Jenga Woodards [D8}

Python Head Librarian 4,515 POSTS Pronouns: She/Her last seen May 18, 2024 22:06:18 GMT -5	Jenga Woodards [D8} Jun 24, 2014 19:41:49 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by Python on Jun 24, 2014 19:41:49 GMT -5 i'm a tower motherfucker but i'll bring you down with me age: 18 odair
	Last Edit: Jun 26, 2014 15:26:33 GMT -5 by Python

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Jenga Woodards [D8} Jun 25, 2014 14:07:43 GMT -5

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Post by Python on Jun 25, 2014 14:07:43 GMT -5

J E N G A W O O D A R D S

She painted her lips like a canvas, the color of love and hatred and death with lipstick worn to a short stub. Her split ends were combed back into a loose bun, the blonde hair of a bastard child. Half Woodards, half stranger. Another mouth to feed in a family with enough burdens. Their surname was known as the cursed surname of District Eight, the most unfortunate family alive within those boundaries. Three cousins lost in six years, two murdered on television and one descended into madness. Every eye flickered with pity upon hearing her last name, Woodards, like it was a summoning for sorrow and half-assed sympathy. But pity had proven itself profitable over the years. Residents showered them with donations - money and gifts for a dirt poor family. Something to fill the empty spaces where living, breathing names used to dwell.

Their urges to give and give to their hearts' content were how Jenga could afford all of her frivolous possessions. The tube of red lipstick, the little rings and necklaces that decorated her dresser, her wardrobe (a bit cheaper considering textiles was their District's favorite trade). It all seemed pointless from an outsider's perspective, but masking insecurities was for her own protection. "Why do you wear all of that lipstick? You look like a clown," she heard a classmate ask once. She had felt her patience waver at the jab, as if she were a tower whose foundations were being picked apart and eroded away. "Why don't you? You look like a corpse." Where there was a threat to her tower there was an insult hiding behind closed lips, because Jenga worshiped vengeance like it was a religion. Equality among the population; treat me like shit, and you'll find yourself eating it instead.

"Burden" was the word she feared most. She was the outsider, the half-sibling to Mahjong, Bono and Indiana, the one whose subtle differences in appearance were enough to mark her as the piece that didn't quite fit. She was an illegitimate child living among a family members who might resent her for her burdens. After all, she was yet another mouth to feed, another teenager using up their money and their donations, another hormonal and emotional crisis weighing the Woodards down like an anchor. She didn't really know what her half-siblings thought of her, but she couldn't be too careful. She had to hold her own in this world, to build stronger barriers and defend herself from any threats to her sanity. Eighteen years was enough of an experience to make her a pessimist. Always expect the worst, even from those closest to you. And always prepare to strike back.

She stepped over scattered shoes and discarded garments, her room always disorganized from her constant shuffling. Her mirror was askew, the reflection of a bastard crooked and awkward in the periwinkle eyes of its owner. In two hands she was forced to balance education, work, and what little social life she possessed in order to make something of herself. She was determined to achieve some amount of success instead of losing herself in the crowd, because if she were to collapse there was nobody around to pick up the pieces. It was survival of the fittest, a food chain of students and workers and merchants. Relying on others was a sign of weakness. Just imagine that you're alone in the world, and things become much easier.

She draped herself in a heavy coat and abandoned her mess. Punctuality was an admirable trait, especially to her employers, so she was always willing to give herself a head start in the mornings. She stepped into dawn's first light with a hat over her head, shielding parts of her face from potential onlookers. A Woodards was easy to recognize nowadays. After three deaths and countless interviews every face was familiar - not famous or infamous, just familiar. Strangers once muttered condolences and apologies when they passed by; now it was pitiful looks or greetings or - for those who actually knew who she was, who truly truly knew - glares. She was not the kindest Woordards of the bunch, her interviews had proven as such. I can't answer to the condescension of capitolites without losing my patience. Nasty words always lurked behind that red mouth, ready to reveal themselves at a moment's notice - not that she carried ill-intentions everywhere she walked. She could be polite and patient to those who treated her well. One wrong move or word, however, and Jenga would try to pluck a piece of any opponent's sanity. Perhaps it could replace the pieces she had already lost.

She was not the thick, stumpy child people used to giggle at. She had grown after puberty, her body thinned out by the increased height. Now she resembled the rest of the population - willowy and thin, with stick limbs and curves. But now instead of giggles she received glares of contempt, because "for someone who lives in such a nice family, you can be really mean," as if standing up for herself made her a terrible person. I'd rather be a terrible person than somebody's doormat. She would rather people see her as rude than as weak. She was the bastard, after all. The runt. She had to double her efforts to be seen or acknowledged, and there was no such thing as victory. To be weak was to be trampled upon and ridiculed, and to be strong was to be perceived as a monster.

But honestly, I'm just a Woodards, just a bastard girl trying to get by, and screw anyone who thinks I see myself as some special snowflake.

She was just Jenga, the girl who will fall and drag you down with her.

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Last Edit: Jun 26, 2014 15:26:02 GMT -5 by Python

Python Head Librarian 4,515 POSTS Pronouns: She/Her last seen May 18, 2024 22:06:18 GMT -5	Jenga Woodards [D8} Jun 26, 2014 15:27:05 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by Python on Jun 26, 2014 15:27:05 GMT -5 Rook has dibs~

rook Veteran Member 2,361 POSTS Pronouns: he/him last seen Sept 26, 2023 15:42:53 GMT -5 who needs another thing to be sad about?	Jenga Woodards [D8} Jun 26, 2014 15:52:31 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by rook on Jun 26, 2014 15:52:31 GMT -5 father my children a c c e p t e d
	an hourglass is just a glass with sand inside