emma partridge, district seven | re-sub.

My very childhood blossomed within a garden afflicted with insecticides crafted from our sins.

As a little girl growing up within Seven, I had heard stories of the unwanted children that cluttered into orphanages and lingered upon the streets. My small, delicate fingers would always clutch onto my mother's sleeve whenever I passed one, and with each hollow-face that stained the insides of my eyelids throughout my early days, my fear of being unloved only grew and grew. A phobia with roots that ensnared my limbs and vines that snaked across my flesh and around my throat, lodging my screams within me, my fear of being unwanted was all that controlled me.

To say I was fragile and breaking would be idiotic, for I as a child was nothing but a wide-eyed dreamer, passionate towards every emotion and affection that was casted upon me. To say I was broken? I could agree. I was a girl who clutched onto the love she so desperately craved, but I was a girl who could never obtain enough. Every little thing that didn't go my way - every drawing that was placed below my sister's on the wall, every dancing twirl that got two less claps than my sister's pirouettes - pushed me farther and farther off the edge, until I became nothing but a reckless vortex of fickle fingers and begging screams.

I'd howl when people's attention fled from me, and when those I loved walked away from me, my capricious entirety could not stop itself from clutching onto them, refusing to let go. To say I was disturbed and lingering upon obsession would be brash, for I was a girl with a heart like a bouquet of roses and a soul like a frail butterfly, a duo so perfectly intertwined. To say I was already plagued by obsession? Perhaps a truth, for I was a girl with a tongue like heated coal, burning the flesh of those who abandoned me, those who dared to walk away. 

Even so, no amount of arms around my form or lips against my cheek could bury my childhood fear, the fear that my parents would someday cast me away with all the other hollow-faced children in favor of my perfect sister, Lenora. I was not sure why the fear of being shoved away and pushed into an unloving forest of scratching hands and barred teeth terrified me so, but no matter how hard  I tried to find ways to chip away the thick mass of fear that clung onto my psyche, it only got stronger and stronger with each passing day.

Stealing my father's lighter at the age of thirteen had been an act of innocence, in all truth. I had only wanted to do something that would make the entire population of Seven love me, make them never leave me, make them take away my fear. Walking into the forest that night, I had but one goal: to receive the love I deserved.  A flame surged out of the lighter with a whimsical click, and attempting to make a fire so bright and warm and beautiful that all would love me, I set flame to a patch of dried grass. True, I had never expected the fire to spread, the smoke to cloud my lungs and knock me unconscious, the flames just as fickle as I to devour half of the forest. No, I had not expected that; I had expected love, but in return, I received my fears, tied nicely in a box with a lovely bow.

Officials deemed me a disturbed pyromaniac or some other type of freak, and upon my parents locking me away within my room, I fell apart even further. Souls only passed by to drop off meals I'd hardly touch, and no matter how hard I begged for them to stay or clutched at their limbs, they'd only shove me away. I was cracking all over, every inch of me shattering, my skin becoming like the deserts in the books Lenora would always read, smart  and perfect little Lenora.

It wasn't until the approaching of my fourteenth year of life that my mother entered the room for more than just a lingering moment, and stroking my hair as I clutched onto her waist and rested my head upon her lap, she asked me what it was that I wanted. I pressed into her, whimpering, telling her all that I wanted was her. She only laughed, patting my head, telling me about how that wasn't what she meant. She said she wanted to take me to some sort of doctor that promised to fix me so that she could love me again, and that she wanted to give me a gift for my upcoming day of birth as a form of coaxing to take me. Ignorantly latching onto the thought of being fixed and becoming lovable, I blurted that I wanted a scarf in return, though I would have gladly accepted nothing in return for that little dream.

Walking to the supposed doctor's location, new scarf wrapped around my neck, I felt warm as stares sunk into my form. Perhaps they thought I looked pretty, waving hair and fancy scarf, or perhaps they just had to take a peek at the girl who nearly burned half of Seven. Either way, I had been happy. Being noticed, even negatively, was a form of affection, and I accepted it graciously.

When we eventually reached a shabby manor near the outskirts of Seven, I had been confused. A brittle old woman answered the door upon my mother's knocking, and with a smile, she nodded at me. "Is this the girl no one can handle? The little girl who starts fires?" she questioned, hoarse voice hiding a chuckle. I watched as my mother nodded solemnly, pushing me forward.

"Mrs. Partridge, I'm sorry for this burden, but-...," my mother had trailed off, my bewildered eyes burning into her own, which refused to acknowledge me. "She's no good locked away in her room, and it's killing me to know that she's so broken, and I-... I feel that she'd better off here. With other children like her, yeah? Yes. Yes, Emma. Yes, this is where you belong."

"Mama, wait, no, I-... I-... Please! No!"

"Emma, mama loves you. Really."

My mother had pushed me straight into the arms of the old woman, and kissing my cheek, I watched as she backed away. "The paperwork's been all finished up, and-...," my mother inhaled, closing her eyes. "Make her feel loved." With that, with that burning statement, my mother turned and trudged off, door shutting behind her. I screamed in panic, fear bubbling within me. My one true fear was coming true; even more, I had been tricked. Mother promised a cure, but instead, I was gifted a damnation. 

"Hush, hush, Emma. Emma, hush. You are safe here, you are safe. We will love you, I and all the other children. You're wanted here, don't you cry. Don't you cry. We love you."

---

It's  been three years since my abandonment at Mrs. Patridge's Home for Peculiar Orphaned Children, and if you were to state that I've improved in the ways my mother had hoped for, I'd laugh in your face.

I've fallen apart a thousand times within the walls of this orphanage, a thousand lifetimes withered and a thousand deaths blossomed. It's not that Mrs. Partridge or the other children do not give me the love I so desperately crave, no.  In fact, I sometimes feel genuinely loved within this place. The current oldest and longest-admitted orphan, I'd be lying if I said that most of the other children did not see me as a mother. "Emma, can you help me?" and "Emma! Emma, look what I made for you!" are common words within the chambers of my ears, and as enjoyable and pleasing as it is, it's still not fixing me.

I had been close to redemption, true. I had met a boy upon admission, a boy who painted my cheeks red and played my heart like the ignorant drum it was. Every night he would comfort me, every night he'd tell me to forget about the family who left me, and every night he told me he loved me. Abe had been my savior and my destroyer, all at once. His dreams were beyond the four walls that surrounded us, and he knew in his heart that one day he'd be free of it all. He had always held my hand, however, telling me that he'd never leave me behind, telling me we'd find happiness and security. But, like most fragile lies, that dream fell apart like all the rest.

He had left in the middle of the night once, and though my hand was not within his own, my heart was. I became a vortex of fire, every shred of my sanity snapping all at once. I've never been the same since then, when a boy healed me and killed me all at once. I feel every emotion now, so strong and true. I don't just give love, I give hatred and I give sadness and I give confusion and I give misery and I give all that I've received. I had decided upon Abe's leaving that I would let Mrs. Partridge and the others treat me as they had always wanted, like a fucked up pyromaniac.

I burn everything that reminds me of the boy, that reminds me of the love and security I almost had. I am a Queen of Fire, a thousand kingdoms hidden below ash crushed beneath my heels. I'm not the same little girl I was, the broken little thing who only wanted love. No, I'm the girl who takes it by force. No sweet words or trembling lips, just screams and flying fingernails. I bask in the love I so obsessively crave, and in contrast, I scorn it all the same.

Love is my medicine and my disease, killing and reviving me all at once. I know that someday, someday upon a dream, I'll find a man who will look past my madness and hold me in his arms. He'll kiss my lips and let his fingers linger against my skin, and I'll drink in his affections like the drunkard I am.

Still, even if my dream is to someday come soon, my nightmare is bound to only follow. In truth, my only saving grace is turning those I love to ash, particles made up of remembrance of the things I crave. I worship love and I battle against it, all at once.

There will come a day where I, Emma Partridge, finally find sanity somewhere between pleasure and vengeance, but that day will be a day of flames.