District 11: Maybe Cotton
Apr 1, 2014 9:12:24 GMT -5
Post by Sarella on Apr 1, 2014 9:12:24 GMT -5
...Maybe Lissa Cotton...
..District 11..
.Sixteen.
..District 11..
.Sixteen.
"Do you need help with that?"
"Maybe."
"Aren't you tired?"
"Maybe."
"Is something wrong?"
"Maybe."
Do you ever wish you could just fade away into nothing? Nothing - where no one can find you, or hurt you, or control you. Every day of my life I have wished to just disappear. My name is Maybe, and it suits me, because no one in my family can ever make up their mind. My family of two. My father and I, alone in our small house. I never knew my mother, she died having me. Every day since then I have paid for that.
My dad says I'm useless, and I would disagree, but I do most of the work anyways. We live on cemetery land, my dad is the undertaker, I dig the holes with a few hired men, mostly in their late teens.
My dad says I'm useless, and I would disagree, but I do most of the work anyways. We live on cemetery land, my dad is the undertaker, I dig the holes with a few hired men, mostly in their late teens.
"Have you ever touched a dead guy?"
"Maybe."
I have hair the color of Hell, in my dad's words. The color of a rose, to the pedophile down the road. To me, though, my hair is a rotting tomato. Yes, it is red, but it has a thin layer of dirt, and a smell not too much unlike a corpse. I wash it when I get a chance, so one or two times a month. I have pale skin, and blue eyes, and my face is boring and blank, most of the time. I am very thin, but not without some muscle. I was once told by a widow that every time she looked at me, she felt like I would shatter into a million pieces. I don't think I could.
I wear, on most days, a simple black turtleneck and jeans. Despite the heat, I need something to cover the bruises that cake my body. On special days, I wear the turtleneck and a skirt that reaches my mid-shin. I don't wear shoes unless I happen upon a pair that fit.
I wear, on most days, a simple black turtleneck and jeans. Despite the heat, I need something to cover the bruises that cake my body. On special days, I wear the turtleneck and a skirt that reaches my mid-shin. I don't wear shoes unless I happen upon a pair that fit.
"Did someone do this to you?"
"Maybe."
I try to be as invisible as possible. I do everything my dad tells me to without protest, and I am a world class hider when he drinks too much. I am quiet, and I don't approach anyone. I am too scared to talk to anyone, because I am afraid they will notice the bruises, or try to hurt me. I don't hope for anything, because I don't think it is worth it.
I can barely look at my dad without flinching, much less speaking to him. I don't particularly like him, but I have to make him think I do, or at least show him respect. I have taken to sleeping under the table, because of too many surprises from him in the morning. I usually wake up first, at the crack of dawn, and I like it that way. I prefer the light over night, unlike my father.
I am wary, but curious nonetheless. I have always had difficulty trusting anyone. My favorite thing to do is make things. I can take a few twigs and some grass and make a doll, a piece of rope into a makeshift shoe, a few stones into a gravestone. Name it.
I can barely look at my dad without flinching, much less speaking to him. I don't particularly like him, but I have to make him think I do, or at least show him respect. I have taken to sleeping under the table, because of too many surprises from him in the morning. I usually wake up first, at the crack of dawn, and I like it that way. I prefer the light over night, unlike my father.
I am wary, but curious nonetheless. I have always had difficulty trusting anyone. My favorite thing to do is make things. I can take a few twigs and some grass and make a doll, a piece of rope into a makeshift shoe, a few stones into a gravestone. Name it.
"Are you scared?"
"Maybe."
I don't remember much up until I was ten. The basic things, I guess. Following my dad around, sitting with old ladies while they waited for their husbands to be lowered into the ground. I remember trying to play with a little girl about my age when I was six or seven. She had black hair, and she had lost her father and brother that morning. She told me to go away. Everyone always told me to go away.
When I was twelve my dad expected me to start helping with the graves. At first the young men only made fun of me, poking my sides and grabbing my scrawny wrists, shoving me into the holes and threatening to leave me there. Once, they did, overnight. My dad didn't notice. When he found me the next morning, he yanked me out and beat me so hard I though they were going to be burying me in the next few days. Eventually, though, I created a bond with the diggers. We started to trust each other. I became one of them, and we shared stories and food. The only thing they didn't poke their noses into was my dad and I's relationship.
By the time I was fourteen the beatings had escalated dramatically. More often than not I was in bed for days at a time, staring blankly at a wall, trying to ignore the pain that shot through my body every time I moved. A month before my fifteenth birthday, I climbed to the top of the Mausoleum and jumped headfirst into a fresh grave. Two hours later one of the diggers found me and pulled me out, and took me to his house, were his mother took care of me. I had a broken arm and a concussion, and she sent me home that night. My dad never found out.
When I was twelve my dad expected me to start helping with the graves. At first the young men only made fun of me, poking my sides and grabbing my scrawny wrists, shoving me into the holes and threatening to leave me there. Once, they did, overnight. My dad didn't notice. When he found me the next morning, he yanked me out and beat me so hard I though they were going to be burying me in the next few days. Eventually, though, I created a bond with the diggers. We started to trust each other. I became one of them, and we shared stories and food. The only thing they didn't poke their noses into was my dad and I's relationship.
By the time I was fourteen the beatings had escalated dramatically. More often than not I was in bed for days at a time, staring blankly at a wall, trying to ignore the pain that shot through my body every time I moved. A month before my fifteenth birthday, I climbed to the top of the Mausoleum and jumped headfirst into a fresh grave. Two hours later one of the diggers found me and pulled me out, and took me to his house, were his mother took care of me. I had a broken arm and a concussion, and she sent me home that night. My dad never found out.
oDair
