Ailera Corner // District 9 // Complete
Sept 4, 2014 6:46:49 GMT -5
Post by Ailera on Sept 4, 2014 6:46:49 GMT -5
Ailera Corner
the long way home
My heart feels hungry. Has your heart ever felt hungry? Its a different feeling than the one that tears apart your stomach. Its different from heartbreak, or sadness. Different even from longing. A heart only feels hungry when it knows it needs more than its getting. When your body is worn out, and your mind has been defeated. Stomped into the ground by an iron boot. Dragged through hell until your flesh is nothing more than an outer shell for an empty void.
District 9 is my hell, the place that starves my heart. My reality exists within two bedrooms and a cat. I haven't seen a mirror in ages, but I need no mirror to know what I look like. I'm the image of my dead mother. More like the dead version than the version I try so hard to remember. I have her wavy blonde hair, and I keep it down just the way she used to, but only if I'm out. Inside the house I tie it up, because Dad hates to look at me when I look most like her. I cast down my eyes so he doesn't have to look into their sunken hazel doe-ness. He used to love them. Now he despises them. They are too large.
I've got this problem, and its not just my height. I'm practically a midget, but who cares anyhow? That's what starvation does. The real problem is my leg. My dad smashed it in a door when I was a toddler - true accident, I swear - and ever since I walk a little funny. Enough funny I look like I'm dragging a house with my right leg. I keep it covered, because it doesn't look nice. Twisted, a little. Maybe kind of gross.
I used to be ashamed of my leg, and struggle really hard to walk normally. Mom used to wrap it really tight in a sheet and make me practice walking right across the living room. Once she died, I quit. It didn't matter anymore, no one was watching. No one cared about the gaunt little girl with a limp. I didn't talk to anyone, so no one talked to me. Sometimes, really late at night, I would lie awake and listen to the sounds of insects. I would imagine my mother in the next room. I imagine my father lying in his bed, instead of passed out on the rocking chair outside.
I'm not a noisy person. I like to be quiet, because it gives me a sense of being invisible. I want to be invisible, so no one can find me and hurt me. So that iron boot doesn't have to rub me into the dirt every time it sees me. My father is the reason for most of my troubles. Once, I give him that. Once, before Mom died, he was a loving man. Now he wouldn't know love if it lived on his back.
Sometimes, when I'm locked in my room I sit and listen to the insects. I pretend there is a feast waiting for me when I get out, and I only have to wait a few more minutes before he remembers I'm still in there. Then he opens the door and I drag myself out. I leave the house and head straight for the square. I only steal what I need. I swear.
District 9 is my hell, the place that starves my heart. My reality exists within two bedrooms and a cat. I haven't seen a mirror in ages, but I need no mirror to know what I look like. I'm the image of my dead mother. More like the dead version than the version I try so hard to remember. I have her wavy blonde hair, and I keep it down just the way she used to, but only if I'm out. Inside the house I tie it up, because Dad hates to look at me when I look most like her. I cast down my eyes so he doesn't have to look into their sunken hazel doe-ness. He used to love them. Now he despises them. They are too large.
I've got this problem, and its not just my height. I'm practically a midget, but who cares anyhow? That's what starvation does. The real problem is my leg. My dad smashed it in a door when I was a toddler - true accident, I swear - and ever since I walk a little funny. Enough funny I look like I'm dragging a house with my right leg. I keep it covered, because it doesn't look nice. Twisted, a little. Maybe kind of gross.
I used to be ashamed of my leg, and struggle really hard to walk normally. Mom used to wrap it really tight in a sheet and make me practice walking right across the living room. Once she died, I quit. It didn't matter anymore, no one was watching. No one cared about the gaunt little girl with a limp. I didn't talk to anyone, so no one talked to me. Sometimes, really late at night, I would lie awake and listen to the sounds of insects. I would imagine my mother in the next room. I imagine my father lying in his bed, instead of passed out on the rocking chair outside.
I'm not a noisy person. I like to be quiet, because it gives me a sense of being invisible. I want to be invisible, so no one can find me and hurt me. So that iron boot doesn't have to rub me into the dirt every time it sees me. My father is the reason for most of my troubles. Once, I give him that. Once, before Mom died, he was a loving man. Now he wouldn't know love if it lived on his back.
Sometimes, when I'm locked in my room I sit and listen to the insects. I pretend there is a feast waiting for me when I get out, and I only have to wait a few more minutes before he remembers I'm still in there. Then he opens the door and I drag myself out. I leave the house and head straight for the square. I only steal what I need. I swear.
My cat's name is Ink, he's a black-colored shorthair. He's also been my closest companion since I was six. I'd known him since he was a little more than two weeks old. Everywhere I go the cat is close behind, rubbing at my heels or begging me to pick him up. Sometimes when I sit on a street corner and play my oboe he tries to bat the keys or squeeze into my lap. It helps when people find him adorable.
My dad played the oboe, its his that I use now. I don't remember exactly how old I was when he taught me, but I've known for a very long time. He keeps reeds under his bed, but I think he forgot about them a very long time ago. He also has a few books there. Sometimes I sneak into his room to steal a book, and Ink and I will go to the river and read for a while.
Shortly after my mother died I started noticing my father keeping to himself more often. He didn't speak to me unless he was yelling at me to do something for him. It didn't take long before I noticed our stashes of money were disappearing. Strange women came into the house every few nights, and I would find my bedroom door locked as soon as I stepped in to get something. God forbid Ink wasn't on the same side of the door as me, or dad wouldn't be happy later.
My dad played the oboe, its his that I use now. I don't remember exactly how old I was when he taught me, but I've known for a very long time. He keeps reeds under his bed, but I think he forgot about them a very long time ago. He also has a few books there. Sometimes I sneak into his room to steal a book, and Ink and I will go to the river and read for a while.
Shortly after my mother died I started noticing my father keeping to himself more often. He didn't speak to me unless he was yelling at me to do something for him. It didn't take long before I noticed our stashes of money were disappearing. Strange women came into the house every few nights, and I would find my bedroom door locked as soon as I stepped in to get something. God forbid Ink wasn't on the same side of the door as me, or dad wouldn't be happy later.
Ailera Corner
Age 15
District 9
Female
odair
