♥ lyra rhode // district four

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INFORMATION

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BIOGRAPHY

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Girl,

Why were you in the shadows tonight? I'm sorry to be so abrupt - you probably didn't see me at all, but when you waited on fifth street, tucked away in the shelter of a doorway, I saw you. It's not often that I see someone so small around at that time of night - of course, I myself am no giant, but my doings are another story - and curiosity overrode me. I hope you will forgive me for following you home. Little Girl Libertine, I saw you there. There is no denying it. There is also no arguing that you have climbed the wall outside your bedroom window and unlatched the lock from the outside more times than you can count, because that's no talent that comes naturally.

You see, I notice things. That's my job, I suppose. Dancing around in the darkness, not seen nor heard. I listen, I see, I conclude. (I'm very rarely wrong, Little Girl Libertine, you should remember that.) Once, I swiped a key from around a sleeping man's neck. Usually I prefer to pick the locks, but this time, Bastille insisted that we have the key. They tell me not to boast, because it's dangerous. You wont tell a soul, will you? Either way, you don't know who I am.

There's a strange kind of power that comes with watching someone who cannot watch you back. You see, Nessie, I know who you are. I know who most people are. But I - well, I assume you've never even heard my name. I like to think of myself as everywhere, although that is not truly the case. (But the more I know, the more I have as leverage if I ever stumble into a situation I didn't intend to get in.) Enough about me. You, Little Girl Libertine, were doing something you weren't supposed to be doing. And I am curious.

Leave your reply anywhere you like. I'll find it.



My Stalker,

Congratulations. Perhaps I should be afraid - is that what you want? Well, you're going to have to do a little better than following me home. I'm sure you know I've seen two sisters die on television - it takes a more than a self-righteous teenager who also knows how to use her back door to frighten me. I don't doubt you, Stalker. Perhaps you're something worth thinking about. And there's no doubting I'm lonely. I'll happily answer whatever questions you have - perhaps even snatch you a little something from the shop, if you haven't already done that yourself. In return, though, you'll tell me about yourself.

I wont pretend I'm interested, not really. I'm bored. My room is lonely, without the sound of my little sister breathing each night. It makes it hard to sleep. (The idea of someone sticking their head in through the window when my eyes are closed is hardly comforting, but I suppose I'll take friends where I can get them. If you truly want to know, Stalker, I'll explain - but if you wrote that note to scare me, you've come to the wrong place. I have nothing left to lose. Your turn.




Girl,

Underneath the doormat? Too easy. In fact, your requests were ever so simple. You say you have nothing to lose - but I am no more than a girl with a pen to you. I have no face. What difference is there between a truth and a lie? And so I suppose I shall begin to spin my web to you, Little Girl Libertine. Believe it if you dare. (And if you're anything like me, you wont be able to say no to a dare. Not ever.)

My name is a secret, but according to the dated photographs in the album beneath your sister's bed, you have been alive longer than I. My earliest memory is ten years ago. (My mother held my hand and led me outside and told me to close my eyes and pray. And I did. Ripred answered.) I have an elder sister, you see. She doesn't believe in the things my mother knows, but I think perhaps I do. Otherwise, how would things always work out in the way they do?

When I'm sitting with my back pressed against the cold wall of someone's cellar at midnight, listening to their footsteps creepy around me and watching the glint of the heavy object in their hands, all I can do is pray. And, nine times out of ten, they stalk heavily back to bed, having decided there is no ghost in their house, after all. There is. Do you believe, Little Girl Libertine?

I think perhaps you are confused. I did not write to you because I wish for you to fear me, and nor did I write in search of a friend. (I have accomplices, associates and enemies. That is all.) When I first picked up the ink pen that lay on your neighbours desk and began to pen a question to you, it was because I was curious. I wanted to know if perhaps you were strange, too. They say I am different, peculiar, odd. But who are they to decide on such titles?

I have heard word of you, Little Girl Libertine. That you do not like the presence of a camera, that the toddler perpetually attached to your arm is of no relation to you. (That the Ripley boy you meet with in the caves is more than just a family friend.) Lastly, you were out at night. This final point is something I still hold only a hollow, shaky explanation for. Not knowing makes me uncomfortable. The truth is all I ever want.

And so, Nessie - what is my truth? That perhaps I am little more than just a girl with an important job? Brown hair and blue eyes. (Don't worry, if you met me, you still wouldn't know.) My sister scolds me and says I'm too cocky, but if she knew all the things I do in the world while her head rests upon the pillow, she might hesitate.

It's not to say I'm not proud of that life. The life of gondolas loaded with bodies in the dead of night, the stolen love letters and hair-pins in locks. I've seen that locket around your neck, Little Girl Libertine. I wonder - are you a collector? I am. An unconventional beauty lurks in my favourite past time. Sewing, stitching, creating. Bastille, he brings me the things I need in exchange for my time. Every so often, I fetch them myself - but without help, I cannot get my hand on the best kind.

It started off in the chest beneath my bed. Now, my room is filled with beautiful creations. Death is ever so enthralling, isn't it, Nessie? You would know. And that's another reason I wrote to you. Human hearts are the rarest things - my most prized possessions - but still, I am always in need of an animal skin or mounted head, a basis to the designs I sew. (Are you afraid yet, Little Girl?)

Perhaps I am telling you too much about me. Bastille would be cross. (Truth is, I adore him more than anything, and that is why he isn't to find out about this.) But I trust you, Nessie. I hold enough of your secrets to change everything. I like to think of myself as a holder of secrets, and in truth they are what I collect. Not the hearts and lungs and eyes of people, but the secrets locked away inside them.

I am confident and unafraid. Impatient, but not one to worry. (Not like you. You care too much, even though you think you don't.) And unlike you, I can look myself in the mirror - a sweet face, tangled braids and loose waves, a soft pink pout. I'm not vain. Perhaps conceited, as you say, but that is rooted in my own exhilarating pastimes and bizarre hobbies, rather than my petite frame or pretty face.

There is movement in this house. It is not my own. I prefer to be elsewhere. Danger, I suppose, pleases me. I might linger too long when I should be running - and for that, I suppose, I pay a price. (Teach me about running away from the things you fear, Libertine - you do that well.) Leave your reply in a trickier place this time. It wouldn't do to have unwanted eyes gazing upon our conversation. I'll find it.

I'll be watching.

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COMPLETE

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