SIN OTARI, CAPITOL

✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ
Graphics

5,831 POSTS
Pronouns: they/them
last seen Apr 25, 2024 0:02:39 GMT -5

“And now that you don't have to be perfect, you can be good.” - steinbeck

SIN OTARI, CAPITOL Aug 15, 2013 5:25:16 GMT -5

Post by ✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ on Aug 15, 2013 5:25:16 GMT -5

Name: SIN OTARI
Age: sevuuunuuunnnnnnnn teen.
Gender: Male
District/Area: The Capitol
Appearance:

Personality:

History:

he's not an avox.....? he doesn't even go here.

Codeword:

Comments/Other:

i think i am allowed another wip because i finished like two of them and am half done one. sooooo. i promise i won't do him until i finish bast and eye o k.

Last Edit: Aug 16, 2013 8:29:40 GMT -5 by ✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ

compendium / avriel
clown car / pietro
2022 tracker / 2023 tracker / 2024 tracker

✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ
Graphics

5,831 POSTS
Pronouns: they/them
last seen Apr 25, 2024 0:02:39 GMT -5

“And now that you don't have to be perfect, you can be good.” - steinbeck

SIN OTARI, CAPITOL Aug 16, 2013 8:07:37 GMT -5

Post by ✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ on Aug 16, 2013 8:07:37 GMT -5

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S I N

O T A R I

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Sorrow, in it's deepest form, is a hard thing to understand. You can't know it until you have felt it, and when you have felt it, you wish you never bothered to learn it. The first time I felt pure and utter devastational sorrow, I was very young. When I was a little boy , I never knew it was coming. I would spend my days playing in the streets with the other boys and girls like me, the ones that didn't have fathers. I liked to balance on the curb, right on the edge of the road. The vehicles going by would whiz past, and the people would try to move even faster. Everyone always had somewhere else to be. We'd follow them as far as the end of our street and then watch them disappear. We had a ball that our mothers had bought for us. They'd all chipped in together. On sunny days, we'd take it into the street and run after it, pretending we were world class athletes. On rainy days, we were tributes, hunting each other. We shot imaginary arrows and gutted each other with imaginary swords. It's be later I'd find out that Felix from down the street would be killed in a routine training drill as a peacekeeper. Soren would get caught up in a street fight in three and die of her wounds, a knife to the stomach. Yet, children will play.

In the mornings, I'd sit with my mother and watch her get ready. The bathroom was in the back of our small apartment, where there were no windows. Sometimes you could hear your neighbor flushing through the walls. It used to gross me out, to know their bathroom visits so well. My mother said not to complain. She loved to tell me not to complain all the time. "It could be worse," she'd say, "You could be living in the Districts with the vermin." I'd sit on the toilet lid and watch as she applied her make-up. She went for subtle, my mother did. She said that was what intrigued men, her natural beauty. That is what had brought me about after all. So she'd only apply foundation, bronzer, blush, eye shadow, mascara, liner and lipstick. Nothing more. She didn't want to look cheep.

My mother reminded me of a movie starlet. I think she could have been. She was even more beautiful than Fenn Klardie, who was just from the Districts anyway. Her hair was long and lovely, light blonde in colour. It fell down her back and was beautiful. She was young too, must have been only seventeen when she had me. When I was six, she was twenty-three, a child playing an adult. When I was little I'd asked her where my own hair came from. It was not like her's at all, jet black, and pin straight. She'd laugh, her red lips making a surprised 'o' shape, and say that I had my father's hair, duh. Like I should know this by now.

My father was a very big important man. He couldn't come home very often. When he did, my mother would be so happy, laughing and batting her eyelashes. Once she even tried to cook for him. The house had smelled of bitterness and burnt for a good week after. He'd still smiled and told her it was delicious, as good husbands were supposed to. She always hid her needle and the bags of dried herbs and white powders that she used to get rid of her headaches/ They were our secret. When he'd come, he and my mother would go into the back room and I was supposed to watch television. Sometimes, my father would give me a couple bucks to go to the store on the corner with, just as long as I made myself sparse for a couple hours.

Of course there would be bad days. They would begin and end with my mother screaming at my father to get out, throwing his clothes in his face. My father would call her a fucking skank. She needed to be tested for diseases he said. My mother said he needed to be tested for mental disorders. He wouldn't come then for weeks and my mother would despair, because there would be no cheques to buy groceries and other things with. So she told me that she had to work. I knew what working was. It was where she entertained people for a price. When I was little I was under the illusion that it meant she was a singer in a club or something glamorous.

As I grew older I learned the truth. I learned that I wasn't born from love at all, my father was a scoundrel and my mother really was a whore. The older I grew, the lazier she got with hiding this aspect from me and most nights she would bring the object of the evening back to our place to save money on hotels. At first I'd been a bit lost when she'd lead them into the back room to make the sounds that she and my father used to make. My father came home less and less. He seemed to forget about us entirely. As a result, my mother's headaches worsened and she started to wash her herbs down with whisky. I thought my childhood was a regular thing. What I didn't know then, is that in the Capitol, we were the poorest of the poor.

By the age of fifteen I was doing errands for my mother. I knew people I probably shouldn't have, and I bought things off them for her I shouldn't have. My mother was older now, and she despised it. She hated the lines on her face, and her sagging skin. She hated her stretch marks, things obtained ages ago but now more visible. She liked to tease me, starting out soft and ending cold. She'd say, "Oh, look at what you've done to me boy, I'm all strung out." Then she'd retreat to her room and run away for a while through the things I'd pick up for her and alcohol.

I grew up with a little boy's surety of a loving mother and a loving father. It was about this time in my life where I learned to begin to despise my father. I hated the way he'd come and go, how he'd play with my mother's emotions. I used to think he was this big, important business man. Funny how a child's fantasies could be so wrong. My father was a drug dealer, and in his case were the drugs my mother was so addicted to. Sometimes I would become afraid of her when she was high. Her pupils were dilated, and she'd look right through e. I'd lock her in her room, and she'd get angry, wanting to come out. Other times she'd sit on the other side and ask me to lock it again and again. Once I locked and unlocked the door to her room eighteen time. She said the click of the lock soothed her. She felt safe. Strangely, it made me feel safe too. I'd locked all my demons away.

One day, my mother invited a man into her bed. He was a regular customer, and I hated him. His nails were always dirty, and he sneered at us like we were the dirt beneath them. He did usually slap a couple dollars on the table for me though, just to get me out of their hair. I always took this chance, I hated watching my beautiful mother do this to herself. I still thought she was beautiful then. I always have. I went to the corner store with Felix, to buy a couple cans of soda. There was a scream, not uncommon in the outer rings of the Capitol. As we stood outside the shop, drinking, a fire alarm went off, then another. Then two hundred went off, one after the other.

We saw smoke rising from our apartment complex, and I didn't have to see, I knew. I dropped my can on the ground, it slipped from my hand and sprayed brown all over our feet. We broke into a run, Felix and I, and when we rounded the corner, flames were shooting out of my apartment's window, and out of many more. The man came out of the front door, coughing, and bloody. Blood stained his shirt, his hands, it stained the already melting plastic tiling from where he stepped. My mother was not with him. In horror, I ran to the door, and pulled it open. I felt heavy arms wrap around me then, of the man who had left my mother inside. When he whispered what I already knew into my ear, I went limp. Then I went feral, biting his arm, scratching at him, desperate for him to let me go.

Before that point, I'd never understood why the people on the television fought so fiercely, where they held all that strength. I couldn't see why they bothered to walk on even after losing both hands. I couldn't see why they wouldn't just die. Even if my face would be burned off, I wanted to go in there, to go to my mother. I wanted to lock and unlock the door for her again and again until she was calm. All I could think of was how afraid she must have been. It didn't occur to me at the time who started the fire, or why the man had blood all over him. My head was a mindless and raging sea.

I was fifteen that day, when my mother died. I found out later that my father had died the night before. He'd been caught up in a bar fight and had taken a chair to the head. The leg of it had gone through an eye. He hadn't suffered. I think my mom had, judging by the bruises on the man's face. He had a split lip too. My mother didn't go down without a fight. I didn't go down without one either. I broke free of the man and ran into the burning building. Almost instantly, my lungs filled with smoke, and I was covered with soot. The heat was unbearable and I was wishing for the father I hated to come and rescue me in such a childish way I felt sick about it later. I never made it to my mother. The smoke put me to sleep before I could get there. I'm glad for that. I'm afraid that all I would of seen of her would be charred flesh. I was afraid to see that.

I woke up days later in a hospital bed, throat so sore they had breathing tubes in me. With my injury, I was given excuse to not speak for many days. As I healed, I found myself not wanting to speak anyway. The doctors ran tests on me, I should have been able to. They even fixed up my body for me. Apparently I'd gotten some pretty bad burns. Skin had been grafted on, smooth as a wall patch. It wasn't even noticeable. Yet, I was different. They'd done other things too, lengthened my face, to give me a stronger look. My jaw was longer though, and it made me look sad. My eyes were still brown and unfathomable. My hair was dark as raven wings. My fingers felt wrong though, like someone else's. They said they were mine, but I felt them grasping in the night for things that I didn't know I wanted. Tears sprung to my eyes and my dry throat went raw.

Long and thin, they ached for the keys of a piano. I grew thinner in my time in the hospital. They didn't know what to do with me. both legal guardians were dead. So I stayed there, in the hospital, learning things, not speaking even after they removed the speaking tube. At first I didn't speak, sorrow changing me, it hurt. Then I found it easiest to continue not speaking. They would leave me alone if I didn't speak. They'd stop asking me things, trying to get a word out of me. I found sanctuary in my loss of voice. The psychiatrists said I'd speak again when I got over my grief. I couldn't stop thinking about my mother, on the other side of the door, asking me to lock and unlock it again because it made her feel safe.

I found it made me feel safe too. I sat at my room's door, locking and unlocking it in such a focused way that the nurses would stop and stare in confusion. As my fingers worked, my brain would too. I couldn't stop thinking of the man, how he smelled of smoke and iron. How his knuckles had been bloody. He'd been bruised. My mother had done that, I knew. I don't know why, maybe he'd been too grabby. Maybe he killed her. He killed her and then tried to burn her body but burnt the whole apartment building. I found out that my mother had been one of two fatalities from that fire. After the cheap sprinklers kicked in, the fire calmed quickly enough. Still, hundreds of people were displaced, and the man who killed my mother disappeared.

For many days after waking up, I was angry. I let it fuel me this rage, and I'd sit quiet at calm at the grand piano in the hospital's foyer, trembling fingers playing with the keys, brain flying away a mile a minute. I wanted to kill this man. I knew it then, and I know it now, as surely as I know myself. I didn't know how then. I only knew his surname. Yet, I knew what he had brought me. One day, I was relatively happy, living in the place I knew as my home. My mother and father were alive. The next day my home was gone, everything I owned gone, and everyone I loved scattered or dead. I swore revenge.

It was decided that I would be put up for adoption. The hospital could not keep me forever, and I was underage, still a child by rights. I felt a million years old. My eyes held the coldness of one who was much older. I was undesirable for this. Men and women would come to visit me, to see if I could be their family. They always went away somehow disappointed. They didn't like how I didn't speak. It was too much like an avox. They thought I was too cold, too sad. I liked that they thought this. It made me feel powerful. So I became cold, I became mean. I rebelled, going where I shouldn't go, doing things I shouldn't be doing. I made a game of it. Some days I would climb to the roof, and see how long it would take them to find me. Other times I would stroll around the hospital, silent as the grave until I I felt like they needed to know my presence. I became a nuisance.

One day, a man was brought to see me. He wore a rather expensive suit, black but for the deep purple tie he wore. An expensive silver pin rested in it, and his hair was brushed back. He had eyes like mine, cold, dark, shaped like almonds. He was delighted with me from the beginning, so he said.He liked the anger in my eyes, said that was important for a politician. For someone so powerful looking, his gaze was warm, yet I could almost see a deep and dark cold in them. So I was given to this man. A Mr. Otari. I would go to him in a week's time, after I was modified yet again. I didn't protest, I was bored of this place. I felt like it was a dream. A game. I would go home to my mother and unlock her door.

I dreamed about her when they put me under. I dreamed I opened the door, and flames licked the carpet and the curtains. I dreamed she was in her chair, her face black and blue from the man's punches. She lay there and as I watched, unable to move, her skin melted away and her bones turned to ash.

When I woke up, my skin was stardust sewn together. In the darkness I was the night sky. My ears were full of holes, piercings with new ears. My upper lip was plumper, and I seemed to be taller somehow. My hair was a rainbow of colour that seemed to shimmer in low light. My skin was clear of any marks, no teenage pimples for me. I was beautiful, powerful looking. I looked even more like my adopted father, like I could be his son. Gone was my natural beauty, that my mother had found so much worth in. I couldn't recognize her in me anymore. I barely mourned it. I looked like an Otari. The Otari's, as it turned out, were a strong name in the political business.

My new father had a briefcase. His was not filled with drugs. His was one filled with important looking papers and a portable computer. Mr. Otari believed in tranquility. His house was one in the center of the district, and it was surrounded by a beautiful garden, and high walls. As we traveled to his house, he spoke to me, and told me why he chose to live in such a weird house. How it used to be the traditional style for our type of people. I didn't know what he meant by that. I think it was just eccentric. It was only one layer, but it was a long house, with wood terrace all around it and from all sides, there was garden. The flooring that made up the terrace sang as I stepped on it, telling everyone in the house when someone entered the house. It was a Nightingale Floor, made to stop intruders. It was already eighteen times bigger than my old apartment of two bedrooms, a bathroom, a kitchen and a small living room. Yet, it was an odd place, with sliding doors made of paper.

My father, did not seem to mind that I did not speak. He said I would when I felt like it. Not all of his servants were avoxes either. Some of them were trusted men and women that worked in his company. His head chef was a man who said he found it a great honour to work for Mr. Otari. I had no idea how much power this man had, yet here I was, suddenly his heir.

My doctors hoped that the change of scenery, mixed with my obvious curiosity would make me speak. Resolutely, I kept my mouth firmly shut. I was not done grieving, I didn't think I ever would be. Rage still burned slow and steady, and decided every movement I made. I liked to run across the Nightingale floor when I was angry, so the whole house would know. I was angry a lot, and would run until I couldn't breath.

My new father took away my old name, and gave me Otari. To be fair, I didn't have one. I never even knew my last name. I just knew my mother and my father. The only time my father had ever said my name was when he named me. Otherwise, my mother had called me her's. So when my new father gave me the document to sign, I carelessly scrawled it. From that moment on, I was legally Sin Otari, heir to the Otari fortunes.

Oddly, I found myself healing there. Where I had felt off space in the hospital, I began to feel just barely human. The rain, when it fell would trip off the roof into a little chain of buckets. I liked the sound it made when it dripped. There was a fish pond, and I liked to sit on the tiny bridge that spanned it and watch the koi swim. Yet even as I grew calmer, I felt my anger solidifying. I could not stop thinking about my mother. She had been a silly woman. She had not deserved to die. She had not deserved to burn to death. Every night, I dreamed of her flesh melting before me. The pain of my mother's death was still fresh, and in the first week of my life in my new father's house, I turned seventeen. My birthday had always been a quiet affair. My mother barely ever remembered it. I was shocked in the morning when my breakfast came with a small card containing a credit card. This year, my father had a dinner, to introduce me to his colleagues. My father excused me with a cold when I would not speak. I was grateful for this. I spent the rest of my birthday dinner in sullen silence.

My gift was revealed to me the next day. I was to have an avox. My father, delighted with himself, thought I might love a servant to wait on me, hand and foot. The idea of it disgusted me. Avoxes had always frightened me as a child, my mother said they were all criminals who had gotten their tongue cut out. It pleased my father though,for me to have one. I could hardly disagree with him. So the day after, he would go and bring me back a boy I would come to rely on. I didn't trust this idea.

I barely trusted him, after all.

I want to lose all familiarity and feeling;
to become cold and numb and wise.

N a m e : Sin Otari
A g e : Seventeen
L o c a t i o n : Capitol
F a c e c l a i m : Oh Sehun
C o d e w o r d : ödair
C h a r a c t e r s : click!

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Last Edit: Aug 16, 2013 22:04:46 GMT -5 by ✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ

compendium / avriel
clown car / pietro
2022 tracker / 2023 tracker / 2024 tracker

✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ Graphics 5,831 POSTS Pronouns: they/them last seen Apr 25, 2024 0:02:39 GMT -5 “And now that you don't have to be perfect, you can be good.” - steinbeck	SIN OTARI, CAPITOL Aug 16, 2013 8:33:10 GMT -5 Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by ✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ on Aug 16, 2013 8:33:10 GMT -5 Yes hello, I too wrote this whole bio in one night and I know I promised to do Bastille and Eye first. I am sorry please forgive i bake you cookies, shhh baby bird, small voice, small baby steps, thank. complete.
	compendium / avriel clown car / pietro 2022 tracker / 2023 tracker / 2024 tracker

cass Retired Staff 4,822 POSTS last seen Oct 24, 2021 18:11:43 GMT -5	SIN OTARI, CAPITOL Aug 16, 2013 21:10:33 GMT -5 Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by cass on Aug 16, 2013 21:10:33 GMT -5 Marry me. Your writing is flawless. [/size]