light of life within her womb, but rather a parasite; a collection of puss accumulating in her stomach from a wound that she couldn’t wait to rid of. An irritating nuisance in her life she would have rather never encountered. Envie left to terminate the vermin nesting within her body, only to be told it was impossible. Too late to get what she wanted. She was forced to carry the bastard child of a thousand lustful puppets.

She had the doctors carve the infection out of her, bundled it up in blankets, and had it delivered to the wedding singer. She didn’t care to see the color of her baby’s eyes; wait for her to smile or laugh. She was carrying the product of adultery and sadism in her very arms, and was giving that stupid little wedding singer someone new to adore.

None of them lived happily ever after.

End.


[/font][/size][/center]


[/color][/size][/font][/blockquote][/td][/tr][/table]
[/center]

I made out with Chelsey behind the CBox so she made me this beautiful table an I'm cry