66th Reaping [D6]

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Lulu
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[M:2982250]

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66th Reaping [D6] Feb 1, 2014 0:14:19 GMT -5

Post by Lulu on Feb 1, 2014 0:14:19 GMT -5

The escort of the district stepped out onto the stage, a smile plastered across his face as he stared into the cameras that surrounded it. It was time once again to choose two children to compete in the Hunger Games, and it was his job to do so.

"It is time," he said as he stood over the impatient people of the district, "To once again send two of our own children to the Capitol to compete in the Hunger Games. Let us begin the Reaping!"

He did not look to see the reaction of his district before reaching into the glass ball that held the names of the female children. "Ladies first," he announced, pulling out a slip of paper. He unfolded it and read out to the crowd, "December Nieve!" He then reached into the other ball. "Willis Keeni!"

OOC- RPing is allowed. If you wish to volunteer, let the tribute post first either accepting or stepping down from their place for volunteers, and then post. If the tribute doesn't reply by Tuesday, February 4th, a staff member will post saying that volunteering is open. Please do not post until you see this staff message. FIRST COME, FIRST SERVE.

Tributes, please do not make your acceptance or denial of your spot in character; instead, please leave an ooc note at the end of your post stating whether they accept or are stepping down for volunteers.

Also, and this is really important: If you have been selected as a tribute and plan on going into the arena, we HIGHLY SUGGEST you take some RP Tutoring lessons ASAP. It doesn't matter what level RPer you are; everyone can use a little help. RPing a tribute is a privilege; if you're not going to put the time and effort into making your posts the best they can be then you can count yourself among the dead.. It's not a requirement, but please please please just consider the lessons. They'll help even the most advanced RPer.

{lulu's cast}

rook
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who needs another thing to be sad about?

66th Reaping [D6] Feb 1, 2014 17:59:44 GMT -5

Post by rook on Feb 1, 2014 17:59:44 GMT -5

we’re everyday robots in control
or in the process of being sold
driving in adjacent cars
‘til you press restart

The high is gone. I have crashed down to reality and boy, it hurts. The room swims around me in a bourbon haze. I wish I could drown in the sweet scent of the liquor, but as each precious second passes the scent fades away just that little bit more. That is not motivation enough for me to pull myself out of this senseless state, no. I never want to get out of this bed, because I am hanging on to whatever is left of the high, and the moment I get up, the blood will rush to my head and I'll be hit hard by the hangover. My throat feels swollen, but I know this is just dehydration. A glass of water sits on by bedside table, but I dare not raise an arm to reach for it. My head screams at me - I think that's what woke me up - but it's nothing I haven't become accustomed to.

What the hell happened last night? Distorted images of older men flash inside my damaged head. I see the bar (Of course, how else would I be in this state?) and there is darts. The usual night out then - Alcohol and darts. Did I win some money? I can't get up to check, but I automatically assume that I did, simply because I'm unbeatable when I'm shitfaced. The hangover is worse than usual though, so there must be something else. Why would I drink more than usual? I try to think, but it hurts to think back, so instead I lie motionless on the tattered mattress, staring at the cracked plaster on the ceiling and wishing I could be drunk again.

The realization comes a few minutes later, and it's like a wet slap to the face. It's Reaping Day. I laugh, my eyes sad with the new comprehension. The laugh turns sour and I start coughing, my lungs bitter and stale with smoke from last night's cheaply rolled cigarettes. I turn onto my side in an effort to cough up whatever toxins sit in my lungs. The movement is enough to trigger a chain reaction inside me that has been waiting to be sprung for hours and hours. Oh shit. My stomach drops, my head spins and my eyes roll to the back of my head, all before I lurch forwards out of my bed and run to the on-suite bathroom before it's too late. I empty the contents of my stomach down the toilet, heaving up foul tasting bile and spirits from the bar.

The tremors start again as soon as I'm done vomiting, and my breaths become shorter. I hate this, and I hate that I've done this to myself. A hangover is always self-inflicted, I've only got myself to blame - But who can blame me for wanting to ear some easy money? I raise a shaky hand and rest it on the rusty lever. It takes an extraordinary effort to pull the flush and send the vomit swirling down the drain. I lie exhausted on the cold tile floor, resting for a few minutes. I ache all over. Every time I do this to myself, every damn time. I try to stand but my legs shake, struggling to support my weight. The tremors make simple things like this a whole lot worse. Was it worth it, for a night of darts and money? If I didn't have the shakes so bad, I could do it sober. If I could do it sober, I'd be rich.

I can see last night more clearly than I could before. It's like certain events were surrounded by a thick fog, and the fog has lifted now that my head is more clear. Throwing up has certainly made me feel better. Always does. I was playing darts again, hitting triple twenties every time. Three whiskeys and random shots, whatever they were buying I was drinking. Local hero, Willis Keeni - Accuracy like you've never seen, but only when he's smashed out of his face. Ain't that a curse.

I don't just drink to keep a steady hand in darts though, it's more than that. The shakes are so bad, even when I'm on my own, that there's nothing else to be done. I lie awake at night unable to sleep unless I'm smashed. Even now, as I sit here in the bathroom with chunks of vomit dribbled down my bare chest, I crave to be drunk. My hands are shaking, my legs are shaking, my mind is screaming. It's been this way for three years, and it ain't getting any easier, that's for damn sure.

It's a state of mind that I have to switch off. The shakes are a constant in my life, and yeah, I do hate them, but I've learned to live with them. It all started with Gypsy and Pyrian. No, I don't want to get into that. I don't want to think about that. It happened, and now I have this disease. I'm done putting the blame on my psychotic twin cousins and their Hunger Games. I am a victim of their madness, but I will not hate them for it. Post-traumatic-stress disorder. Only I stopped being stressed two years ago, so why do I still have the damn shakes? Thinking about it makes me angry, and I don't want to be angry. I have to flush these thoughts out, that's what they said. I have to move on, and then the shakes will go.

I make myself a standard breakfast of dry oatmeal and half a slice of bread, before washing it down with a shot of whiskey. The Keeni house used to be crazy on Reaping Day, but it's less frantic than it used to be. Obviously we've lost two of our family, and whilst we've all matured in different ways, we're still respectful. There are mixed opinions on Gypsy and Pyrian, but there's no denying that they've changed us, all of us. Any Keeni who says they don't care about what happened with the twins would be lying, straight up.

I struggle to button up my shirt, my hands shaking too violently to be able to thread buttons through the individual holes. In the end I'm swearing so loudly that Insanis comes into my room to help me out. His presence calms me somewhat. He, like me, was cast out by his parents to come live here with his cousins. We have a lot in common, even if we don't talk a whole lot. He helps me dress in silence, and I respect him so much for it. He is completely unjudgemental of me. He doesn't point out the vomit on my cheek or ask why my eyes are so red, he just helps me because he knows I need it. Insanis is definitely the oddball of the family - with his inky black hair and red-ringed eyes - but he's secretly my favourite cousin.

I avoid the rest of the family for as long as I can. I get some unapproving looks as I sneak another shot of whiskey before grabbing my jacket. Penultimate Reaping for me. I've never been nervous about the Reaping, but I always get the shakes, no matter how much I drink. My mind tingles and I feel slightly light-headed, but it's not enough to stop my muscles from twitching uncontrollably as I walk towards the general direction of the District Square.

There was a time where I'd make this walk with all of my family. Cousins and brothers and sisters, all together we'd walk to the Reaping, hoping desperately that we'd make it through another year. What a joke that was. Whatever Gods we prayed to, to keep us safe, have long been abandoned, and we are the followers who stopped following. The Keeni family, broken and betrayed, but still very much alive, living a different life, following a different path.

As I move into the crowd, I notice a change in atmosphere from last year. This is so weird. It's definitely more sombre. I guess that last years Games had a big effect on most people. The tributes were so damn young that watching them be sent to slaughter was difficult, even for me (I got very drunk a year ago today). The Games always change us, some more than others. The Games bring us together, as a family, and as a District. It's not always the case though. Unity isn't always the outcome. The 63rd Games divided us, they changed the others in ways I can't even begin to imagine. We're defined by the decisions we make, and we all made a decision the day that Gypsy drove her knife-edged boot into Pyrian's back: Live or die. I chose to live, others chose to spend their days drowning in grief. If I have been socially cast out by my cousins because of this, then so be it. I've been crippled by the Games more than most, but I still live my life. My life.

"Willis Keeni"

Their life. I exhale involuntarily, my heart leaps up to my throat and my mind refuses to compute what has just happened. Did they say my name? Thousands of names in one pot and they said my name? No, that can't be right. All of the muscles in my body stiffen, except for my hands, which begin to shake frantically. Breathe, Willis, breathe. Am I having a panic attack? Is this really happening? Everything I thought about at home and on the way here is suddenly obsolete. I am a hypocrite for thinking that I have abandoned faith, because I sure am praying that there is some kind of God up there, and I am pleading him to undo this. I can't be Reaped. I can't-.

The crowd separates around me. They know me, the bastards. Of course they know me. I'm a Keeni, and everyone knows the Keeni's of District Six. Everyone knows the famous Willis Keeni, king darts player and local alcoholic at seventeen. Everybody knows me and I hate their guts for it. I hate them. There is no noise, no one calling out my name or screaming. No Keeni cries out in distress - I'm an outcast, remember. I'm the one who decided to live, and for that I will die. Is that what I get? Is that my punishment for wanting to move on, despite all the shit I have been put through, after the tremors and the alcohol and the sleepless nights? This is what I get? Well, this is bullshit.

I am still shaking, still mortified of what is to come. At this stage I'm not sure if it's fear or my condition, but I'm beyond caring. I'm beyond anything. I struggle as I'm escorted onto the stage by pristine white Peacekeepers. Drones, they're just emotionless, heartless Drones. My face is red with shock, and my eyes threaten to moisten. What terrifies me most is that I am on my own. The stray Keeni, the one who no one talks to. The drunk, the outcast, the bastard. I have no one. Maybe that's a good thing, maybe no one will mourn me. No one cares for me, and that might just save my life.

I need a drink.

everyday robots just touch thumbs
swimmin’ in lingo they become
stricken in a status sea
one more vacancy

((willis keeni accepts))

an hourglass is just a glass with sand inside

ines izar d11a 🖤 cait
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if looks could kill

66th Reaping [D6] Feb 2, 2014 2:48:23 GMT -5

Post by ines izar d11a 🖤 cait on Feb 2, 2014 2:48:23 GMT -5

D E C E M B E R .

Before you die, they say your life flashes in front of your eyes.

I had always been a companion to death from the minute I was born, even if I cannot remember the details. A looming black cloud that has followed me for all these years taints every precious memory that was ever worth remembering. Even when I was adopted, it felt like my ‘parents’ had died the moment they abandoned me, but the truth is, I was just too much of a burden for them. And each bitter revelation kills me bit by bit, breaking me down inside.

It was worst when I was living on my own, learning how to support myself when everyone around me didn’t care at all. Waking up each day was a blessing and a curse. Not only was it a miracle that I’d survived another day on my own, but it was torture having to live through yet another 24 hours plagued with poverty, misery and despair. Each day I continued to live was a day closer to death, before it reached a point where even moving too much felt like I was knocking on Death’s door.

The part that hurt the most was realising that one person’s miserable life can come to a complete stop, yet everyone else’s continues with no interruption. Whilst one person in the world is frozen in a state or paralysis, the rest of the world passes by without a second glance. Calling for help when nobody could hear me was hopeless. It drove me crazy.

By the time he found me, I was already too far gone.

Today, I saw the entrails of my existence within one single second, blinking past my vision, a kaleidoscope of colours that formed a string of images of my life. A life that wasn’t worth reflecting on.

I’m not proud of it.

All it took were two simple words, a certain death sentence for the world to hear.

‘December Nieve!’

I don’t want to relive those memories. I don’t want to be reminded of the past, yet I don’t want to die. I don’t want to leave home, leave the place where I’m constantly reminded of my unfortunate upbringing, for as painful as it is to stay, going means inevitable death.

You aren’t dead yet, a voice calls to me. But it’s only a matter of time. Only 1 person comes out alive, after all.

A symphony rings out, making my ears buzz with a single incoherent note that I can somehow distinguish into a song. Without really meaning to, whispered words escape my mouth, muttered under my breath as I shift uneasily on my feet, in an impenetrable trance. A slight comfort bubbles somewhere deep inside of me, challenging the looming aspect of Death, pushing it further down, dulling the pain and fear a little.

The relief that comes washes over me and cleanses my mind of all rationality. For a moment, I am invincible, unstoppable, and I see myself there, in front of every single person in the crowd, and I am all they can help but stare at – for once, I am not a mere soul lost in the throng – I am important. My eyes ablaze, I am staring out at the sea of uninterested faces – they don’t care if a silly girl’s life is lost.

But I do not see their expressionless masks. I see faces, smiling up at me, silently cheering me on, sending me luck and hope and prayers.

And for once, I am loved.

Yet that was simply a silly scenario that had wormed its way into my conscious mind, struggling from my subconscious. The sudden rush of adrenaline courses through my veins, pulses in my bloodstream, and makes my heartbeat quicken instinctively. It promises a new life of adventure and recognition. It tempted me with all the things I had ever wanted, but had never received.

But I wouldn’t listen to it.

The truth was, after all the wasted years, I wasn’t ready to die.

‘Willis Keeni!’

Already the boy is striding towards the stage, yet I have not moved a single muscle. Frozen, paralysed, how could I? Soft murmurs break out around me, faces searching for the unlucky victim. They wouldn’t find me, though. How could they? To them, I was a shadow, a nobody. An embarrassment.

District 6 deserved so much more than that.

The bitter truth was, I’d spent so long running away from acceptance and love, friendship and compassion – even in the most minute forms – that I didn’t know how to move forward anymore. And I didn’t plan on learning any time soon.

hi sorry but idk why i'm sorry but december has stepped down as tribute and i mean you probbaly won't even read the post now that you have seen this little note. and actually not reading the post is probably a good idea because it's kinda bad and rushed and my feelings are all over the place rn. no anyway, December Nieve has stepped down as the female tribute for District 6.

Last Edit: Feb 2, 2014 2:52:35 GMT -5 by ines izar d11a 🖤 cait

i always used to be into writing sort of modern abstract
lyricism stuff (that were like) slight vague indications of a feeling.

gm bourgeois decadence [aya] Administrator 6,256 POSTS last seen Jan 27, 2024 16:01:40 GMT -5 "GUNNERRRRR~"	66th Reaping [D6] Feb 4, 2014 0:04:02 GMT -5 Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by gm bourgeois decadence [aya] on Feb 4, 2014 0:04:02 GMT -5 Volunteering for the District 6 Female tribute is now open.
	{characters} certified kindergartener stranded in "beach" "city" leader of the crystal gems

ᴥ
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oof

66th Reaping [D6] Feb 4, 2014 0:04:11 GMT -5

Post by ᴥ on Feb 4, 2014 0:04:11 GMT -5

Head under water
And they tell me to breathe easy for a while
The breathing gets harder, even I know that
Made room for me but it's too soon to see

Wake up.

The morning's hands lift my body from my bed, it moves my arms and legs and bends my back as it digs through the clothes thrown haphazardly in the aspen chest. My consciousness, still firmly seated on the edge of the bed, watches my body's fluid motions. Like that of a chord, played in perfect harmony with a voice, belted over a crowd. Like a stage, so dark only the whites of the audiences eyes find you, shining like that of a storm cloud. And you are the center of attention.

Put on a show.

I can feel the silk fall upon my body as I watch the morning force it over my head. The deep sea color falls just below my knees. Ripred doesn't accept whores, Lyric. I can hear her voice, like that of a nail drawn across brick. It pierces my ears, leaving a shrill ringing echoing about my empty mind. Ripred this. Ripred that. Well I was sick and tired of doing what that thing told me to. I'm tired of having it forced upon me and still having to pretend that I believed the nonsense it preached. The morning draws black stockings up to my mid thigh, then straps dark cyan to my ankles, bracing a slender foot.

I wander about the room, my hand running across the uneven paint, drinking in the various song lyrics tacked to my wall by multicolored pins. Pictures of myself, hair the color of white gold, lay scattered across the floor. The morning picks them up carefully stacking them in a neat pile behind me. Then she lays her hand, my hand, upon my cheek, which until now I hadn't realized were gleaming with tiny diamonds overflowing the very corner of my eyes.

Blank stares at blank pages
No easy way to say this
You mean well, but you make this hard on me

Are you ready?

Lyric, breakfast! Her screech echoes through the house. My feet tap on the wooded floor, dragging across the vertical grain. There she sits, her large figure seeping over the sides of the chair, ginger hair piled at the top of her head. Did this woman think this was beautiful? Her body squeezed into clothes far too tight and makeup far too heavy. A terrible replica of those who lived in luxury so far away.

Others sat around her, a boy his hair whiter than mine. As though the winter itself has laid it's hand upon his head, leaving only highlights of blonde in a snow storm. A man, hair gray before it's time, sits on the other side of the woman. An alabaster plate lay before an empty seat. Laden with a small egg and roll of meat. No doubt, the month's funds had been spent on useless commodities from the capitol instead of on the grocery list pinned to the cabinet for almost 20 nights. No matter how much my lips crave the food laid in front of me, my stomach groans. It flips, it turns and it lurches, making it obvious that no food would touch it without being forced upwards once more.

Three

Let us join hands, and pray for ripred's favor. Her screech has been quieted, she places a finger adorned with various hues of neons into those of her husband and son, leaving I to grab the remaining. Sweat pools around my palm, my stomach only becomes more restless, now with hunger beginning to dig it's claws into my gut.

I'm not gonna write you a love song
'cause you asked for it
'cause you need one, you see

Two

Quick, meaningless words muttered over untouched food. I don't even comprehend the words being spoken as a ringing is too busy echoing throughout my mind. And yet, as my knuckles rubs the sleep from my eyes, the sun has still not peaked over the orange horizon.

One year until my name would be removed from that ominous crystal, would I make it that long? Would the hand, like those my mother's crude replica mimics, reach far into that bowl, pulling out one of the papers that read my name? Or perhaps would it be my brother, with his constant shakes and brittle bones. Either would spell out my death.

I am not a career, the hilt of a sword would be foreign within delicate fingers.Could I take another's life, watching as the red tears gushed from their wound, knowing that in order to have survived, they would have done the same to me? Thrown into an arena with twenty-three others, and one would still breathe by the end of however long we were trapped within it's walls. And the capitol would make them look perfect, make them a hero. Force them to say words printed onto a sheet of stiff paper. To speak the praises of the capitol while they pressed cold metal knives against their lower back. An act.

But wasn't that me already? Wasn't my entire life a lie, and my personality as fluid as those who I spent the day with. A perfect girl for my parents, a troublemaker for friends, always someone else, I doubt I even remember who I am. So why not me? A girl willing and able to lie to others. With more experience in the field than anyone should have. A nobody, as wet as clay and able to be molded into anything that the capitol wanted. And if I died, who would care? I had no real friends, I had no one who would grieve that my blood had run cold. That my body had stiffened and began to decay.

Not even me.

I learned the hard way
That they all say things you want to hear
And my heavy heart sinks deep down under you and your twisted words,

One

My feet soon float above the pavement lined streets. One hand clutches that of my brothers, and I could feel him shake as a cold wind ripped through the district. The other is intertwined with the morning. It keeps my legs upright and my body from collapsing. Like an old friend comforting me on this dark morning. It keeps my mind away from the arena, the horrors what await two who now stand in line. I am pulled away from my brother, shoved into a line with others who have made it 17 years without their fate sealed by the escort that would no doubt make their was across the stage any second. The morning's arm wraps around mine, it's head nestles into my neck. Comfort. Yet this does not stop my mind from wandering to the games of past.

Child against child, given a sword and told to use it. Desperate to fight, desperate to win, to return home and to be someone remembered. To be a victor. Whether it be for glory, or for helping those who couldn't do it themselves. A sacrifice, to give a child one more year of ignorance until yet again death would slide his hand across your cheek, pulling out a slip and giving you a death sentence. Murder.

Convinced me to please you
Made me think that I need this too
I'm trying to let you hear me as I am

Go

He walks out onto the stage. A typical fellow, perhaps even charming. If I hadn't known what would soon be leaving his lips, in the falsetto tone that I myself had worked so hard to perfect. The typical bullshit dances across the crowd. Weaving tales of the Capitol's perfection. And how, sixty-six years after the rebellion that violence was still only to be met with the same.

The first to be sentenced was a girl, younger than I, smaller. I could not see her face in the crowd, not did I wish to. If I had, perhaps I would've broken. The perfect facade I was building would break.

Enjoy one more year, kid

And as soon as the boy's name rings across the crowd, so does another. It echoes about the silence with such confidence that I knew I did not possess, nor I did not expect to ever have. The morning straightens my shoulders and pushes me to the front of the crowd. It squeezes my waist before vanishing into a breeze. The world turns gray around me, spinning like water falling through a drain.

"I'm Lyric Woulf, and I volunteer as tribute."
And upon the stage, a smile spreads across my face.
I'm Lyric, and this is my final act.

[ooc-Lyric Woulf volunteers for female tribute of District Six]

the m o o n controls the t i d e, it could cause you to d r o w n

lionel estrada d5 ᥫ᭡ kiah
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#expensivetrash

66th Reaping [D6] Feb 4, 2014 2:19:51 GMT -5

Post by lionel estrada d5 ᥫ᭡ kiah on Feb 4, 2014 2:19:51 GMT -5

JUST GONNA POST THIS CAUSE YOLO ;DD

I sit on my bed in silence, my fingers idly playing with the scrap of fabric between my hands. I was nervous, I was always nervous on the day that today was. No matter how many times I tried to calm the pounding of my heart it seemed to beat harder and stronger with every passing minute. The voices in my head seem to cry out louder today, they seemed to be closer and more persistent. Every reaping day I was in grave danger. And not only the danger that the capitol posed but the danger that my own body- mind- posed.

Slowly I pulled my body off of the bed that was where I slept, my feet touching the cold tiles sending shivers through my spine. The dull beeping of machinery was the only thing I could hear over the pounding of my heart and I tried with all my might to concentrate on that, to try and pull my body into a calm state. I had to remain calm. I had to be strong. I had to fight the voices- but would I be able to? Would I be able to push them behind me? To take my own life in my hands… I have done it before, I have managed to win… so I could do it today. I could. I had to- that’s what they would want, they would want me to keep fighting, to push through it, to live the life that they hadn’t had the chance too.

As I stand I close my eyes for a moment and try to picture their faces, I try to look into their eyes, to try and hear their voices… but nothing comes and I am left staring at the back of my eyelids, and silence filling my ears. My heart clenches and I can’t stop the tears that leap into my eyes. How long had it been now? Since I had seen them, heard anything but their dying cries? Too long I sigh and hastily wipe away the gathering tears of sadness. I needed to see them again, to remember them, but that would never happen because they were dead. They were dead and I was alive, living my life in the hospital where I was a permanent resident. They thought I was insane- and in some ways I was. But I had the right to be, didn’t I? After everything I had been though, I had the right to lose my mind a little…

Sighing I push my family to the back of my mind, my eyes seeking out the door that would lead me into the pristine white hallways of the hospital. You ready Sonja? A wild voice cooed in the back of my mind,You ready to die? It hissed. Clenching my teeth a pushed past it, past the leering voices in my head, and try and concentrate on the whiteness of the place that surrounded me. The walls seemed much cleaner than usual, I think to myself, my fingers brushing along the smooth surface, much whiter. You think that will stop us? It leers, Do you think you will win this time? Honey give up. Today you will learn your fate. Today you will be the one to die. “No! NO! no no no no no! I won’t! I will fight you, I won’t be the one to die, I can’t… I need to live… I need to- for them. Please, please leave me alone.” I cry out loud, my hands clenching the side of my face as I beg the voices to run, as I beg them to show me mercy. No.

Silence.

I stay still for a moment, my whole body locked in position. I wait for the voices to taunt me, to tease me. But I am met with silence, a silence that sends shivers down my spine. Finally I allow myself to breath. Sucking in a deep breath of air I fall to my knees, my arms hugging my body tightly. That’s when I hear her, her gentle voice among the thrones of my heart. “Sonja? Sonja it is ok, it will all be okay. You are strong, you will fight. You will win.” Her voice is as gentle as her touch as she coaxes me to my feet. I turn my gaze to hers and instantly I feel stronger. “You will be fine,” She half laughs when she sees my face. The girl in front of me is about my age and she has been here for me for as long as I can remember. She is a special friend, one that only seems to exist in the mind of my own, one that no one but me could see… Her skin is as pale as a ghost and her eyes as piercing as the moon. “Ruby, ruby do you think I can fight them?” I ask quietly, my voice no louder than the gentle hmm of machines. “Sonja you can do it, for you, for them.” I look up once again, but Ruby was no longer there. She was gone and I was left staring into the empty air in front of me.

Sighing I turn from the place where my best friend had stood and walk into the frosty air of the morning, down the street to where the animals crowd together waiting for their testimony.

***
People surround me and I find it hard to breathe. I didn’t want to be here, I didn’t want to fight, to lose. Thought you had us gone, didn’t yah? the voices were back, louder and clearer than ever in my mind. My face cringes slightly but I try not to make it obvious. I can beat them. The escort walks across the stage, his hand dipping into the round bowl that contained the names of the female- “December Nieve!” The name is called out across the silent crowd. I turn my head to look for the body that belongs to the name and when I do find the girl my heart breaks for her. Her face is as pale as a ghost- she looks so white I am sure that she is about to faint. Peacekeepers begin to move towards her and that when I realise that she can’t move- that she is so physically scared that her body won’t allow her legs and arms to move… I catch my breath, my eyes dropping.

I couldn’t look, I couldn’t watch as she would be dragged away to the stage where she would be shown off to the capitol. You can stop it, you can change that… A voice murmurs to the back of my mind. Volunteer. Die. Take her ticket. Come on Sonja- come die with me. The voice hisses into my ear. Take that step out of the crowd, take that step towards the stage, DO IT! DO IT NOW! the voice demands, ”no no no no,” I whisper madly to myself. But then, without me even acknowledging it my feet are moving, moving away from the safe crowd and into the open.

Ha, that’s a girl, now speak the words. Tell them that you want to die, tell them. Do it. “But but I don’t want to die, I don’t want to-“ I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU WANT! YOU ARE GOING TO ACCETP THE OFFER AS TRIBUTE AND YOU ARE GOING TO DIE LIKE THE REST OF YOUR FAMILY. I have won Sonja. This is your end. A sob escapes my lips, my vision going blurry with tears, “but… I- I – I volunteer,” I whisper, LOUDER! THEY NEED TO HEAR IT! “I- I- I TRIBUTE- I VOULNTEER AS TRIBUTE… I don’t want to die. I… please.” My voice trails off as the last of my words escape my lips and into the world which was now all eyes on me.

✮ UPAT ✮

gamemaker 🍒 maryn hale
RP Tutor

3,264 POSTS

Pronouns: he/him
last seen Apr 25, 2024 21:52:24 GMT -5

66th Reaping [D6] Apr 4, 2014 12:53:26 GMT -5

Post by gamemaker 🍒 maryn hale on Apr 4, 2014 12:53:26 GMT -5

BEATRICE MAEVA HARTMYRE
_______________________________________________________

Something wicked this way comes.

Slender fingers run their way through my hair, daylight sliding through the slit in my tattered curtains and resting upon my cheek. Purple bags hide in safety below my eyes, and I bring my hands to my face and rub against my sagging skin, trying to force life back into my entirety. If death was a human, I would be his mask.

I am just a girl, fragile bones and a delicate, normal soul, yet spiderwebs clutter my lungs and fatigue ties my feet together. I wish to run, run from the vacant darkness that I know lays a hand upon my shoulder whenever I turn my eye away. And though I do try, I always find myself sprawled out across the floor, writhing in pity and pain toward my sins; screech over my selfishness, I do.

Gasps drip from my chapped lips, and with shaking hands I continue to run my fingers through my straggly hair. If Teddy was here, on this the day of death, he'd be buttoning up a fancy plaid shirt as he watched me dab my fingers into a crushed concoction of berries that stunk with the stench of decay. He'd rest his hand on my shoulder, causing me to take a break from rubbing the red substance upon my lips and cheeks. “It'll all be okay,” he'd whisper, and my cheeks would burn red without assistance.

If Florence was here, she'd roll her eyes in my direction and hiss under her breath. “No sister of mine is going out like that,” she'd comment, adjusting my dress with her quick, nimble fingers. She'd pause for just a moment, staring into my eyes to smile ever so faintly. “It'll all be okay.”

But, in the end, they're not here. Florence is gone, six feet under the ground in a wooden coffin. Teddy is gone, six feet under his mind in a medical facility, numb to my words when I beg him to come back to me. No matter how many nights I screamed at him, he never opened his eyes. No matter how many times I clawed at the earth above Florence's grave, she never came back to me. I'm alone, in a house of ghosts, and no one is here to tell me that it'll all be okay.

Esther dances through the halls, ghostly noises falling from her lips. Orion works in the graveyard, digging as he tosses both dirt and his cares aside. Though I stay seated, clawing at my hair and trying to fight back tears. Who will tell me it's all okay? My hands ball into fists, banging slowly on the splintered dresser in front of me, becoming redder and redder with each impact.

Light illuminates my face, and yet I scream. I part my lips and I screech at the sky beyond these walls, banging my fists harder and harder as I kick about, falling out of my chair and scratching the floor. I wail, knocking my skull against the wooden ground. I want to say what I feel, “Who will tell me it's okay?! Who will come for me?!”, but only screams rip their way out of my throat, fluttering into the air on wings of despair and broken hopes. I stop abruptly, keeping my eyes peeled open as I wait for footsteps. Teddy will come; he always comes.

I wait.

I wait.

I wait.

I can only hear my heartbeat and my breath, in a house full of ghosts. A house full of ghosts that I have caused. I scream again, continuing to bang my head on the floor. No one comes for me, and I can't stand the silence. Light still shines on me, but a man of darkness lingers beneath my flesh, clawing at my bones. I want him out; “Get out!,” I screech, clawing at my abdomen, rolling around in burning agony.

I am selfish, yet bravery does not flow through my veins. I force myself onto my feet, screaming as I charge into the wall. I bang my body against the structure over and over, tears falling from my eyes in the process. My hands shake, raspy breaths rolling out of my hoarse throat as my short, jagged nails pull at my hair, coated in faint specks of blood from my abdomen.

Teddy's gone; Teddy's gone and there is no light. I pant, running to my window and pulling apart the curtains. The sun burns my eyes, yet the darkness in me slips a dark shade over my pupils. I open the window and stick a leg through, glancing down below at the the ground.

I can't do it anymore; I can't do it.

I close my eyes, and I slip through the window. I stand recklessly on the roof, walking forward as I inhale and exhale. The breeze is chilling against my bare flesh, save for my undergarments, and I hold my hands out to my sides as I feel my toes hang over the narrow edge of the roof. “I'm coming, Teddy. I'm coming,” I chant, shoulders rising and falling with rapid breaths. “I'm coming, mama. I'm coming!” I step forward, before I feel rugged hands clutch onto my hair and drag me backwards, whamming my back onto the rough rooftop. I screech, being dragged back to the window by a single hand.

I am weak; I am dark.

I am pulled through the window, skinning my knees as I enter. Orion holds me, eyes bewildered and confused. Teddy would have only held me, he'd not look at me with confusion. I pound at his chest weakly, but he only shakes me with his strong hands. I scream selfishly, angry for not getting what I wanted. Orion slaps me across the face in return, shaking me.

“Beatrice! What the hell?! Why would you do that?” he pulls me close, holding me. I shiver, and I scream on his shoulder. “Bea, no. Death isn't the answer. You of all people should know that m-,” I push back with all my force, whacking my forehead into his.

“I have to get to Teddy,” I wail, trying to crawl back to the window, clawing the floor as Orion clutches onto my legs. He drags me back, burning my skin as I skid along. I writhe in pain, shaking from the darkness inside of me. I haven't had one of my major fits since I was a preteen, but this possibly topped each one combined.

“Beatrice! Beatrice! Stop!”

I do not stop; I continue fighting. I am weak, but I fight. I continue screaming. I am alone, but I cry for him. I go black as Orion slaps me again. I am surrounded by light, but I am dark.

- - -

I awake on my bed, wet hair sticking to my face and Orion adjusting a simple white dress upon my form. I groan weakly, looking around. He goes on to wrap a bandage around my arm, then one upon my leg. His eyes are solemn, and I want to fight back, but I cannot. A wooden board has been nailed across my window, and I realize that I have been out cold for at least an hour or just a little less. I rise up, grimacing.

“What happened?” Am I stupid? I know what occurred. I tried to find light.

“Beatrice, it's behind us. We have to head to the reaping. Clara and Esther are waiting. We have to go,” he states, and I look up at him with a deep pain in my eyes.

“I just want Teddy back,” I say, trying to blink the tears away. “I can't go on withou-,” I try to continue, Orion placing a finger upon my lips.

“No tears, Beatrice,” he murmurs. “Teddy is still with us. You know that. We have to be strong, for him. Okay? You have to be strong. For him, for mama, for Florence. You're brave, Beatrice. I know you are. Do you?” I look down as the words leave his mouth, keeping my lips in a thin line. How can I be brave? I am weak; I am alone.

I rise up on wobbly legs, limping past him and down the stairs. My straggly hair flies out behind me, wrinkly dress bouncing as I run down the steps. “Beatrice! Your shoes!” Orion yells after me, but I do not listen. I storm away from Esther and Clara as I exit our household, away from my father and through the door.

I limp past all the bystanders; I limp past all the dark shadows that try to drag me down. Could I have truly ended my life? No. I am not brave; I am not strong. I am Beatrice Hartmyre, and I am alone.

- - -

I stand in the section for sixteen-year-old females, blank eyes staring ahead as the Escort speaks. Girls stare at my bare feet, whispering things. I only blink, however. I close my eyes and rock back and forth, swaying as the Escort's voice echoes back and forth.

When my eyes snap open, a boy and girl have taken the stage, the precious ceremony almost finished. I stare ahead, tilting my head. Death is my solace, but I am not brave. I start stepping forward, bare feet being pierced by gravel.

I am alone, but I hear Teddy and Florence screaming my name from within their distant slumber

I am weak, but I hear the girls around me gasp at the thought of my sudden bravery.

I am reckless, and I can see that ring true as I stare into Orion's petrified eyes.

I stand in the center of two parted sections, eyes staring with disastrous ambition as my hair drifts in the breeze. I'm just a girl armed with a dress. I look up at the sky, and I realize that I will have no light until I'm gone.

“My name is Beatrice Hartmyre,” and I am brave enough to realize that I am weak, “and I-,” and I do not finish my speech.

“I volunteer as tribute,” sounds a girl, a fire within her soul. I stare at her as she walks forward, those who were obtaining respect for me peeling away their eyes, my moment snatched. I feel my eyes drift downwards, just a girl trapped to dream of death another day.

People begin to whisper; whisper about the crazy girl, they do. Turning on blistered feet, I limp away, my hair blowing around me as I go. A Peacekeeper grabs my arm, urging me to stay until the Reaping has officially ended, but with a jerk of my wrist, I glare at him.

“Why should I stay? It's not me who's dying today.”

It's not me who's finding her light today; it's not me who's sane; it's not me who's brave; it's not me who's told that it'll all be okay.

In the end, it's not me.

_____________________________________________________
template: chelsey

OOC: This was originally a post for volunteering, but, as if it's not obvious, I totally missed the designated time for that. So, as a random result, I decided to modify the last few paragraphs of this post just so that I could share it, since I'm actually quite proud of it. If you do read this vomit of words, I hope that you enjoy!

Last Edit: Apr 11, 2014 22:56:02 GMT -5 by gamemaker 🍒 maryn hale