your broken hero }} rook

cass
Retired Staff

4,822 POSTS

last seen Oct 24, 2021 18:11:43 GMT -5

your broken hero }} rook Oct 17, 2013 6:05:10 GMT -5

Post by cass on Oct 17, 2013 6:05:10 GMT -5

Opal Shore was home. She stood in the middle of the large, spacious lounge room that was clean, not a single speck of dust covered it. Furniture already filled it; she had never had so much to herself. The room was spread out before her and her brown eyes kept flickering left and right trying to remember every inch of the room. The floor in most of the rooms was made of polished wood, but the lounge room and the bedrooms were covered in thick, carpet that she had almost instantly fallen in love with. She’d taken her shoes off straight away incapable of stepping on the clean new floor with her mud layered shoes. And even though only one of her feet could actually feel the softness beneath her she could imagine just how it felt with both. Her toes sunk into the carpet – for once impeccably clean, not a speck of dirt on them, astounding, really – and she wriggled them a bit, soaking in the luxury of the home. She imagined the way the carpet felt on her fake foot and she grinned gleefully, giddy with the excitement of what she had. In her mind the carpet touched her leg and she could feel it, she could feel the touch through her skin and as the sensation ran up her entire leg before reaching her mind. Was she crazy or could she? No... it was just her imagination. The house was larger, grander and richer then the Shore one and that was a feat to be admired as that house had everything. It had needed to as it had housed a lot of people.

One less person, now. Opal grinned broadly, eyes sparkling with untameable joy as they roamed every inch of the house. Her house.

The words still brought with them a sense of joy that light up her entire heart. She’d never believed she’d ever say that. Like most of her siblings she was doomed to spend it in that god forsaken house where an argument was just a corner away. Where you were put to training at the brink of dawn and put to bed with a knife under your pillow for fear that your sibling might try and slit your throat. Well it was like that for Opal. Except most of her time was spent in her garden rather than the training centre. Her garden. That was long gone. Pyrite had seen to that. But she had a new and improved one, a patch of dirt that she could grow anything in.

Hours had built up by the time she had decided to not invite any of her siblings to stay with her. She knew there were some that had not resented her, but she felt no need to stretch herself out and welcome them into a home that was her very own. Besides this was her place and a selfish part of her wanted it to stay like that. Granted if she was closer to her family members she’d have asked them, but seeing as they were as distant and as cold as ice she had shook her head ruefully before gladly moving in. Carefully she walked around the room, a hand running over the furniture, brushing everything she could touch within an arms grasp. Everything had a different and unique feel, the couch was soft, the curtains were silky and the walls were cold and hard, but smooth. Everywhere she looked there was something new to see. Paintings, pictures and statues littered the walls, her personal favourite was of a large blooming flower, and it sat over the fire place and was the focal point of the entire lounge room.

Laughing she jumped off of the carpet, feet landing on the smooth oak floor. She bent down scooping up her shoes before leaping onto the first step. The steps were just as soft as the carpet, like a red carpet placed for celebrities to walk down, they blanketed the steps, leaving only two thin strips of oak to her left and right. Taking the steps two at a time she ran upwards, so use to her fake leg that she did not even stumble once. That was an achievement in itself, and one she had become incredibly proud of. She rarely stumbled, tripped or fell now. As she ran down the nearest hallway and towards her massive room she let an arm fly out and it raced against the wall as her feet slapped against the ground. The bumps of the closest doors felt awesome and she was still struggling to wrap the whole notion that this place was truly hers. She had money beyond belief and a house so perfect that she was still pinching herself. Giggling to herself she burst into her bedroom, before flopping down onto the giant bed that stood proud in the middle. Thick blankets layered it and she sunk into their warmth, allowing the feathered blankets to entangle themselves in her limbs. After a few seconds of silence she was up once more, her entire body far too excited to rest.

Dropping her shoes on the floor she moved off, brown hair falling around her face, strands flying in front of her eyes. She stepped over to a door in her bedroom that she had yet to open, excited she pulled it open intrigued to find what was hidden behind it. What she found was certainly a surprise. She screamed. ”AHHHHHHHHHHH!” An insane amount of fear spread through her body and she stumbled a step backwards, a leg instinctively flying out to collide with the large figure that stood in the doorway. It smacked against his lower leg and she felt the fake plastic give way under the impact. As it snapped it slipped from her leg and she stumbled backwards, her arms flailing wildly as she tried to regain her balance. Her body leaned too far onto her left side where there was no leg whatsoever and with a startled yelp she fell onto the floor.

Her chest heaved and her heart pounded wildly. And she desperately tried to reign in the fear that had encompassed her. She looked up gasping for air, her eyes wide with shock. In front of her was the large bulky form of a boy that appeared to be around her age. But what made her heart stumble once more was his eyes. They looked lifeless, they looked cold, calculating and impossibly inhuman. She gasped, and she pulled herself backwards, pulling her resistant body backwards and as far away as she could from him and as fast as she could manage. She dragged herself along the floor until she was pressed up against her new bed.

Feeling my way through the darkness
Guided by a beating heart
I can't tell where the journey will end
But I know where to start
They tell me I'm too young to understand

Last Edit: Jan 1, 2014 20:17:19 GMT -5 by cass

rook
Veteran Member

2,361 POSTS

Pronouns: he/him
last seen Sept 26, 2023 15:42:53 GMT -5

who needs another thing to be sad about?

your broken hero }} rook Nov 12, 2013 12:32:21 GMT -5

Post by rook on Nov 12, 2013 12:32:21 GMT -5

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LE MEUR

everything tonight
made everything alright
i am speechless
i listen to your words

Section 1.2.1
An animal is most dangerous when cornered.

Nowhere else to go. Nowhere else to go. The noise is deafening. A monster is trying to break out from inside my head and it hurts. It hurts so much. I can't think because it's too strong. It's controlling me and there's not a damn thing I can do about it. I can't let it out, not again. It's got a taste for blood and it wants more. I don't want that to happen, I've hurt too many people already. What choice do I have? Sooner or later I have to accept that the monster is a part of me, and I am a part of it. It's never going away.

They created it. Their mind games and social experimentation. They treated me like a lab rat. They tore the trust from me, ripped my soul apart. They made sure I would never love again. I can still feel the gaping tear where my heart was and it hurts so much. It's like there's a wormhole inside my chest and it's slowly destroying me from the inside. I've felt it for months on end and it's still no less painful. Then there's all this anger too. That fills some of the hole, I guess. Red hot anger pouring into the gaps where trust and joy used to be. It fills me up until I'm this... This monster.

My pupils shake. Dark and full, they search the room for signs of movement. The skin around my eyes is red raw and tired. My legs are hugged up to my chest and my lips rest against my knees. My feet shake impatiently, like I'm waiting for something, even though I'm not. The only thing I'm waiting for is the end. This room is dark, but I can see everything in it. I see empty shelves and hollow drawers, bright white skirting boards and precisely pasted wallpaper. This giant doll's house was made for someone special, and yet no one lives here. No one lives in any of these newer houses.

The Victors' Village has had to expand given the unexpected rise in District One Victors in recent years. There are ten or twelve new houses completely unoccupied... And so I've been hiding in this one for the past week, hoping that the whole situation will blow over. Deep down I know it'll never be over, not whilst the Peacekeepers roam the streets looking for the killer Career. So long as my father keeps paying the locals to give him information, and the Careers of the District are seeing my head as a bounty, I am not safe. I can see the trainers at the Career institute now, speaking to a crowd of older teenagers, their faces briming with desire to prove themselves. Bring us this monster, dead or alive. I hug my knees closer and sit in my solitary.

Section 4.1.2
When you are feeling scared, focus on your goals. Block the negative and replace it with the positive. You are strong and fear will only hold you back.

My goals. I'm not even sure if I have goals anymore. Survive. That seems to be a word that keeps screaming out to me. Hide. That's another goal, of sorts. I need to keep my head down and hope that people forget. Escape. Get out of the District. Surely that has to be my ultimate goal... But I already tried to run away. I tried, and failed. I wasn't stopped by anything, I wasn't held back... I just couldn't do it. I got to the storage depot where goods are transported across Panem. I found a truck heading to Five, I found the perfect place to hide, but I couldn't do it. I wanted to stay. Not in hopes of the situation blowing over, nor for forgiveness from those I've hurt... But for revenge. For me.

I'm here because I want to be here. I'm here because I'm not finished.

It's cold. Why is it so cold? Winter is a few weeks away and the nights are drawing in, but still this house should be insulated well enough to keep a Victor comfortable. Maybe it is because I am sat here in tattered trousers and nothing else. My chest is bare, as are my feet. I was told that you lose a lot of heat through your feet, along with your head too. I hug myself closer and try to trap the heat in my core.

The door swings open and a high-pitched scream rings in my ears. I wince a little at the piercing shriek, but other than that the intruder does not alarm me. My muscles were always tensing in preparation for a Peacekeeper bursting in on me, and my mind was always expecting a surprise. This girl is not a Peacekeeper, she is just a girl. As she screams her leg clashes with my shin, and it feels strange. The force knocks her back and is nothing to my big boned physique. And then, strangely, her leg comes off, and that does surprise me. She hits the floor, scrambling backwards on her palms, me staring at her all the while.

It's been a while since I saw a girl. I've seen no one since I ran from the high-intensity Career institution to this seemingly unoccupied house, and so the last girl I saw was...
I wince again, a stabbing in my chest. I break eye contact with the intruder and keel over, lowering my knees and placing a palm to my sternum. I re-establist eye contact, frowning now. The girl made me think of...
The pain hits me again and I'm angrier, my breathing quickens.

"Who are you?!" I demand, a vain throbbing on my forehead. I glance at the fake leg on the floor and back to her again. She lost a leg. How? More importantly what is she doing in one of the Victors' unoccupied houses?
"GET OUT!" I shout, sitting forwards, "GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT!"

Section 3.4.1
Intimidation is the first line of defense.

float like hummingbirds
all around me
sweet mess
suspend me in crystal

lyrics by two door cinema club - template inspired by kire

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Last Edit: Nov 12, 2013 12:34:27 GMT -5 by rook

an hourglass is just a glass with sand inside

cass
Retired Staff

4,822 POSTS

last seen Oct 24, 2021 18:11:43 GMT -5

your broken hero }} rook Nov 22, 2013 10:47:00 GMT -5

Post by cass on Nov 22, 2013 10:47:00 GMT -5

The stupid leg was broken. She wasn’t sure how much it was going to cost her to get it fixed, but she was damn sure it was going to be a fair amount of money. But that really shouldn’t be the thing at the tip top of her mind. And yet as she lay on the floor, chest heaving, heart hammering, hands unbelievably sweaty all she could do was think about the leg that lay on the floor not a few feet away, snapped cleanly in two. She’d only just gotten used to walking on it, and it felt completely unnatural to have nothing there at all. There was nothing there; it was just empty air where something should have been. Part of her was just completely missing. It was like déjà vu, it was happening all over again. She was missing a leg, she was screaming, she was panicked, just like in the arena.

There was blood everywhere, there was a girl screaming in front of her. The smell of burning flesh filled the air and with every ragged breathe that Opal Shore took it filled her mouth, flooding her throat. After a few seconds she was crouched down, gagging, struggling to breathe, and struggling to understand that the girl burning to death in front of her was all her fault. She had done that. And then she was screaming, her own cries carrying into the air, clashing with Akasha’s. They were everywhere and she couldn’t stop, not even when she fell to the floor and curled herself into a small tight ball. Not even when she clamped her hands over her ears, and screamed and screamed and screamed would it stop. Then she was crying, she was a sobbing, pitiful mess of tears and snot, but the girl kept on screaming.

Then suddenly she was being dragged forwards, and there was searing, agonising pain spreading through her entire body. It was like wild-fire engulfing her, biting into her very core before tearing into it and destroying every piece it could touch. There were no words that could describe the sensation and the feeling and the pain. It flowed through her very soul and she screamed. She screamed and she screamed and she did not care. She cried. She fell to the floor again, her hands bloodied, and desperately grasping at the place where her leg had been, but there was nothing, but blood and raging pain. So she screamed again.

Gasping Opal jerked her gaze away from the leg, before dragging it back towards the young man that stood in her house, he winced, keeling over, hands splayed across his chest and knees. It looked as though he was in physical pain, and yet Opal had no will power to say a single thing or to even ask him if he was okay. When she tried to look away or force her body to move all she felt was pain, but the pain was so very different from anything she had encountered, it wasn’t physical, it was like a claw had been dug into her skull, and was slowly tearing down the defences she had built against everything that had happened. And then there was just the numb feeling that had encompassed her entire body, as though this scene before her was oh so very familiar. It was, it was all so familiar. She had been through this before, she had felt this fear before.

It was the kind that gripped you, held on and made you cry. It was the kind that prevented you from moving and could only be stopped by will power. And right now Opal had none. She felt empty, hollow and as though this was all a dream. That maybe the psycho in front of her was not real, and that maybe the screaming maniac was going to simply disappear when she woke up.

"GET OUT! GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT!" He screams, his voice, loud, dangerous and destructive. Opal flinches, drawing herself backwards, doing her best to shrink into the bed. There was no way in hell she was moving, she had lost all ability to function properly and without her fake leg she wasn’t sure she would make it three steps. She had to stay, and yet she couldn’t remain near the shouting weirdo. Breathing heavily she moved, everything she did was slow as though the person before her was like a wild animal, as though any fast movements might startle him and cause him to attack her. She couldn’t fight; if he attacked her she was dead. There was no way in hell she could fight. Every single drop of fight had left her in that arena. Every part of her that demanded she pick up a sword and survive was gone, it was all gone, it was as though it had succeeded in its mission and now it had run away.

Shuffling backwards she moved to the other side of the bed and as far away from him as she could. Looking around herself she cursed softly, eyes widening as she realised the door was all the way on the other side. She’d have to get past the boy to get out. Frantically she looked towards the window, and with a sinking heart she realised there was no way she’d be able to get out of there. Swallowing nervously she turned her wide eyes towards the boy. ”What’s your name?” She spoke softly, each word gently and surprisingly calm. Clamping her shaking hands in her lap she forced herself into a sitting position. ”I’m Opal Shore. I live here.” Offering him a small smile she keeps her voice low and as non-threatening as possible. She couldn’t fight; she couldn’t run so the next best thing was to talk. But then she had never been good at that.

Feeling my way through the darkness
Guided by a beating heart
I can't tell where the journey will end
But I know where to start
They tell me I'm too young to understand

Last Edit: Jan 1, 2014 20:18:02 GMT -5 by cass

rook
Veteran Member

2,361 POSTS

Pronouns: he/him
last seen Sept 26, 2023 15:42:53 GMT -5

who needs another thing to be sad about?

your broken hero }} rook Nov 25, 2013 11:05:30 GMT -5

Post by rook on Nov 25, 2013 11:05:30 GMT -5

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LE MEUR

everything tonight
made everything alright
i am speechless
i listen to your words

Section 3.7.1
Memories make the man. Control the memories and you can make him who you want him to be. Find the balance between good and bad experiences, but don't let it tip too far in either direction. That is how monsters are made.

That name. No, it can't be her. I watched her fight, I watched her bleed. I watched her laugh and cry, love and die. I know she won, but I watched her lose everything. I know Opal Shore when I see her, and this is not her.

Opal Shore, Opal Shore. The name is so wide-sounding and big. Shore. It makes me think of the ocean, or at least my version of the ocean. I was sat in a solitary room staring at a television screen, watching those tributes kill each other on that beach. The Sixty First games. I was barely fifteen at the time, but I remember those games more than any other. The ocean was red. That's how I remember it. Waves of blood, tides of screams and sand clinging to open wounds. Red, red, red. But Opal Shore was not a part of those games, no. Opal had her own games.

I broke out before she won. Day five of the Games. They assumed I was captivated by the bloodshed that day. They let their guard down. It hurts when I think back to that day, when I burst through that door, dislocating my shoulder in the process. I killed for the first time. Isn't that what they wanted, all along? To make a killer out of me? Well, they succeeded. Their mind games and high-level psychology, it worked. They made the monster, but they couldn't contain it.

Section 6.0.2
Restricting yourself stops momentum, and momentum is key to success.

Opal Shore looked very different to this. For one, she had two legs, not one. Her hair was... Different? She was a strong figure, well built and determined. This girl is smaller, her hair clean, yes, but a different colour. Maybe I'm imagining that. This girl is weak, she is afraid. She's not Opal Shore, I can tell.

This house is unoccupied, I was sure to check before squatting in here. She claims to live here but no Victor has been assigned this house, right? It's missing a lot of furniture, décor, personal items. How recent was Opal's victory anyway? All I know is that she won. I saw her parade pass by when I hid in that shed, but I can't even think how long ago that was. Was it last week? Last month? The days grey into one and I am timeless. I used to be built around a schedule, but throw away my routine and I'm lost.

This girl is a dirty little liar. All girls are liars. She was a liar. She said she loved me and then she disappeared. They took her away from me. How could they do that? They took away the one thing that I had in my life. She was all I had in six years. SIX YEARS. I was alone for so long before she showed up. I had no one before her. I loved her, because she was the only person in my life, literally. So, I kissed her, and then she was gone. Love no one, or face the consequences. I contain the anger, this time, because what's the point in unleashing it on this girl? She's a liar, like Kari was, but her lie isn't a fraction as bad. Her lie doesn't hurt me.

"I think I'd know Opal Shore if I saw her..." I grumble, head down but still locking my dark eyes with hers. The plastic leg lies snapped in two, weak and cheap. Opal Shore could afford better, if she had lost a leg.
"I don't like liars."

float like hummingbirds
all around me
sweet mess
suspend me in crystal

lyrics by two door cinema club - template inspired by kire

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an hourglass is just a glass with sand inside

cass
Retired Staff

4,822 POSTS

last seen Oct 24, 2021 18:11:43 GMT -5

your broken hero }} rook Nov 26, 2013 8:43:16 GMT -5

Post by cass on Nov 26, 2013 8:43:16 GMT -5

I’m not sure why, but when he calls me a liar I get annoyed. I can fall it leak into me, the personal sting to the atrocious claim enough to make my mouth slip open a few notches, my eyebrows tugging themselves down low over my brown eyes. It is crazy how I find something so simple offensive, maybe it was because I had spent almost a few days non-stop within the shining lights of the Capitol, my entire face being broadcasted on television for everyone to see. Maybe by now I had come to expect people to just simply be able to tell that yes I was Opal Shore, victor of the sixty forth Hunger Games, killer of four innocent children and daughter to the Shore’s. For a moment I simply glare at the boy in front of me. My personal offense to the comment almost enough to make me say a few things bitingly cruel in return. But I hold back, just like always, I refuse to argue with someone, I refuse to allow myself to become the victim of a game. Even if they are words I’m tired of hurting people. Especially people I don’t even know.

Even with his head bowed his eyes still cling to mine, and a startling second I’m struck by a growing horror with what I see there. There is nothing warm or compassionate within their dark hold, but what I do see reminds me so much of what I see every morning when I gaze at my own eyes that I know this is someone who has seen horrors, who has experienced pain, misery and an agony that they do not deserve. It speaks of lost innocence, of blood spilled by hands that didn’t truly mean it, but it happened, it becomes them because in the end they were a monster. Maybe I was wrong, maybe that was simply men, young hands destroying the lives of those around them, and becoming a monster, created by people you despised.

Maybe it was just because I had lived with monster’s my entire life, but I knew that before me was one. No, that wasn’t it. The dirt covered boy in front of me wasn’t like the rest of them - my brothers and sisters; he didn’t have that look about him. It was that kind that only came into existence because it had been built there over time. Just like the monsters I had buried beneath my own skin. Hidden deep within my chest, where I had shoved them down with every ounce of strength I contained, but not far away enough, never far enough. I can’t escape them. As much as I try to desperately shove every memory away and into the deep bits of my guilt ridden mind they always find themselves swimming back to the surface so that every glance I throw they flash, making sure the world can see what I was.

My mouth shuts with an audible click, all my annoyance vanishing as though it had never existed. Instead I find something close to despair and pain flooding me in its place. Pity was another way to describe some of the things I was feeling. When I looked at the boy, brown eyes searching his face, his eyes and his body for any clue as to why he was here, as to why he was so plainly scared – was that the right word? Was he scared? I couldn’t tell, but it was the best thing I could come up with to describe him, he looked completely vulnerable and open in his position – I found only more questions I needed answered. If I wasn’t scared out of my wits I would have tried to comfort him, to coax something out of him and to get him to speak with me.

For a moment I’m left wondering who he is. What was his name? Was it as grand and well-known as my own? Or was it something simple, something beautiful and sweet, but with the right amount of kindness to lighten the darkness in his heart. I was sure it was something beautiful, something not as big and ‘important’ as my name had become, something soft, but nice, something that spoke more than mine did. My name was no longer something important to me; instead it had been taken and had become a brand. It wasn’t Opal, it wasn't the little girl that loved her garden and wasted every single day by sitting in the dirt. It wasn’t the child that whispered to flowers and spilled all her hopes, dreams and secrets to her trees.

It had become the title of something I didn’t want to be.

Finally I tear my gaze away from his, my eyes stop only momentarily over the fake leg lying snapped on the floor in two. It hadn’t been the real expensive one I was supposed to be getting right before the tour. Caramel had ordered it, demanding the very best, but I had left the Capitol to return home with something a lot less impressive. It did what it had to do, so I couldn’t complain. Looking over at the door I slowly begin to pull myself upwards. Turning to glance at the boy I give him another smile, letting my gaze morph into one of warmth. ”Well, you can stay there if you want, but I am going to go and make a sandwich. I’m starving.” Raising an eyebrow in question I continue, ”you look awfully hungry, would you like one?” Without waiting for an answer I hop slowly to the door, resisting the urge to grumble and sigh at the awkward movements I hop ever so slowly to the door.

Feeling my way through the darkness
Guided by a beating heart
I can't tell where the journey will end
But I know where to start
They tell me I'm too young to understand

Last Edit: Jan 1, 2014 20:21:13 GMT -5 by cass

rook
Veteran Member

2,361 POSTS

Pronouns: he/him
last seen Sept 26, 2023 15:42:53 GMT -5

who needs another thing to be sad about?

your broken hero }} rook Nov 26, 2013 13:14:54 GMT -5

Post by rook on Nov 26, 2013 13:14:54 GMT -5

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LE MEUR

everything tonight
made everything alright
i am speechless
i listen to your words

Section 3.2.5
Relate problems to past experiences and you will find a solution.

She drops the topic like it doesn't even matter. She breaks my gaze and walks out the room so casually that it stuns me. My mouth opens slightly as my eyes follow her out. I expected her to tell me who she really was, or to break down in tears. I didn't expect her to suddenly stop giving a damn.

My stomach is protesting, urging me to follow her downstairs to forage for some form of relief. I frown, sat alone once more. If she isn't Opal Shore, then why is she in this house? More to the point, why is she walking around like she owns the place? Maybe she thinks she is Opal Shore. Maybe she's mad, or maybe I am mad.

Food in containment was average. I remember life before very vaguely, but I do remember the delicious foods my father could afford. He used to treat me to chocolate and sweets and all sort. That was all abolished when he put me in that cell. I was given protein and measured carbohydrates. Taste wasn't important, it was more about what you got out of the foods that mattered. They tried to drill that one into my head, but it never stuck. I always had the memory of chocolate.

As I slowly walk across the soft carpet of the hallway and down the extra-long wooden staircase, I feel surprisingly naked. The tattered remains of my clothes leave me shirtless, making me feel embarrassed and exposed. I rub my hands up and down my arms, trying to warm up. Dirt covers my chest and back, and there is dried blood too. What I need is a shower, not food. My stomach growls at me, suggesting otherwise. I play along with the daft charade, wishing all the while that I could go back to my corner and be alone.

The house doesn't have much food. I checked when I broke in. Just tins and the like, for now. I guess they keep it stocked with basics until the Victor moves in, and then they can fill it with all the luxuries they want - Cakes, fresh bread, dark meats, etc. I'm not fussed about all that. When you're raised on pasta and oats, even simple stuff like tinned beans or cheap salami is a luxury.

Section 1.1.4
Successful Careers do not socialize.

"Who are you really?" I say as I enter the kitchen with a stumble, steadying myself against the door-frame. I've gotten weaker. I lock eyes with her again, a grip tighter than anything physical. That's what they used to teach me, freeze someone with just a look. I can't look at anyone with anything but anger, nowadays.
"If you're trying to squat this place, it was mine first..."

I don't want to hurt this girl. She's done nothing wrong. The problem is that she puts me at risk. She goes running her mouth and they'll nab me and throw me in the detention centre, avoxinate me for murder, or worse they'll put me back in my confinement.

My hand trails to my stomach, which audibly grumbles. I feely empty and weak. A nice hot soup would do me just fine about now. Soup and bread, with a glass of milk. It's been too long since I've had hot food, and I'm shivering all over, my skin rippled with goosebumps. Even a jumper right now would be nice.

If she's making food for me, it's to earn my trust. It's a nice try but trust was burned out of me a long time ago. I'd sooner have this imposter gone than accept her charity and kindness. It's all a lie, anyway. All girls are liars.

float like hummingbirds
all around me
sweet mess
suspend me in crystal

lyrics by two door cinema club - template inspired by kire

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an hourglass is just a glass with sand inside

cass
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4,822 POSTS

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your broken hero }} rook Dec 2, 2013 8:28:13 GMT -5

Post by cass on Dec 2, 2013 8:28:13 GMT -5

His eyes scare me. There is nothing about them that is warm, charming or friendly. Instead when I look at them I am reminded a lot of what I saw in the arena. They were dead things, lifeless and almost crying for help. But it was the kind of silent cry you didn’t see, it was the one you simply had to assume was there, because if it wasn’t then there was no possible way they could be human. No one wanted to be a monster. No one wanted to be heartless and uncompassionate. Some people enjoyed it, but really no one wanted to live like that forever, because in the end didn’t they all want to repent the wrongs they had done? Didn’t they all plead for forgiveness for every bit of pain they had caused? It is surprisingly easy to ignore the anger burning within the depths of those eyes. I’ve seen so much anger and rage that it simply slides off of my skin. Especially when I can tell it isn’t directed at me.

Sighing heavily I sink into a chair, my hands fumbling over the plastic wrapping that protects the loaf of broad I had brought in with me this morning. Tugging a slice out I pinch a piece off of a corner, before nibbling at the edge, my eyes remaining focused on the bulky boy before me. My body was tensed; it was all on edge, as though it was reacting to a dangerous situation just how it had reacted in the arena. My mind had responded similarly and it was taking all my will power and self-control to persuade my body to calm down. I don’t think these days a look would scare me, I have seen and been through far too much to become a shaking frightened little thing over a single glance. Someone would have to lunge at me with a knife to frighten me a lot more, and even though small noises have my heart racing and mind jumping to wild conclusions the kind of fear that comes along with it isn’t the same. It’s just instinctive now. I’ll grow out of it eventually.

Roughly I shove the loaf of bread over to the guy. ”There you go: One gourmet sandwich. Enjoy.” Smiling I tear off another piece of and eat it. As he speaks, again with the question of who I am I get up, my body disagreeing completely with the fact that there was nothing there to support half of my body. I stumble very unceremoniously to the sink. Frowning with annoyance I reach upwards opening the cupboard to get out a glass. The cool water in the tap is as good as any, I return to my seat, slumping down into the chair. “I can get you bread, but I will not be getting you water. I am not a maid or servant. You have two arms, legs and a heartbeat, so get that yourself.” The chuckle that slips past my lips after it is enough to make me want to bang my head against a desk. The conversation was so pinched and tense half the things I was saying were rather rude.

”Like I said. I am Opal Shore.” My eyes harden and I lean forwards, splaying my two hands across the table I look him dead in the eyes. My smile vanishes completely, all traces of friendliness slipping away to be replaced with a cold, steely expression. ”Look into my eyes. Look at them. And tell me they aren’t dead enough, they aren’t filled with enough pain and misery. These are the eyes of a killer. A cold-blooded killer. And if you can’t see that then I suggest you go get your eyes checked out.”

It was true, though. If this guy honestly couldn’t see it he was insane. This was not the face of some idiot; this was not the face of a little girl who was scared of everything. This was the face – these were the eyes of someone who had killed innocent people. Someone who had burned a girl alive and had walked away in the end thinking of only killing others.

They were dead eyes for a lifeless girl.

Feeling my way through the darkness
Guided by a beating heart
I can't tell where the journey will end
But I know where to start
They tell me I'm too young to understand

Last Edit: Jan 1, 2014 20:24:35 GMT -5 by cass

rook
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2,361 POSTS

Pronouns: he/him
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who needs another thing to be sad about?

your broken hero }} rook Dec 16, 2013 7:40:05 GMT -5

Post by rook on Dec 16, 2013 7:40:05 GMT -5

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LE MEUR

everything tonight
made everything alright
i am speechless
i listen to your words

Section 1.9.1
Falls fast, the man who doubts himself.

She asks me to look into her eyes. Her voice is filled with a dark confidence that makes me doubt my own claims. She can't be Opal Shore. She looks different. She looks normal. The girl from the 64th Games was imaginatively ruthless, and without limits. The skinny outline of a girl who stands in front of me today is definitely holding herself back. She is reserved and calm, like she has control over her emotions. If I were to describe the Victor of the 64th Games, control would not be the word that I would use. I'd use something more like volatile or unpredictable.

Observation of an opponent is one of the first skills they taught me in isolation. There would be a computer screen, and on that screen there would be an animated tribute running around a projected arena. I'd have to analyse them, tell my teachers - my captors - what the weaknesses and strengths of my opponent were. It was drilled into my head until it was second nature to me, and now I can't help but to analyse people when I look at them. It's why I don't believe this girl is who she says she is. I analysed Opal Shore. When I look at this girl, I get a report back that does not match up.

People change. That much has always been true. I thought I knew Kari, but then she disappeared from my life. That was my fault. I thought I could trust her, and she changed. That was my fault. I analysed Kari every day and I always saw a dependable young woman who I could trust. Who I could love. She was gone with the night.
"-My fault..." I whisper under my breath.

She throws the loaf of bread my way and I catch it with my meat-hook of a left hand. I turn it over, observing the quality of the bread. It smells so fresh that the smallest whiff sends my stomach purring into submission. I take a predator sized bite out of the bread, swallowing before I can even chew it properly. I'm hungrier than I realized, and it isn't long before more than half the loaf is gone. Someone my size has an appetite to match - They used to feed me cattle portions, back in the center.

She slams her hands down on the table and glares at me, telling me to look into her eyes. I stop chewing and swallow, leaning forward a little. Very well. I look at her eyes with mine. I look deep inside her, deep as I dare to plunge. Her eyes are dark and full of mystery. Big hazelnuts, rich with a certain malice, but not without a glint of compassion. I see desire and wanting, but there is also fear. Fear of me, or fear of something more? Beyond all that I see pride. Bitter pride that stings through the brown and black of her eyes in a brilliant red.

"A killer..." I repeat her words slowly, as if I don't understand the meaning of them, but then I snort.
"No, I don't see a cold-blooded killer..." There is no sadism in Opal Shore's eyes. There is no lack of emotion or driven cause that makes a killer so ruthless. I see something much different.
"I see someone who killed because she didn't have a choice. I see someone who wanted to prove herself. I look at you, girl, and I don't see cold-blooded... I see hot-headed and devastated..." I lick my lips, pushing myself to my feet. I stroll over to the sink, grabbing a dry glass and filling it up with cool water. I walk to the opposite side of the table to Opal and put the glass down, placing my hands in a reflection of hers.

"You think you know yourself, but you're wrong. You're not Opal Shore, but I think you once might have been."

Section 1.9.2
Rises, the man who is filled with confidence.

float like hummingbirds
all around me
sweet mess
suspend me in crystal

lyrics by two door cinema club - template inspired by kire

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an hourglass is just a glass with sand inside

cass
Retired Staff

4,822 POSTS

last seen Oct 24, 2021 18:11:43 GMT -5

your broken hero }} rook Dec 19, 2013 3:32:43 GMT -5

Post by cass on Dec 19, 2013 3:32:43 GMT -5

Was it odd that I was having such a conversation with a total stranger? I had never met this guy before, what was more he had broken into my new home; he had hidden in my closest. I look downwards, finally drawing my hands off of the table as the boy begins to speak. Brown eyes flicking to my lap, I’d never get used to seeing the emptiness where my leg should be, reaching forwards I gently touch the end, fingers grazing through the air where something should have been. A pang of anguish rips into my chest and I close my eyes tightly before slowly drawing them back up and towards the boy.

”I look at you, girl, and I don't see cold-blooded... I see hot-headed and devastated..." If I had been in any other situation I would have laughed at the words hot-headed. Before the games I had been anything, but hot-headed, I’d always been the calm and complacent one, the girl that sat back and would have allowed the entire world to demean her before biting back. I was that girl that would have been bullied and would have let it go because I didn’t want an argument. I stare at the table, eyes seeing every tiny detail of that beautiful wood and not taking a single bit of it in. My mind swam through each of his words; the next time he spoke they hit me like a train.

There were a thousand ways in which he could have responded to my demands. He could have done anything, but the reply I received was as astonishing as the boy before me. I sit backwards, pressing myself into the chair, the traces of annoyance that had lines my face faded. Instead it was replaced with a look of uncertainty. Because I wasn’t certain about anything that had been spoken. When the words finished, each of them had cut themselves into my skin, before swimming right into my very core. There they stayed, before moving in and in and in. What the hell did he mean? I wasn’t Opal Shore, but I once had been? That was ridiculous; of course I was Opal… Wasn’t I? How could I not be I wore her face and her skin, I had the scares, the wounds and the very same gaping holes she did. Hot-headed. That wasn’t me.

This is me! My eyes harden and I find myself once more glaring at this boy. How dare he say that. I was me, I was Opal Shore. I had changed, yes, but that didn’t make me any less of the person that I had once been. Maybe I didn’t smile as much, maybe I didn’t sing or dance or play around as much, but I was still me. I cried more, I angered far more quickly, I snapped for no reason, but how can someone go through what I had been through and not come out the other end different. That doesn’t stop me from being me, though. It builds up and you change, you become someone different over time. Everyone does, but just because I wasn’t the airy fairy that I had once mean didn’t mean that this side of me still wasn’t Opal.

You weren’t always Opal. The thought draws me up short. Once upon a time I had been someone else. I had been born into another family, I had had another name. I had been a different person and then the Shore’s came a long, took me in and raised me, and Opal become who she was now.

”No.” The word comes out softly, a whisper past tight lips. After a moment of silence I lean forwards. ”No.” I repeat, and this time it is more forceful and urgent. “I was someone else once, you know? Before I was taken in by the Shore’s. But after everything that has happened to me it doesn’t stop me from being who I am. I am Opal Shore and I might hate that name and who I have become, but change and new experiences don’t stop a person being who they once wore. Yeah I smile less, I don’t laugh and I cry a fucking lot. I also yell a lot more – something I never did. But underneath all that I am still the same person I was the day I was given that name.”

I drag my single leg up to my chest, wrapping an arm around it I bury my head into the crook of my arm. “I am me.” But it feels like I’m begging, because I’m not sure if it is true.

Feeling my way through the darkness
Guided by a beating heart
I can't tell where the journey will end
But I know where to start
They tell me I'm too young to understand

Last Edit: Jan 1, 2014 20:25:48 GMT -5 by cass

rook
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2,361 POSTS

Pronouns: he/him
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who needs another thing to be sad about?

your broken hero }} rook Dec 30, 2013 14:11:56 GMT -5

Post by rook on Dec 30, 2013 14:11:56 GMT -5

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LE MEUR

everything tonight
made everything alright
i am speechless
i listen to your words

Section 1.7.7 Trust in yourself, as you'll never betray yourself.

I take small sips of my water. I'm a little dehydrated, and I was taught to drink slowly to ease myself back into normality. It's difficult, but the years of training make this sort of thing second nature to me. The memories of not being given water for 48 hours are still imprinted on the inside of my head, painted in black, un-erasable. The lessons they taught we were harsh, and I hate them for it, but at the same time I have to thank them. They've turned me into an unstoppable machine, and that isn't always a bad thing.

"I'm sorry." I glance up, seeing how taken aback she is by my remarks. My observations. The trust hurts, clearly, and Opal Shore is afraid of the truth. She's not a killer, she's just someone who did what she had to do to survive. It's been a while since a Victor slaughtered their way to the end. In recent years the Victors have been lucky. The only real exception is possibly Cricket Antoinette, who was impressive to say the least. As for the rest? You'd have to go as far back as Julian Bryze to find another brutal Victor.

"Look, who am I to judge you, right? You won the Games..." I raise my glass, "Congratulations." I say with an edgy tone in my voice. I myself am not sure if I'm mocking her or trying to calm things down. It's not my place to question the Victor of the 64th Hunger Games - And yes, I've realized that this is Opal Shore, but the fact that I did not recognize her speaks volumes about her character.

An expensive looking television remove blinks at me from the marble surface. I gently press a finger against the touch-interface, and the largest television I have ever seen bursts into life to my left. I'm stunned, at first, but then I smile. The Hunger Games are on television. I haven't been watching these Games, no one's been forcing me to watch. I have no idea what the Quell stipulation is, or who the Tributes are - or even how far in we are.

The arena looks strange, like a fantasy land. Clips of a giant beanstalk are shown, with ant-like tributes climbing up the side, pushing each other and swinging oversized swords. A maze pops up. A giant maze that twists and turns around the cornucopia, coiled around the opening like a python. I like this arena. I like it a lot. Then I notice the Tributes. They are all so young, barely into their teens. It must be the Quell twist. That, or a controversial Reaping.

I continue watching in silence. A boy of about fourteen stands over a girl. His eyes are dead and cold. He looks even more brutal than me. He has killed her, clearly, and he barely cares. I glance to Opal Shore, she too is glaring at the television. A smile plays on my lips as I watch her expression.
"There's a cold-blooded killer!" I laugh, looking back to the screen, "Who is he? I haven't been watching."

Section 2.2.9
Find a role model, aspire to be better than them.

float like hummingbirds
all around me
sweet mess
suspend me in crystal

lyrics by two door cinema club - template inspired by kire

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an hourglass is just a glass with sand inside

cass
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last seen Oct 24, 2021 18:11:43 GMT -5

your broken hero }} rook Jan 28, 2014 8:42:00 GMT -5

Post by cass on Jan 28, 2014 8:42:00 GMT -5

He congratulates me on my victory — on my slaughter of five innocent people. I can’t help but pits my tongue, for a moment my stomach churns desperately on the edge of throwing back up the food I had just eaten. A shallow breath escapes my lips, followed quickly by a noter and another, within moments they become longer and deeper and I force myself to breath. Closing my eyes I desperately try to bloke out the scene before, I no longer felt as though the scrawny, but obviously dangerous boy was a threat. He seemed edgy and quick to anger, but instinct made me believe he wasn’t going to kill me. Those instincts had honed in enough that I could trust them. Even though they had failed me with Drace. Drace had been an entirely different matter and the thought of him still made my skin boil and my entire body ache with pain and betrayal.

The sound of movement and the familiar sound of static as a television awakens from its slumber forces me to open my eyes. Pushing those memories away for now.

Am I slightly offended that he has come into my home, threatened me, sat down and then turned on my tv? Yes. It was a television that I hadn’t even turned on yet. Hell the guy knew how to turn it on and in all honestly I had stared at the remote for a solid five minutes attempting to understand how the thing worked. Must not be that hard if the grimy kid with a horrid attitude could get it to work. I blink once, twice, three times, eyes slowly surveying the dashing pictures of the arena. I don’t even flinch as the scene plays itself out. I simply stare at it. Watching as one of the kids kills another. It had been too long since I had paid attention to anything other then my own recovery. The thought is selfish in itself and yet I can’t force myself to feel guilty for indulging in my own self care and worth. As the seconds tick by I become more and more self aware of the situation.

“I don’t know and I don’t care.” I reply curtly, tone unrelenting. I knew who they were. The dead girl was Emery Moreno my own tribute. I didn’t care, I hated the snotty nosed bitch. I’d be lying to myself to say I had wanted to kill her myself. Iago was a completely different matter. He honestly scared me, someone so completely sadistic, cold and brutal as that was someone you had to fear. They’d kill without remorse. And after killing myself just thought of people out there who felt nothing for taking someone’s life scared me. I found it impossible not to see them every night, not to hear Akasha’s screams as she burned, or Drace’s and Yaa’s taunts. Xan’s face as he told me to leave him be. I ached all over.

“I… I have to get another leg.” I mutter. I stand abruptly, with the motion my body seems to have forgotten I have one leg. With a small squeal I flail briefly in the air, my body drops, my head smacking off of the side of the table. I groan, painfully, limbs unwilling to move in my dazed state. “That hurt.” I say, tongue thick in my mouth. I try to to pen my eyes, but the world spins harshly and I swallow, as bile rises in tieback of my throat.

Feeling my way through the darkness
Guided by a beating heart
I can't tell where the journey will end
But I know where to start
They tell me I'm too young to understand