Wyspyr Candlewyck {district five} FIN~

Take a seat, will you? Large fingers tap an intricate desk. My eyes fixate upon them, desperate to rest anywhere  but the man's brooding eyes.  They resembled tiny storms raging inside his head, almost like that of my own. (Though mine is not so extroverted.)   I would hope he has learned to control the storm much better than myself (as for what is the point of learning from a man as incompetent as me?)

Nonetheless, my  own fingers wrap around the chair's metal frame, dragging it's legs across a rug; it's hue  resembling that of drying blood. (Perhaps it is my nerves but I highly doubt that was it's original coloring).  My back rests upon a stiff frame,  though my eyes never rise to meet this man's. 

I'm going to ask you some questions, alright Wyspyr?

"Yes sir."

Excellent, now tell me your age. 

"Thirteen, sir."

And are you aware of  your location?

"District five, sir." 

Your full name? 

"Wyspyr Candlewyck, sir." 

And you have a brother, correct? 

"Vespyr, yes sir." 

What brings you here today?

That was the question wasn't it? What had brought me to this man's (as I will not consider him a doctor by any means of the word) office? Why was I sitting in this cold chair, my fingers wrapped around the seat so tightly that my knuckles were lighter than my already fair complexion. 

"The bad thoughts." 

The words fly so easily from my mouth. The bad thoughts (What I am told are bad, by any means. I can't help but wonder if they hadn't been branded so by the moment they left my mouth whether I would consider them as such.) Would the scenarios that play out in my dreams disturb me in the slightest if not looked upon in horror by those I shared it with? Would the urge to wrap my fingers around the neck of something so much smaller than  I, watch the life drain from the creature, be so wrong to me? It has come naturally all my life. (So why is it bad?)

But it is. (Or so I have been told). Therefore I must fear it. My eyes, like shadows, finally meet his. How must I look to this man? (Apart from strange, though seeing so many strange people perhaps I look rather normal). My ebony hair askew from a night of restless sleep. A single daisy stuck behind my ear.(Oh how I love flowers). It's light a contrast to my dark. My dark, what a strange way to put it. Though, I fear how true that statement is. 

Or maybe I don't. 

Maybe I like my dark. 

What sorts of "bad thoughts"? 

I  cannot help the smile that spreads across my lips, cracking the gloss that had sat stagnant. "Thoughts of death. Of glorious death." Finally a release. I must continue. (I will ignore the horror that is bound to slowly spread across his face.) After all, who am I not to put up a show? "Even now, my mind wanders. I wonder how you will die, sir. Will you wake up one morning, a knife in your back? Or perhaps you shall awake to find that someone has pressed a pillow to your mouth until your heart stopped." I am giddy now, I pull the top that hung loose around my frame over my knees, now placed on the very edge of the chair. My eyes never leave his. "Or maybe you take your last breaths as we speak. Who are you to know I haven't a knife hidden in my pocket? Who are you to be sure that I couldn't attack you right where you stand." (I wonder vaguely if I look so normal to him now. )

I revel in the thought of scaring him. That I, a frail sickly girl, bedridden with sickness after sickness, was able to scare this man. A big, strong man who flinched at my sudden movements. (Ah, the storm is not contained I see). "I want a death to be by my own hand, you know. I want to see the beautiful crimson run from someones veins. I want to hear their chest rattle as they take their last breath, my hands wrapped so tightly around their throat." 

How often do these thoughts occur?

His voice shakes as he speaks. Like that of a hand after too many drinks. His attempts to remain calm cause a slight stirring within my heart. 

Anger. 

"All day sir." My tone mocks him "All day I think of your death."

His eyes become wide. The storm within seeming to become stronger than ever. The smile fades from my lips.  I stand, my legs protesting the sudden movement. They are clad in a tight jean that prefers movement be slow and steady. But I must get away from this stupid man, with the storm in his eyes. Stupid man. 

Without a word, the chair is tucked under the oaken desk once more.  Small feet, squeezed in shoes a hue to match the carpet, traverse the room. Soon, an ivory hand lays on the brass nob. The tendons tighten underneath my  skin as the metal turns slightly. 

I do not glance over my shoulder. I do not give the incompetent man another thought. My feet soon dance across the pavement. A merry song leaves my lips. (What a wonderful day to smell the flowers).

A slender hand reaches outward, taking a withered violet between two fingers. (How pitiful, it's petals hang low to the ground.)  The dead stem snaps between my fingers. My lips curve upwards once more. I throw the lily to the ground, replacing it with the dying violet. (Much more suited to my dark.) 

Acting is something I do well. Acting innocent. Acting sane. Acting normal.

It's an art. One I have mastered in only 13 short years. 

I do not know if I will one day break. If my sweet facade will be overtaken by the dark. 

For now, I am a rose. Sweet, pure, beautiful. Born into a  family with one other. Vespyr. An odd fellow, but the only one I have ever come close to caring for.  Mystery surrounds him like a perfume. He is so distant, always working on his science. Secrets bind us together. For no one, not even him, has been able to see through my facade. Just as I have yet to see through his . It only draws me closer to the man, despite being pushed away. 

Outcasted in school, most of my days are spent alone.  I don't much care. My pen is far too busy skipping across the paper, detailing stories of my classmate's fate. Notebooks are filled with these gruesome tales, hidden underneath my bed. One day, they will regret their taunting words. 

Too Thin.

My frame holds little curve to it at all. Struggling to find clothes that hug my boney frame, most of the garments I adorn hang low on my body. Jean pant legs ripple down my thighs. When my feet meet my legs do not. Curved outward at an odd angle, they resemble two twigs bending in a slight breeze. 

My black hair, dark and dried, is almost always adorned by a crown. For I am a princess of death, chosen by none other than the force within my mind. The flowers, their life so easily taken by my hand, create a halo around my temple. A smile traces across my lips, resembling my brother's so closely. My face seems to have been sculpted in his likeness. 

I haven't quite decided whether I like being a copy or not. I suppose it was only the cards I was dealt. After all, Vespyr is not like me in his actions, though sometimes his cruelty can match that of the thoughts that thunder across my head. For right now my thorns are hidden underneath drying leaves. 

I pity whoever chooses to pluck them from my stem.