{ spitfire } // d11 fin

pepper. Merchant 101 POSTS Pronouns: he/him last seen Dec 12, 2017 6:17:45 GMT -5 he spoke in tongues of the divine. delicate, cryptic. dangerous.	{ spitfire } // d11 fin Aug 3, 2014 6:34:04 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by pepper. on Aug 3, 2014 6:34:04 GMT -5 louie spitfire safar district eleven fifteen male "Your standards cant possibly be smaller than your dick." odair
	Last Edit: Dec 3, 2015 20:16:09 GMT -5 by pepper. { B A B Y B L U E }

pepper.
Merchant

101 POSTS

Pronouns: he/him
last seen Dec 12, 2017 6:17:45 GMT -5

he spoke in tongues of the divine. delicate, cryptic. dangerous.

{ spitfire } // d11 fin Aug 9, 2014 6:49:09 GMT -5

Quote

Post by pepper. on Aug 9, 2014 6:49:09 GMT -5

^{L O U I E} SPITFIRE ^{S A F A R}

I thought of angels
Choking on their halos
Get them drunk on rose water
See how dirty I can get them
Pulling out their fragile teeth
And clip their tiny wings

Don't be fooled for a second that I appear like I have yet to sprout a single ball-hair or any hairs waist-below considering my legs were allegedly just as smooth as my balding pelvis, so smooth infact that it would probably reek of milk if they weren't constantly knee-deep in horse shit the majority of the time. I always fancied the dried-up mud cracks between my nailbeds despite how Pops complained about unhygienic it was in the next decade. Or that I'm about just as intimidating as a freshly pealed potato, what a weak fucking comparison, we're so familiar with the same stale bread, and carrots, and edible dog shit being served to us at dinner that even our general vocabulary cannot extend beyond a god-damn spud with lips pale and soft-to-touch, much like smoothing your fingertips against the tender outer-layer of ripe peaches. Grown 'specially from the orchards I've been picking since I was barely growin out of my baby-shoes. Even then I was a force to be reckoned with, feeding off the sweet, sweet tears of the Elderly when I accidentally bruised their flowerbeds. My parents opted to blame it on curiosity but I'm still not sorry.

Cerulean eyes often holding a glint of recognition cerulean was an understatement. People could write soppy sonnets about my eyes, cradling the ocean's fury in their cruel glare, searching every nook and cranny of their surroundings for something to ravage whenever they glanced at a cane or make-shift whip in what should have been fear. I was just as familiar with the sting of leather belts slapping roughly against my scarring back as I was with my fists colliding messily with bone and flesh, letting some off-headed bigot taste my anger. I thrived off the hatred I bared so willingly, though I bite out more than I can chew on more than one occasion With long, gangly thin limbs the perks of having a fast metabolism my eldest brother always says. The shit that comes out of his mouth makes my stomach turn that were evidence of my deprived being in a Family of six with five arrogant and greedy miscreants, there wasn't much scraps and leftovers for the Underdog it seems like I'm hardly capable of moving without stumbling clumsily. Really, I hold my stature with such sass it threatens my origin of District, since I was more of a Diva than a Green-Thumb. But nobody will ever have the satisfaction of seeing me trip over my own legs.

My twin brothers were the brawns, too bad they seemed to share the same narrow mindset, despite being two years older. I think they might just be the biggest twats I've ever met all sun-kissed skin and bulging biceps, whereas I remained a pallor shade, even with the heat of Summer beating thickly against my back with messy reddish hair that flickered at every angle which people apparently found attractive. It's safe to say I popped out of my Mother with war-paint and a smoothly styled quiff, rarely brushed yet that's what gave it appeal. Paige, my second eldest sibling and the only daughter, had freckles dotting at every crevice at her body like constellations that had forgot how to piece themselves together again. Not that I don't have those tiny craters upon my face and shoulder-blades, they were just less noticeable since my skin seemed to be an almost sickening absence of colour, like the chalk you'd find in makeshift schools. I suppose it's only a necessity that we were all unique in our own fashion.

It's late at night the world's asleep
And I'm trying not to think
I take some pills cause my mind bleeds
I'm thinking what is wrong with me
Because the only thing I know about honesty
Is every lie I told that you believed

I don't know what crack my Parents were on when they named me, fuck of all the names they could have picked out, they chose the shittiest one in all of our already horrendous District and slapped it onto me. No wonder I'm such a prick half the time but calling me Louie is basically indirectly saying, 'hey you twit-headed shitbag, why does your name sound like what a mongoose would sound like if it was drowning in a bag of it's own piss?' will result in your imminent death. No kidding, I'd sooner rip out your throat than let you taunt me. The locals say that I'm about as stubborn as an arse, I don't blame them. When I have an ideal of how another person is, or on how to go about my day, I stick to that routine. Trying to prove me wrong is like saying that The Capitol dwellers aren't a bunch of douchebags they don't even bother with arguing about my birth-name anymore. Spitfire. Spitfire, Spitfire. That's what they coo and whisper whenever I pass, bunch of batshit crazed rat-eatin' heathens if you ask me.

They've been calling me Spitfire ever since I was old enough to speak, Pops said my first word might have been shit, honestly wouldn't be surprised since they were practically feeding it to me everyday because of how I breathed sarcasm, allowed the insults to flow from my tainted tongue. What is a Spitfire anyway? I don't just let fire fly from my lips in the form of spittle, I let the burn of it all crawl up into my bruised knuckles when I feel the urge to pummel someone. They say it's an uncontrollable rage that they've never seen anyone possess, not even the Tributes can compare to my undying fury, apparently. I wish I could feel pity for them, but they crave blood as much as our Captors do that it's something that's never quenched. That's complete and utter bullcrap, I have things that calm me. Inanimate objects, things that take patience. Not other people. I only hold soft-spots for a select few, Paige and Chad. Eldest siblings, both dealt with my anger issues as if it were a norm according to them my humour is impalpable. Is it okay to use that out of context? Since that's all they describe it as, hard to comprehend, although if you share the same mindset as myself then half the things I say will make you piss yourself daily.

I have an obsession, oh not just one, but many. Even a simple hobby or activity I try once in a short interval can become something that was done almost frantically, an occupation where a part of my body always had to be streaked with filth. Any part, honest. Whether it be the dried-up mud caking against the side of my cheekbone, or the grass-stains against the underneaths of my calves, there had to be something that was impure, to put it kindly. Although my siblings opted to remain clean how they bitched and moaned about how I was dirtying the Dining Table that was just a plank on four sticks of hardening dog shit, how unhygienic it was to keep my body in such a state there was a part of me that cherished the feeling. The feeling of having an excuse for not being above another looks-wise at that point in time, the dirtiness was like a second layer to hide my insecurities. There was no actual reason behind it, or so I'd like to believe. I would never admit that in secret, I'm just a teetering twit-headed tosser, as my Pops would put it just another feature to thrive off of. I'm such a narcissist it isn't even funny, considering how my left pinky finger probably has more talent and charm than my entire Family. Naivety wasn't even a word in my vocabulary, paranoia was more like it. I couldn't even stand too close to a mirror without feeling like something was going to fuck up, per-say myself sometimes I was so distrustful of others even a simple glance could translate into plotting. Because everyone wanted me six feet under the dirt, enemy or not.

If I'm not covered in grime, which I most certainly am by no doubts, so don't even fucking try me then my forearms and wrists are covered in intentional bite-marks. Simple engravings of my almost perfectly aligned teeth, naturally straight and naturally sharp. Constantly digging themselves into my skin hard enough to draw blood, to taste bitterness. Auto-cannibalism isn't really my thing it's not like I'm tearing myself apart, although it is intentional bodily harm but I hold a certain fascination for teeth. If you want me to be completely honest, the first thing I notice about people besides how they practically reek of peasant most of the time, is if their teeth are crooked or straight-- it always leaves an impact depending on how attractive they are. So, I put in effort to make my own immaculate, I wasn't a perfectionist by all means, although I did have quite the Superiority Complex regardless of if I was or not. There was just something about a dazzling white smile that would reel someone in, and that was the only thing attractive about any and all Capitol Dwellers and we don't exactly have retainers and teeth-whitening toothpaste down in Eleven. Honestly, it would make my life a whole lot easier if they did have those things, although it seemed they had a grip harder than a vice around our necks. Even Ripred couldn't peel their steel fingers from our jugulars. So I compensated with putting others down to make up for my horrible, horrible teeth that's the shittiest lie I've ever told. I put others down because they take me for granted, try to make me look like an absolute twat half the time. Apparently that's all I'll be to the lot of them. A blubbering, inconsistent, twat.

Drink up baby, stay up all night
With the things you could do
You won't but you might
The potential you'll be
That you'll never see
The promises you'll only make

Pops once read me bedtime stories, stories of how trees themselves were alive, yet still without faces, branches like limbs that happened to have protruding appendages; stories so vibrant that I could paint them in the walls of my mind among many one in particular caught my interest. This was a rare things, 'specially considering the millions upon millions of words were exchanged among us in the depths of Night, tales of mother-less delinquents finding maternal figures in religious entities rather than their actual. Situated in a world where there weren't any Districts, although we were separated among 'continents'. Discrimination still thrived in the marrow of our bones like it does today, where people chose their own paths. Their own lives. I wanted that, so badly. I supposed that everyone did, unless you enjoyed hauling about horse manure like it was a norm. It was a cruel world, just like our own Pops called the Era we lived in a living and breathing travesty, I didn't blame him either yet it allowed our own ideals into perspective.

To this day, I loathe him for cramming such shitty things into my head, making me actually believe I had a life beyond planting crops. Making it seem like my Family wasn't a bunch of dysfunctional fucktards, even though it looked like my Mother was dead half the time. Maybe he found comfort in it, too. Trying to convince his own Grandson that there was good in all. Humans are nothing but asswipes, each and every one of us. The pathetic part was, I believed this naive naive naive and thrived off it. That's why the death of my Mother impacted me the most. I remember touching her paper-white cheeks, and finding it was just as pale as my own fingers. I loathed my own skin from then on, as it reminded me too much of my Mother's bone-thin corpse. I remember screaming at my own blood and flesh in horrible tongues when they tried to blame it on something other than starvation.

Still my Father had the audacity to tip-toe over the subject. Like I hadn't exploded into a ball of fury, always on the edge, just needing that little push before I erupted into fits of anger again. But the damage was already done. Nobody had ever looked at me the same, and when I looked in the reflecting glass and saw nothing but an angry beast of bared teeth and furrowed brows, I knew why. Still I laid in brick-like mattresses, covered by nothing but straw-thin blankets. I could still hear her singing quiet lullabies in that throaty-tone of hers, riddled with the dryness of fatigue. I could feel her bony fingers that stretched like canyons from her hands running peacefully through my hair. Because I needed her, she was the only thing that pieced my fantasies together. Those little comforting gestures like a simple kiss in the Morning that I once found embarrassing, or the coddles at night before the lights shut off. Although my weeps of longing often drowned out her, much to my relief. The ultimate sacrifice was her selflessness. She loved us more than herself, probably didn't even realise the emptiness in her stomach was the feeling of faintness crawling up on her, which would soon turn to a blinding numbness.

People belittled our problems like they didn't exist. So I belittled their egos. I became a hologram of who I once was, angry and snarky. Sneered at us when they heard of our Mother's absence. Fucking assholes thought they were so much better than us. It bred my Complex, and our Family's resilience to cruelty. We didn't need pity to function, and wrapped our heads around our lives fairly quickly. Yet the tension and drift between us and our Father only grew over the years until we really just called him Mark. What a stereotypical fucking name, too. Fit for a right asshole like he was. Although I knew he was suffering more than any of us, with the weight of a family upon his shoulders and the loss of a soulmate. But I didn't care. I stopped caring a long time ago, because they didn't deserve my compassion anymore. It overwhelmed him to the point where he just worked, slept, ate-- and repeated. Whereas I fluctuated, never repeating the same routine because I found it too mediocre. I found excuses to sleep late because I couldn't deal with the guilt. It was almost like my Mother's Ghost had poured itself into me, although I took her initiation of peace for the fury of our deeds.

I can hear her whisper into my ear at night. Sometimes enveloping me in her gentle touch all at once. I could feel her, yet never did I turn around to face her in fear of the skeletal figure that should have replaced the life-giver I once knew. Some nights I charmed my way out of bed, hoping to leave with a morning of sleep.

Oh, glazed eyes, empty hearts
Buying happy from shopping carts
Nothing but time to kill
Sipping life from bottles
Tight skin, bodyguards
Gucci down the boulevard

codeword ;

odair

thoughts - [CB4040]

descriptions - [E7f4AC]

speech - [FB884]

words ;
2502 words.

Last Edit: Dec 12, 2017 6:14:05 GMT -5 by pepper.

{ B A B Y B L U E }

pepper. Merchant 101 POSTS Pronouns: he/him last seen Dec 12, 2017 6:17:45 GMT -5 he spoke in tongues of the divine. delicate, cryptic. dangerous.	{ spitfire } // d11 fin Aug 9, 2014 6:59:48 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by pepper. on Aug 9, 2014 6:59:48 GMT -5 i think ive finished this. ok there are alot of swears in this and i am SORRY (sue me)
	{ B A B Y B L U E }

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?	{ spitfire } // d11 fin Aug 9, 2014 13:31:17 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by rook on Aug 9, 2014 13:31:17 GMT -5 yes
	an hourglass is just a glass with sand inside