speare fer [d3]
Mar 1, 2014 23:10:17 GMT -5
Post by shrimp on Mar 1, 2014 23:10:17 GMT -5
SPEARE FER
DISTRICT THREE
SEVENTEEN
ODAIR
"When first meeting Speare, many take him as the career of the Fer family, or as close to one as you could get in their district. With a deep voice, a muscular body, and him being named after a weapon himself, who would think otherwise? The reality is, though, that his name is the last half of Shakespeare, a gifted writer and poet that Speare's parents had been inspired by. Raised to be a writer, Speare is just that. With him he carries his diary (though he calls it a journal), full of poems and stories. Speare is well liked throughout the family, partly because he can stay quiet, and partly because his kind and caring personality."
I am what they expect me to be, nothing more, nothing less.
Tall. Strong. Protective. Dedicated. Determined. Pure of heart. Pure of mind. Brother to the girl who hoards her own personal taxidermy collection. Quiet. Kind. Thoughtful. It's a lot to bear. But I've tried my hardest to deal with it, I always have.
I can't deny that I am these things, but at the same time sometimes I wonder if it's all a facade. Most of the time the only thing coursing through my veins is a numbness that I can't shake accompanied by sparks that ricochet through my mind and warp every word I say into mumbles and stammers that don't quite make sense. Some say that it's cute, maybe even endearing, charming. Nonsense. I'm like the wilted trees that lay scattered across the district: awkwardly bent at strange angles and noticeable only for their faults.
I should just stay inside, that would be easier. Rhubella's science experiments keep me away though.
Writing helps. Sometimes. My journal never leaves my side and some people say that it makes me dark and mysterious and creative, jotting down soliloquys and poems whose metaphors are wondrous and dark and powerful. Not at all. You could call it a case study, at best. I write down what I see, but it's always false because I don't think I see anything at all. I'm blind to the world, to its zen moments and chaotic thundering. It's almost as if I'm in another wavelength, or as if I'm looking at others through a glass wall. I'm there, but I'm not.
They see me, six-foot-three, mousy brown hair, well-built with a chipped tooth from the time I fell down the stairs. They see my hands that scratch uttering onto paper. They see my gray eyes focused on the conversation to my left. But at the same time, they see nothing at all. They don't see how my eyes feel like they're glazed over, like how I'm watching a scene instead of immersing myself in it. They don't see the scars when my hands scratch at skin and scabs instead, they don't see my feelings (as flat and banal as the low tide).
They don't see, and neither do I. We're all blind in that way, I suppose.
I wish I could be like them though, I wish I could really feel extremely happy or extremely sad or extremely anything really. Except the fear, there's already too much of that. It perks its head up when I have to start my day, grasps at me with cackles and screeches and the only thing I can do is close the closet door and sit, hands pressed against my face as my breath heaves in and our and my heart beats as fast as gunfire that punctures my muscles my arteries my nerves my everything. Death seems to approach with its icy fingers yet withdraws with a snicker just as I let myself go. I think it's teasing me.
The only thing that seems to calm me is the writing as I scribble down page after page of fears, scratching desperately as the darkness approaches. It keeps me up all night and when day breaks I finally leave with exhaustion, tossing the scribbles in the wastebasket that's filled to the brim. Perhaps it's better than what I normally write but I can't look back I can't I can't I can't let it come and find me again. Anything is better than the paralysis, the shaking, the tears.
Whenever I'm out I'm slouched, my hands shoved into my pockets or fumbling for a pen and paper. Thoughts and words are so much easier when you can write them down instead of uttering them. But I'd rather be back home, even if Rhubella's vermin are always looming around the corner. I belong there, alone. Not with people who I can't understand and who will never understand me. It's probably better that way.
Although that doesn't mean it should be that way. Because some day I want to be able to leave my house without having to mentally prepare myself for hours. I want to talk to others without fearing that I'll mess things up. I want to be let into life, not just stand there as a wallflower, as an observer. My case study should be just that, a study. Not a lifestyle. Not my lifestyle.
I want to live, but I'm trapped behind metal bars that I don't know how to unlock.
DISTRICT THREE
SEVENTEEN
ODAIR
"When first meeting Speare, many take him as the career of the Fer family, or as close to one as you could get in their district. With a deep voice, a muscular body, and him being named after a weapon himself, who would think otherwise? The reality is, though, that his name is the last half of Shakespeare, a gifted writer and poet that Speare's parents had been inspired by. Raised to be a writer, Speare is just that. With him he carries his diary (though he calls it a journal), full of poems and stories. Speare is well liked throughout the family, partly because he can stay quiet, and partly because his kind and caring personality."
I am what they expect me to be, nothing more, nothing less.
Tall. Strong. Protective. Dedicated. Determined. Pure of heart. Pure of mind. Brother to the girl who hoards her own personal taxidermy collection. Quiet. Kind. Thoughtful. It's a lot to bear. But I've tried my hardest to deal with it, I always have.
I can't deny that I am these things, but at the same time sometimes I wonder if it's all a facade. Most of the time the only thing coursing through my veins is a numbness that I can't shake accompanied by sparks that ricochet through my mind and warp every word I say into mumbles and stammers that don't quite make sense. Some say that it's cute, maybe even endearing, charming. Nonsense. I'm like the wilted trees that lay scattered across the district: awkwardly bent at strange angles and noticeable only for their faults.
I should just stay inside, that would be easier. Rhubella's science experiments keep me away though.
Writing helps. Sometimes. My journal never leaves my side and some people say that it makes me dark and mysterious and creative, jotting down soliloquys and poems whose metaphors are wondrous and dark and powerful. Not at all. You could call it a case study, at best. I write down what I see, but it's always false because I don't think I see anything at all. I'm blind to the world, to its zen moments and chaotic thundering. It's almost as if I'm in another wavelength, or as if I'm looking at others through a glass wall. I'm there, but I'm not.
They see me, six-foot-three, mousy brown hair, well-built with a chipped tooth from the time I fell down the stairs. They see my hands that scratch uttering onto paper. They see my gray eyes focused on the conversation to my left. But at the same time, they see nothing at all. They don't see how my eyes feel like they're glazed over, like how I'm watching a scene instead of immersing myself in it. They don't see the scars when my hands scratch at skin and scabs instead, they don't see my feelings (as flat and banal as the low tide).
They don't see, and neither do I. We're all blind in that way, I suppose.
I wish I could be like them though, I wish I could really feel extremely happy or extremely sad or extremely anything really. Except the fear, there's already too much of that. It perks its head up when I have to start my day, grasps at me with cackles and screeches and the only thing I can do is close the closet door and sit, hands pressed against my face as my breath heaves in and our and my heart beats as fast as gunfire that punctures my muscles my arteries my nerves my everything. Death seems to approach with its icy fingers yet withdraws with a snicker just as I let myself go. I think it's teasing me.
The only thing that seems to calm me is the writing as I scribble down page after page of fears, scratching desperately as the darkness approaches. It keeps me up all night and when day breaks I finally leave with exhaustion, tossing the scribbles in the wastebasket that's filled to the brim. Perhaps it's better than what I normally write but I can't look back I can't I can't I can't let it come and find me again. Anything is better than the paralysis, the shaking, the tears.
Whenever I'm out I'm slouched, my hands shoved into my pockets or fumbling for a pen and paper. Thoughts and words are so much easier when you can write them down instead of uttering them. But I'd rather be back home, even if Rhubella's vermin are always looming around the corner. I belong there, alone. Not with people who I can't understand and who will never understand me. It's probably better that way.
Although that doesn't mean it should be that way. Because some day I want to be able to leave my house without having to mentally prepare myself for hours. I want to talk to others without fearing that I'll mess things up. I want to be let into life, not just stand there as a wallflower, as an observer. My case study should be just that, a study. Not a lifestyle. Not my lifestyle.
I want to live, but I'm trapped behind metal bars that I don't know how to unlock.
