Periphescence [Frumtum]

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Periphescence [Frumtum] Nov 4, 2014 0:11:52 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Nov 4, 2014 0:11:52 GMT -5

Rum Tum

Tugger

Zori Grinning from ear to ear
tagged (Frumtum) Wake up, Sleepyhead!

I wake up as the sunrises. There is a hiss of steam from the radiator at the edge of my bed, and a pale red light of morning nipping at my window. I stretch my limbs underneath the heavy cotton blanket, and breathe in the warmth. Photos of the Hanigs dot my wall, almost as a reminder that they are constantly observing each and every one of my movements. The first few nights here were—what’s the word that Freya used to say about caves? Claustrophobic. I wondered when they shut the door and turned the key if I would breath all of the oxygen in one night. If I was meant to dream between these four walls, I can’t say that was written into the design. My eyelids might have been heavy in the evening, but my head was filled with nothing but black, no matter how hard I would try.

I liked to believe that it was the utter exhaustion. For all the good that the Hanigs had done by bringing me into their home, they worked me harder and harder each day. I am not sure if they delighted in seeing the sweat trickle down the side of my face, or the yawns that would escape my lips from the corner of the room. They had hired me to help with Freya. As I came to understand, she hadn’t talked since we lost each other in the woods, not until I’d come back around. A part of me had pride that I’d cracked her into doing so. But then in the same breath I felt a pinch in my stomach. There was a reason why Freya had chosen not to speak, and that was because she had lost me. It’d been my fault for running away and getting hurt. To think that she’d spent a year without uttering so much as a word, because of me? I was sick to my stomach. I felt a sharp jab in my gut every time I caught a spare glance at her.

They lived in a different world, the capitolites. It wasn’t strange to me that Freya had decided to run from here. Everything was perfect, right down to the way the pictures would be hung and the clothes were threaded. It screamed sameness in a way that I had never seen out in nature. They got an obsession with making things just so, as though nothing imperfect could ever be the way it was. Take the suit jacket they made me wear. It fits just snug, long enough for my arms and cutting in along my chest and waist. They would never have the patched up piece that I’d worn for so long in the woods. It’s like anything that ever built a memory is taken away and vanishes once it grows too old. Maybe that’s why everyone forgets that you don’t need to be perfect, shiny, and new to be important around here. But—I don’t suppose I know enough to be the best judge of those things.

I lived seventeen years in the woods, and I don’t think I ever came across a single piece that fit together so snugly, so perfectly as does in the capitol. When I was out in the wild though, I stopped to look at fallen trees and dead branches. I didn’t shy away from where the moss was overgrown, or the water just a little too muddy. These were things that had come to be, without the hand of anyone else. I think putting your hand into everything well—there’s only so much that we can do. The rest has to be left to do it on its own, whether or not it turns out perfect. Out beyond the fences, my mother used to say, live and let live, because we’re not the ones in charge. And everyone lives, and everyone dies, no matter how much science they might have. We’re destined to become a part of it all again—one way or another.

The first duty is to collect Freya’s tray and to serve her breakfast. Mrs. Hanig insisted that I be used to coax more speech out of her, which hasn’t exactly been my specialty. If anything, the two of us must be doing our best not to look at one another, because I haven’t gotten a single word out of Freya Hanig since the day that we ran into one another in the alleyway. It was all so fine then, as though we were starting over. But there’s an itch underneath my skin when I look at Freya now. They’ve gone and done something to her. There’s no smile there, not in when the sun shines on her face. Just a blank stare, as though we’re looking down at a cliff and wondering if we’ll fall off the edge. It hasn’t been easy, of course. I’m not to talk unless Freya talks, at least when we all eat together. Mr. Hanig hasn’t hesitated to remind me of this through the shock collar, and on more than one occasion I wound up steaming on the floor. They had to carry me off and lay me in bed for a day because of how much my muscles cramped up.

This morning will be different, however. I’m as certain of it as the sweetness of the pan-cakes sitting on the tray between my arms. I know they’re sweet because I’ve poured on a heap of syrup, which I dip my finger into to test and make sure it’ll be to Freya’s liking, and sprinkled even more sugar on top. That may be my favorite thing about the capitol. Sugar really is the most wonderful creation! It can make anything taste better, whether it’s green or mush or burnt, sugar makes food swallowable. I’ve stolen sugar cubes to keep in my pocket for when I have to lie in bed, so I can have a treat before I slip off to sleep. That’s why I know that Freya will be eating her pan-cakes, even if I’ve secretly taken a bite out of the bottom one. I don’t think she’ll notice, since I’ve hidden the other four on top. If she did, it might have at least given her something to yell at me for.

“Rise and shine, rise and shine!” I press my back against Freya’s door and spin around to enter. I grin from ear to ear. I suppose by now that I should be tired of how frequently I’m greeted with silence, but just seeing her sleeping is enough to have me smiling. Freya Hanig was enough to smile about even when she wasn’t the next room over; I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of smiling for it. Better still, each morning I have a fresh chance to bring her back, and to make her see that I’m still here. Because I’m not going anywhere, not now, not ever. “You have avox Marcel’s famous flapjacks, or as he calls them,” I open and close my mouth without saying a word and grin again. “That’s right, he doesn’t say anything does he? Oh, don’t feel too bad for him, I’ve seen him spit in your father’s dinner on more than one occasion,” I wheel closer to the pile of covers that obscure her from view. “You gonna get up? Huh? Gonna get up? Gonna, gonna see if you want to get up today? There’s a lot that needs doing!” It’s like we’re in camp again, back when we first started. The same electricity fills me as I place the tray down on the table next to her bed.

“You can’t spend all day in bed, sleepy head!” I let out a laugh as I sit on the end of the bed. I look forward at the doorway, then back to the pile of covers. With a laugh, I start bouncing up and down. “Freya, Freya, Frey-hey, Frey-hey, Frey-aaaaah!”

Who says you need to change?

made by remi of isc
inspired by abby's template

cici
Hunter

88 POSTS

last seen Sept 10, 2020 20:01:40 GMT -5

Periphescence [Frumtum] Nov 6, 2014 3:13:48 GMT -5

Post by cici on Nov 6, 2014 3:13:48 GMT -5

everything was beautiful

freya hanig

I wake in white.

Mom says I look good in white.

Yet, white is the color of the dress she wore when she promised her life to a man that she now only manages to tolerate. White is the color of the blank pages of my blank journal filled with nothing but blank, deadly silence. It is the color of the tissues always placed next to my bed, as if my mother thinks that wiping the tears away will wipe the hopelessness away too.

And white is the color I wake to as snowflakes fall menacingly onto my face. I shiver, pushing the covers off of my body, my bare feet tumbling towards the snow-covered ground. My bedside table is covered in a sheet of white snow, with the Kleenex box and my copy of Jane Eyre nowhere to be seen. I wince as my bare feet meet the freezing sensation of the ground, and I leap through its growing layers and layers of snow, pushing towards the door. I hear a knock, along with a voice. “Freya, are you in there?” Relief fills me, but when I attempt to answer, I find that my lips are frozen shut. The snow between me and the door increases exponentially within a matter of moments, and the deadly room manages to trap my weak, trembling self inside it. Only inches from the door, my feet are frozen to the ground, and the snow is up to my stomach.

“Freyayaya! Let’s climb the rollercoaster, Freya! We’re at the edge of the world!” Rum Tum says from the other side of the door. I pull my hand out in front of me and reach to grab the doorknob, which is surprisingly warm and inviting. The snow is up to my chest by now, and my body has grown so cold that the shivering has stopped. “Freya, are you in there?” Rum Tum exclaims, still knocking on the door. Rum Tum keeps knocking, louder and louder, his fist echoing against the wood. I stand still and silent, watching my fingers turn the same blue color as the ocean at the edge of the world. Maybe this is the edge of the world. And here I am, falling off. My hands are weak and tired, but my numb fingers finally turn the lock on the rattling door, and it bursts open, jutting through the snow as if it has the same density as air air air I’m losing air the snow is at my chest but there’s Rum Tum and I know everything will be okay because there’s Rum Tum and there he is climbing towards me and he’ll help me out i know it and a strong blizzard wind causes the door to swing shut but it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay we’ll get out I know it we’ll get out right and there’s another voice at the window and when I turn there’s a face the boy the boy sampson and his face is there and he’s shouting “where’s my brother where’s my brother you stole my brother, you stole him” and when I turn my head back towards Rum Tum he isn’t moving and why isn’t he moving and of course i know why he isn’t moving of course of course it's too cold “you killed him you killed him you killed my brother” and the guilt and the shame and the loneliness and the pain stacks upon me even quicker than the snow and everything is frozen my hands my feet the inevitable tears on my face and the boy outside the window keeps crying too but his tears aren’t frozen his hands aren’t numb he’s still living and feeling but i am just a skeleton of snow in an vicious unforgiving arctic prison that i invited Rum Tum into just so he could have every piece of warmth in his heart stripped away and be trapped like me trapped trapped trapped dead trapped and the snow keeps falling and i keep drowning falling drowning dying closing my eyes to take safety from the white...

The forest is cold, but it’s a different kind of cold: the kind that elevates my senses rather than wears them down. I am walking through the dark in the same long, white dress I wore when I danced with Malcolm. I walk through the thick vegetation for what seems like a century before I hear a voice among the crickets. “Rum Tum? Where’s my brother? Rum Tum, are you there?” The boy, Sampson, comes into view again, his eyes finding mine. “Where is he?” The boy asks, and I open my mouth to speak, but alas, I am silent. “Are you his sister?”

sister sister sister

“are you his sister” The words echo for centuries before my mouth opens all the way and there is my dad standing right behind the boy, his eyebrows raised in suspicion, and for some reason, for some reason I don’t know why but for some reason I feel something bad something terrible something I’ve done wrong something we’ve all done wrong and somehow my dad knows somehow he knows everything he knows who Rum Tum is and who I am and who Sampson is and why we’re here and we’re in the woods he found us in the woods and now there are men in deadly white uniforms grabbing Sampson leading him through a door that just appeared and I follow my father through I follow him I always follow him.

And now we’re in my room but it’s not just my room no it’s the detention center and they have Rum Tum chained to a chair and now Sampson too and there is a button between my fingers and my father kindly asks me to press it so i do and he tells me to keep going so I do and i keep pressing again and again press click press shock and im watching and listening to the familiar sound of horror again and again and again and again and again and then the button’s gone and there’s a gun in my hands “kill one” my dad says and I know I have to i have to i always do what i have to because if i don’t everyone hurts and i hurt but everything hurts anyways and i point the gun at sampson because i hate him because he’s here to steal his brother away but no i can’t hate him i can’t hate him because Rum Tum loves him so i point the gun at Rum Tum but no i think i love Rum Tum probably so I point the gun at myself but if i kill myself he will hurt and i don’t want him to hurt but no he shouldn’t hurt don’t hurt they’re going to hurt him more and im going to hurt him most and what if he isn’t happy anymore what if he forgets how to smile and say my name like frey-hey-hey-ya or what if he doesn’t hurt what if he is happy if i die well he should be he should be because maybe i would be but no i have poisoned him and no i know that he won’t be happy not with his eyes looking up at me like that

it’s ok i can keep hurting i’m used to it now

so i point the gun at him again

and i shoot

I wake in white.

Mom says I look good in white.

White is the color I wake to as light floods menacingly through my window. I gasp, gripping my white bed sheets so tightly that my knuckles turn white too. I close my eyes, willing the white~~night~~mares away. My heart pounds against my chest, and my whole body trembles as I bring my knees closer to my chest, lying sideways on my bed and folding myself until I am smaller and smaller, sinking into the sheets where no nightmare or whitemare can ever reach me again. I fight the aching feeling in my chest and the worry inhabiting my mind, trying to find a thoughtless place away from my conscious, unconscious, and subconscious. I am a panicked collection of broken and scattered worries. On most day, sleep is an escape from the nightmare I live in, but this past week has been gradually consuming that safe haven.

The nice thing about dreams is that they are forgotten easily. I’ve already forgotten most everything apart from the deafening gunshot and my trembling hands or even the horrendous feeling that filled my stomach as Rum Tum became trapped in the vicious blizzard. If only I could forget concrete memories just as easily.

“Rise and shine, rise and shine!” I hear the door of my room swing open. No, no, no; he’s walking straight into the blizzard. I shut my eyes tightly, refusing to submit to the bright white daylight. I can hear Rum Tum moving closer to my bed, words flooding from his mouth, even when all I can hear is gunshot after gunshot after gunshot. I try to shut it all out -- the gunshots and Rum Tum’s voice and the clamorous beating of my own heart -- but I am a weak fighter.

“You can’t spend all day in bed, sleepy head!” Rum Tum says, and I listen, eyes still shut, as he puts down my breakfast tray next to me before sitting on my bed. In the past couple of days, I have scarcely had enough energy to leave my room. But my room is no safe haven from the pain, either. “Freya, Freya, Frey-hey, Frey-hey, Frey-aaaaah!” Rum Tum exclaims, like an impatient child bouncing on my bed.

I groan and open my eyes, if only slightly. The first item in my vision is the tray beside me, carrying pancakes made of white flour and white sugar and topped with an excessive amount of maple syrup. I crinkle my nose at the sight and turn my head towards Rum Tum with a frown. I don’t like having Rum Tum in my city, in my house, and especially not in my room. I don’t like seeing him in his suit jacket and the white shirt hiding beneath it. I hate knowing that he’s a part of this place now: this uninviting life that I’ve cursed him to. The worst part is knowing that he’s our property now and that at any given moment, my dad could have him on the floor crying out in pain if needed. Mom is the one who barks frantic orders and the occasional nasty words his way, but every time Dad enters the room, I feels an anxious chill down my spine as if I’m the one receiving the generous shocks.

No matter what, it seems that causing Rum Tum pain is inevitable. Maybe it’s just a fear that I need to get over. Maybe it would be better if I were the one controlling the shock collar, and maybe then, Rum Tum wouldn’t come bouncing into my room as if nothing could go wrong. He would see that everything is wrong, that I am wrong, that the future and the past and the present is all wrong and that there is no way to make it right. Maybe he would realize that I am nothing but fragmented intentions and a irreparable heart that I wish would stop hurting.

If anything, I can't let him in. Not now, not ever. I can't lure him into this blizzard within my mind: a blizzard that will steal his laugh away in a matter of moments. I have stolen enough, and I have lost enough too. I used to be just as full of words, laughs, and curious questions (and more skilled at hiding the sorrow), but that girl is lost somewhere in the woods. I'm sure Rum Tum still has pieces of her, so why is he still looking for more? Without a word, I move my gaze away from Rum Tum and roll onto my side while pulling the covers up to my chin and trying to erase the thoughts from my head. I wish there was a mute button on my brain. I wish I remembered how to smile. I wish Rum Tum would leave me alone for once so that if I have some panic attack again or break into sobs within the next few minutes, he doesn't have to be here to see it.

There's a lot of things I wish for.

But I still don't hand my wishes to the stars.

and nothing hurt

Deleted

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Periphescence [Frumtum] Nov 9, 2014 22:54:02 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Nov 9, 2014 22:54:02 GMT -5

Rum Tum

Tugger

Zori Grinning from ear to ear
tagged (Frumtum) Brought to you by the letter "A"

I stare Freya awake. There’s that look she’s had now, ever since we’ve been in the kitchen it’s been stuck on her face. She’s got two lovely eyes, even when they’re red and puffy from crying, and her hair has curls that fall into her face better, better than my hair when it gets too long and curly—it was never too hard to notice when I’d gone too long without a good cut. Months in the wild have a way of making you look like you don’t care about yourself. It’s funny that way, for people to think that we wouldn’t care about who we were just because we spent our time watching the world. I always thought that I cared most about who I was, because I could see how important being someone—finding myself has been harder of a journey when I haven’t got anyone to share it with. But then, I didn’t care when hair grew down past my eyes or my nails got a little bit too long. It was more about keeping the memories of all the places I’d gone and seen alive, so they didn’t disappear into the dust.

But here in the capitol I feel like I’m being stretched into something else. Where I was one simple piece rolling along out in the wastelands between districts, here in the capitol I’m supposed to be a hundred different things. I’m a dead tribute—at least; my face is nearly identical to one. I’m an avox, but one with a voice. I’m supposed to know about food and serving it, about what to wear and when to speak and not speak. There’s even a way I’m supposed to stare; you’re not supposed to look at certain people in the capitol unless they talk to you. Being around so many people has only taught me that there’s too much to remember. People are too particular with one another, too harsh because they want everyone’s lives to fit exactly with their own. No wonder it’s so lonely here, having so many million bodies all running around in directions, spinning like the stars above. They’re not in any sort of order but they so desperately want to be, it drives them mad.

Life’s a lot better without all the expectations.

I just have to remember that there’s no one else here but the two of us. That’s what I use as the earth between my toes, mixed with the memories of all the laughter, the smiles, and things that we have between the two of us. Just Freya, just me. The two of us together are a team even if there are so many, many people that walk the streets and fill this house. That’s what keeps my heart beating when she doesn’t speak to me, or when I feel a jolt from my neck down into my toes. She’s still the one that I saw between those trees that begged for someone to find her. We may not be as young as we were or even as happy, but we’re still the same people. Freya’s just forgotten that even if life can drag you under the waves you have to keep kicking toward the surface. Because there’s sunlight up there, and the air of memories to breath in and out of your lungs, she’s got to remember that. How is an entirely different question, one that I don’t know when I’ll figure out but—it doesn’t mean I have a right to stop trying.

“Well,” I say with one last bounce on the edge of the cotton bedspread. “You finally awake, huh?” But there’s no response for me, just like there hasn’t been for a single morning since I’ve gotten here. I’m starting to think I might have trouble justifying my existence if Mr. and Mrs. Hanig don’t hear Freya like they did at the party, or in the shadows of the alleyway. “I’m glad to see you’re up with me!” I grin from ear to ear. Keep kicking, keep kicking, keep kicking. She’s got to see me smiling, because when I smile I know it lets her know that she can do the same. Happiness is contagious; that’s what my mother taught me. It’s been true of all the people that have wandered into my life—that happiness is only relative to what we share with others. Sampson and I, even as miserable as the winter was and as little as I could believe, we could still value those stories told underneath the stars.

Stories. It’s this thought that has me up from the end of the bed. Each footstep against the hardwood floor calls out (I still have to get used to my feet feeling so tight in these boots) and I peter to a stop in front of the massive oak shelves on the wall. There were a few that Freya used to read—by ladies and about ladies from long ago, or fantastic tales of things that happened before the whole world fell in on itself—that used to make her smile. She was so fond of this imaginary world that she could create, and I used to just smile and listen to her. I just don’t get what the fuss is about with all the letters on a page; you can get just as much out of life by looking at what’s in front of your nose. But these were things that made her happy, they made her laugh and smile and quiet, too. She’d never tried to get me to read, though it’s not because I don’t know how. My mother taught me as best as she could to sound out words on a page, in case I ever needed to know what an old sign said (there were plenty that screamed out danger, or electric, or poisonous).

I slide a finger along the spines of the heavy tomes and, deciding there wasn’t much difference in what I picked, pulled. Now—the first thing I should tell you is that words on a page to me seem like a battle, and that’s enough trouble for me because I don’t like to fight. You’ve got to figure out what each letter means, which one out of the couple dozen or so that there are, and then the sound that goes with it. And after you get through all of that, you have to figure out what they sound like together, and once you’ve gone through that whole process, if the word means anything in particular. I’ve found that there are a lot of words that apparently, I’ve never had someone say to me, and that I might never have heard without Freya. Could you imagine that? Going my whole life without hearing a word because I’d never met someone? But, I can get through the words, even if I have to push up that mountain to get there.

“You like this one?” I crack the book open and bury my nose between the pages. “R-rob, rob-an, sun, cah, rue, soh!” The words come out haltingly, painfully, spat out like I’ve chewed a bitter root in my mouth. I can already feel my face flushing from this failed attempt, but I don’t bother to look over at Freya to see what she’s doing. I bet I can make her laugh at my terrible reading, and if I can do that then maybe she can talk, too. Better than seeing the sadness that fills her eyes. Even if I have to look like a total dope, I’d rather she be smiling. There are more important things than looking like I have my whole world together.

“T-t-too day, w-we l-lo-luv, wh-hat, t-tah-mah, t-tah,” I take a breath and shake my head. “Tah-mah-roe, we h-hat… hate!” I give a grin. I lick my lips and keep going, this time pacing back toward her. “T-too day, we s-ah, seek, wh-hat, tah-mah-roe, we sh-sh-uh-uhn,” Another breath. My face feels like it’s burning red. “Too day, we d-deh-sir-eh, wh-what, tah-mah-roe we f-fee-ahr.” I look up at last, and smile from ear to ear.

made by remi of isc
inspired by abby's template

Last Edit: Nov 9, 2014 22:55:25 GMT -5 by Deleted

cici
Hunter

88 POSTS

last seen Sept 10, 2020 20:01:40 GMT -5

Periphescence [Frumtum] Nov 11, 2014 18:02:59 GMT -5

Post by cici on Nov 11, 2014 18:02:59 GMT -5

freya hanig

I lie motionless, waiting for the red 11:07 on the clock next to my bed to change to 11:08. That’s what I’m always waiting for, I suppose: for time to save me from what my parents, Rum Tum, my therapist, and a number of others have been unable to tear me apart from. I know that Time is no healer, but sometimes he can pile layer upon layer over the truth until you’ve forgotten how much it really hurts. Time is the reason I learned to forget to shame myself for what I had done to Kormiko, but even if Time helps me, I don’t think I will ever be able to tame the guilt that arises within me every time I set eyes on Rum Tum. As much as I want Time to pull me out of my pain, to discard it completely would be unthinkable, because those who can forgive themselves for stripping away someone else’s reality are cruel, terrible people. And I can’t afford to be any more cruel than I already am.

I have taken Rum Tum’s home away; I have taken the shabby coat off his shoulders and given him the weight of a clean suit jacket, a tie, and a shock collar fastened so tightly around his neck that he’s bound to choke, especially here where the air is filthy with lies and pact with hostile words all directed towards the happy, wild, unconfined boy who had spent seventeen years of his life wandering the world, soaking in every ounce of beauty and discovery and who, despite having an entire universe to love, decided to love me...Me. Me. Even after I warned him not to love too much as we sat at the top of the roller coaster, I was a traitor to my own words when I rested my head on his shoulder and smiled and fell asleep in his lap and told him he was my brother and let him kiss me, and in the end, I gave him all the reasons to love this dishonest, unreal, counterfeit version of myself, even while shamelessly concealing the fact that I was a monster born to shatter everything I touch.

“Well,” Rum Tum says, bouncing on the bed with an overwhelming sense of joy. “You finally awake, huh? I’m glad to see you’re up with me!” I feel like the weight of the world is on my shoulders, as if everyone’s happiness is dependent on my own. My parents and Rum Tum -- they only ever come in my room to tear me away from the comfort of my bed and lure me into the desolate reality outside. Rum Tum is just trying to plaster a smile onto my face and pull words out of my mouth, even when a smile doesn’t belong there and when I have no words to speak.

And I should have told him way back then I should have told him that I had turned Kormiko into an Avox and that my father was a muttation engineer and that the smile on my face wasn’t real it was never real because on the inside i was always breaking and hurting and i should have warned him that there was never anything beautiful in there not like the trees and the mountains and the oceans and i should have let him know how many tears have been etched like scars into my heart my heart which is full of puddles of tears and muddles of hate and fear and puddles but never oceans because oceans are beautiful and nothing within me is beautiful only things without me are beautiful only things without me.

I grip my bedsheets tighter when I hear Rum Tum’s voice. “You like this one?” He says, and I can’t help but turn and sit up in my bed to see what he’s referring to. He has picked a book off of my wall. “R-rob, rob-an, sun, cah, rue, soh!” A fraction of a smile initially escapes me as I watch him open the book.

“T-t-too day, w-we l-lo-luv, wh-hat, t-tah-mah, t-tah...Tah-mah-roe, we h-hat… hate!” I release a slight giggle; I can barely help it. Rum Tum starts walking back towards my bed as he continues, but the closer he gets, the more I sink back into the sheets. “T-too day, we s-ah, seek, wh-hat, tah-mah-roe, we sh-sh-uh-uhn…” The more he speaks, the more the initial smile on my face fades. He can barely read. “Too day, we d-deh-sir-eh, wh-what, tah-mah-roe we f-fee-ahr.” I notice a tear trickling down my cheek. To think of all the words he’s missed out on...all of the beautiful sentences wrapped together and meant to create an array of verbal harmony when spoken. And to think that he’s standing there smiling.

I immediately wipe the tear from my face, but the remorse is inescapable. I spent numerous years with my nose in a book or with my pen on a page, hoping to one day heal an ignorant society through the hidden truths within these pages. And when I don’t care to be comforted by arms or smiles or people who try to force me out of bed, the pages of my own books catch my tears. Although Rum Tum had always been there to love the oceans and the mountains and the trees, he had never seen how beautiful words could be, stacked one upon another.

I have sucked all the beautiful natural-born things from his life: the trees, the oceans, the mountains. And even here in the Capitol, where I was once in awe of some of the beautiful things created by human hands -- despite everything human hands have done wrong -- Rum Tum is blind to it. He isn’t able to see that kind of beauty, because no one taught him how to. And it’s my fault: my fault that I’ve left him here in the Capitol, forcing him to learn a new language just to find me again even when I know there’s nothing to find. We have two different definitions of beauty, not to mention that my definition is gradually fading. Because maybe beauty is an illusion. Maybe there is nothing to be happy about in this world. Maybe Rum Tum is wrong.

I look up at Rum Tum, having just finished his poor reading attempt and for a second, I hate that he can’t read. I hate that he can’t see the world the way I do and that I can’t see the world the way he does and I that he’s trying so hard and that it isn’t any more reassuring and that I can hide behind beautiful books written by real live human people and yet I still manage to shut people out of my life and I hate that Rum Tum is trying to make me feel happy and that he doesn’t understand that I will never be happy that I don’t belong anywhere not in the Capitol not in the woods not in a box not with a fox and if Rum Tum’s mother had been there to read him Dr. Seuss he would know by now that it is useless to keep offering green eggs and ham to someone who doesn’t like them and will never like them or herself or anything else ever again.

“You don’t get it,” I snap at Rum Tum, hugging my bed covers closer to me and not daring look at him. “You don’t get it and you’ll never get it. Maybe you can be happy, but I can’t. I’m not happy and I’ll never be happy so stop trying to change that.” I feel a lump in my throat and quickly fight to swallow it down but it’s no use. There’s a sharp pain in my chest, my breathing is getting weaker and weaker, and I feel the panic settling in. “Stop acting like everything is easy and simple and like I should be happy because no, it’s wrong to be happy.” Tears fill my throat, but I quickly swallow them down. “I’m not supposed to be happy. So if you don’t like it, then leave! Just leave me alone and get out of my life because you just make everything worse and you can’t do anything right!” I look over at the tray on my bedside table. “You can’t knock before coming in, you can’t read, you can’t even remember to put my meds on the tray.” But I don’t want my medication anyways. I don’t want to feel any better because good feeling is a lie. Happiness has always been a lie.

Trembling and fighting to breathe, I throw my covers to the side and dart off of my bed. “Just get away from me! I hate you!” I sprint towards the door of my bathroom, slamming it behind me and clicking the lock. My lungs fight for air and my heartbeat is screaming and I suddenly regret everything. I hate you I hate you I hate you nonononono I don’t hate you. Ugly tears pour down my cheeks: tears that I could never be able to cry in front of happy, carefree Rum Tum without feeling immense amounts of shame.

I stifle my sobs with the sleeve of my shirt, opening drawer after drawer after cabinet. I hate you I hate you I hate you the words resonate in my mind and all I want to do is grab them and step on them and throw onto them all the extra weight I’ve been meaninglessly holding up. Because I don’t hate Rum Tum maybe I do maybe yes yes i do but i shouldn’t i shouldn’t i shouldn’t and i hate myself for it i hate that i hate and i used to hate that i love but now i hate both i hate that i feel and that i live and that people love me when they shouldn’t

i keep opening slamming opening slamming drawer after drawer after drawer but my mother took all the scissors and the knives and hid them far away she took the plug from the bathtub and the pills from the cabinet she said she loved me and wanted me to be safe but i never feel safe i never feel safe not when i spend half the time fearing that my father will shock Rum Tum until he shatters and the other half of the time fearing that i will be the one to shatter him and i probably just did i just screamed at him even when my biggest fear is hurting him i hurt him i just told him i hate him and it’s true it’s so disgustingly true i hate him i hate that he has nothing and that i have everything and i hate that he wakes up every day and smiles and laughs and that for some reason i can’t do the same i hate that he makes everything seem so beautiful and easy and i hate that he has to take the blow every time i do something wrong and that he seems okay with that and i hate that he doesn’t hate me because it only makes me hate myself more i hate i hate i hate i hate

I grip the bathroom counter and look up into the mirror at the disgusting monster glaring back at me. I can’t look at it for more than a few seconds before slamming my hand onto the edge of the counter in frustration. I fight the urge to cry out as the sudden pain engulfs me, because I don’t want Rum Tum to know that I’m suffering. I just want him to leave and be happy somewhere else, somewhere far from this cold, cold snowstorm I’m trapped in, somewhere where it can't reach him. I turn on the faucet, thinking it might be able to emulate the sound of the ocean waves, if only slightly. I sink to the floor, shaking and shaking and holding my hand to my chest as I lean my head against the cabinet and try to find that mental place -- that place that I had all to myself as I stared lifelessly at the waves, devoid of all thought, of all feeling. My hand throbs, my chest stings, my lungs fight to find a steady breathing pattern, and tears pour down my face.

Four years ago, I wondered how Kormiko could love the hostile and uncontrollable girl who had gotten him locked in the Detention Center. I escaped to the bathroom to release the tears I was too afraid to shed in his presence and shouted at him when I got tired of blaming myself. I wasn't sure how to love, only how to hate. Four years later, nothing has changed, I am still broken, and none of the missing pieces have been found.

I always wanted to be like the strong-willed Jane Eyre, the honorable Atticus Finch, or even the selfless Sydney Carton, but I was never born to be anything more than a flat character, a story with no development, a plot that circles and repeats over and over again. I am just skin and bones and hate, and that's all I'll ever be.

dead hearts are everywhere

Last Edit: Nov 11, 2014 18:11:01 GMT -5 by cici

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Periphescence [Frumtum] Nov 14, 2014 22:26:26 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Nov 14, 2014 22:26:26 GMT -5

Rum Tum

Tugger

Zori ”…”
tagged (Frumtum) Call Them Brothers

If I’ve ever had a talent, it’s finding that last little sliver of happiness, the one that’s been buried deep down in that haystack and out of sight. I catch that momentary glimpse on Freya’s face—the one that has my heart rum tum, rum tum, rum tum. I open my mouth and suck in a quick gasp of air. They want me to get her to talk, but if I could just get Freya to smile for the rest of her life that’d be enough for me. It’s not that I don’t ever want to hear her speak again, but all the words that have come out are coarse, like scraps of iron filings across my skin, or broken bits of quartz along the shores of a river that cut up my feet. Why we can’t find the space where the other words exist, I don’t know, but it hasn’t stopped me from trying. Other people might have given up on Freya by now, but not me—guess I’m stubborn that way. It’s the Izar side of me, after all.

But there comes a moment when I’ve pushed it too far. The smile fades from Freya’s face, and I can feel my skin prickle. It’s that look, the one where I know she’s taken the time to let all of that terribleness stew, to stew just long enough that it’s going to make all of her words knives. She’ll throw them at whatever target is in front of her, and they’ll take the brunt of all that’s been festering inside of her. Except now there’s no one else to tear down—except me. You don’t get it. I open my mouth to disagree but then there’s the rest of her words, the ones that bury me under their weight. My mother used to say, sticks and stones, because words weren’t supposed to hurt me. Well I don’t know who thought that was right but I’ll tell you right now that words hurt me worse than all the little needles they put into my skin back in the detention center. At least all those scars have been covered up with an extra layer of skin. When Freya speaks it’s a cut deeper, one that doesn’t just go away with a bandage and a scab.

Stop acting like everything is easy and simple and like I should be happy because no, it’s wrong to be happy.

Being happy has been the only thing that keeps me going, just about the only thing that’s kept me to be me. Walking through the halls with the shock collar, or in the crowds of people all wearing clothes going into tall buildings of stone, in a place where standing out is more important than being human, just finding that little lick of happiness has been what’s kept me taking step after step. I have to remember how to be happy, because all the other memories—of Freya, of Sampson, of Benat, of my mother—they’d crush me under their weight, and blot out the sun. Maybe I don’t understand why she can’t be happy, but that’s not fair. She’s got something in her heart that I can’t read, just like the pages of a book, that’s all. I just have to find out what all the letters mean and I’ll know what’s there, deep underneath. I have to hope so, otherwise—

Just get away from me! I hate you!
I blink. Heart beats once, twice, and then three—the heart beats in thirds—and move from the side of the bed. It’s a blurred movement, my hands not steady. I grab out at the table and I knock the silverware to the floor. I hate you. I take a breath and stand. I hate you. The words ring out, and all I can do is stare at the closed door. The tips of my fingers burn and my skin prickles from my palms up through my arms, and then to my chest. There’s crashing in the bathroom but I—I can’t do anything. It’s like watching light on the water. Trying to move it by picking up the water won’t change anything. You have to wait until the move moons, because that’s the way of things. Unless you drain the whole lake, you’re left with the light on the water. So I stand there, staring at the door, hands twisting and untwisting in front of me. I hate you.

My whole life I’ve—I’ve had to fight. To survive out in the wild was hard enough sure but, it was everyone else that stood in the way of me just living. I haven’t… I’ve never blamed anyone for this but now it’s just… how do they expect you to keep going when everything is your fault? When you’ve got a boot on your neck and another on your wrist? And even then I’m still smiling like an idiot because, because what else are you supposed to do? They have all the power and you have none. So the only way to take it back is to show that they can’t crush your spirit, no matter how hard they try. They can make you wear the necklace on your neck that sends a thousand volts through your body. They can tell you your name is not your name. They can forget about anything that you’ve ever done for them. But there is no giving in if you’ve still got that last little piece, the smile that shows you just haven’t fallen to them yet.

Maybe I’ve just been wrong. That would make more sense than all of this. My mother was the one that had gone and tried to put together a life—one that she had given up because she had me. And who did she die for in the end? Not me. Not me! I swing a fist at the air, and stick my knuckles into my mouth. I bite. There was a man more important, not her son, but a man that had gone and said she was nothing but a dirty slut. A girl that wasn’t worthy enough to make a family because he already had one… because he was greedy. Because they’re all greedy! They’re all greedy because they’ll take and take everything from you, the more that you want to give. This man, this father—I can’t even call him that—he saves his own son’s life because he has to. Love? You think that there was love in him saving me? The one that looked like his favorite son, who would go and die anyway—oh, I guess that was my fault, too. That was my fault because Rum Tum Tugger is a mistake, it’s just another name for one big mistake. Just breathing was enough for me to make them all fall apart and—

I stare at the door.

But she can’t be right. Freya’s been locked away here, in this terrible place, and that’s what’s changed her. Not me. We were… we were happy, once. It may have been too long for her to remember but she used to smile. I used to rest on her shoulder and she on mine. And we would watch the sunset, and we would sigh because, because we could see what was really important. Not any of this. We let the rest of the world tell us how to feel, rather than each other. I should have never gone away with Sampson, I should have stayed. I just wanted her to know that no matter how badly she’s hurt I’ll be there to mend her, that I’m not going to leave her again to fall apart. No matter how many times the people here may have abandoned her, or ignored her, or made her feel less than dirt, I won’t. Because she’s the one that has my heart beating, that taught me who I was, even when I was looking past her.

“Freya… I…” My voice is soft, and I wipe under my eyes over and over. My throat won’t let me get out the apologies. And then I feel it again, the red hot between my fists because she’s not going to listen—she’s never listened to me, no matter how many times I’ve told her what was important. “Freya… please…” I’m desperate and it’s disgusting—is that the feeling? Disgusting that I would still be a little dog, following her around, with the tail between my legs. But I’m not brave enough to run away on my own. And where would a lost dog like me wind up? Instead I’ve got both feet planted in front of her door, eyes red and puffy, waiting for all the other words she’s going to throw at me. I can take them, if that’s what makes her happy. It’s because she needs to, she needs to do this. I just want her to be happy.

Why can’t she know that?

made by remi of isc
inspired by abby's template

Last Edit: Nov 16, 2014 13:56:06 GMT -5 by Deleted

cici
Hunter

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Periphescence [Frumtum] Nov 16, 2014 12:50:16 GMT -5

Post by cici on Nov 16, 2014 12:50:16 GMT -5

freya hanig

“Freya… I…” Rum Tum says, and the words feel like knives despite their soft volume. Another sob escapes my throat, and I bite the sleeve of my shirt, trying to stop the cries. I’m hurting him. I’m hurting him and I’m hurting myself and if I don’t fix this then my parents they’ll send him away for failing to please me or worse yet, he’ll walk away, he’ll walk away somehow and never come back or even worse yet he’ll give up he’ll give up and stop smiling every morning as he enters my room and he’ll stop knocking on my door and he’ll stop loving me and he’ll stop loving himself and he’ll stop loving life and then we’ll be two of the same person just living in different bodies except we won’t be living we’ll be dead we’ll be dead hearts beating but never beating for anything more than the sake of beating because being the same won’t make the world any less empty or give any more meaning to the words “i love you” or turn the grey sky back to its original blue no it will just leave two empty dead lonely hearts to fend for themselves

“Freya… please…” Rum Tum’s words penetrate the door, and for a moment, it feels as though he is sitting next to me, his protective arm around my shaking shoulders, his concerned eyes trying to find my own, his warm breath on my face as he speaks the words so close to me: Freya...please… and yet, the image in my mind brings about no comfort, no excitement, nothing but guilt...and I can’t understand why. I used to lean my head on his shoulder, and he used to put his arm around me and pull me closer until my heart felt like it was about to fall out of my chest; every time he looked at me, I used to feel like I was drowning in my own smile; if he gave me a hand to help me over the rocks, I remember never wanting to let go; and when if winter came, we used to find shelter together under the warmth of a single blanket. After that, I never felt cold. Not until now.

Everything has changed, and yet, nothing has. I don’t love Rum Tum. I don’t love the way he looks at me and talks to me and smiles at me (even though I’m afraid for what will happen if he stops)...and yet, I’m the same tornado I’ve always been. I guess it just took me a little too long to figure out how much harm natural disasters can do.

It is for Rum Tum’s sake that I force myself onto my knees and then up onto my feet, my hands gripping the edge of the counter as I try to control my shaking, panicked self. For a few moments, I wait there and wait there and wait there staring at the ground until it stops: until I feel nothing. I look up into the mirror at the monster staring back at me, wiping away the tears and combing my fingers through my hair as if to look slightly less hysterical. I even manage to force the edges of my lips upward into the perfect frame of a smile. For a moment, the image in the mirror is not of a natural disaster, but of a 19-year old girl who despite her tired, red eyes, seems to be fairly confident and capable. That’s all I need: a mirror image.

Suppressing the urge to sink back down to the floor and grab hold of the bathroom rug, I move to the door and put my fingers on the handle, pushing down until it unlocks and opens. But I am not really opening the door; I am not really letting Rum Tum into the blizzard that has swept me away and taken all of the warmth he had once given me. Instead, I’m doing the mirror image of just that. I’m letting him in without actually letting him in, because underneath this calm and composed facade is an emptiness that stretches on forever and a sense of panic that is so wholefully consuming. I open the door further, swallowing down the emptiness and trying to find the right words. “I’m sorry” I say softly, looking at Rum Tum while shaking my head. “I didn’t mean it. I...I don’t hate you.” My words are comprised of lies, because although it’s true that I’m sorry beyond explanation, hate is an entirely different subject. Of course I hate Rum Tum: the same way I hate my parents and my friends and Sampson and Kormiko and especially myself because I hate that I can’t love but I hate what happens when I do.

“And it’s okay now -- I’m okay...I’m sorry,” I say, attempting to sound sincere. I try to show my sincerity by slipping my hand into his and affectionately rubbing my thumb along his knuckles as I stand across from him, but the affection, too, is just a mirror image. I consider embracing him or kissing him, but with how distant I’ve been and with how distant I feel, I’m sure the act would look forced. However, my lips turn upward and a smile plays along my face: the finishing touch to a perfectly pieced image. I am giving Rum Tum everything he wants: I am happy, I am okay, and I love him the way he loves me.

I used to have no respect for liars, for people who failed to speak their mind. But now I understand why my parents told me that Tobias the goldfish had gone on vacation and that little Ailia from District Three was going to be okay: because reality is a silent killer, and he’s already murdered me.

dead hearts are everywhere

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Periphescence [Frumtum] Nov 18, 2014 0:05:52 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Nov 18, 2014 0:05:52 GMT -5

Rum Tum

Tugger

Zori ”…”
tagged (Frumtum) Let's Be Grown Ups

The door opens and Freya stands. Her eyes are red and puffy, with little wet specks that cling to the bridge of her nose. What kind of pain has someone so broken they can’t even see how to be happy? There’s a lot that I don’t know in this world, most of which has been about who to be and when to be it. But I know how to feel, and I’m good enough at it to see that there’s pain in those eyes. Sadness isn’t as clear as people want it to be—it’s in the softness of a man’s voice, or the little tinge before a smile. She’s got that pain that lingers, like the moon just before it runs behind a cloud. You know it’s still there, even when it’s all covered up. But she pushes ahead, going so far as to speak again. And I should be happy, I should want to hear the words that she brings but the sound is dead in my ears.

I’m sorry.

When people apologize it’s supposed to be because—they want to be forgiven for the pain that they’ve caused. At least that’s what I learned as a little boy. Say sorry for what you’ve done wrong, so that you can make the person who you hurt to feel better. And all of that seemed to make sense to me, because you want someone to feel better when you’ve made a mistake. But kids are good at telling the truth because they can’t figure out a reason to lie. They don’t know that sometimes hiding behind something false is won’t hurt as much as telling someone how they really feel. Except when you get a little older, you want to protect other people. You want them to feel good, and not start a fight. At least, a lot of people in my life have done this lying to protect me, because it’s easy. That’s what it comes down to. Not some noble cause that would make them better. They know that telling someone they’re your son, or that you’re looking for an ex-lover, that would be complicated. It would bring up too many feelings that you can’t just spend an afternoon talking about to feel better.

I didn’t mean it… I… I don’t hate you.

I look at Freya and narrow my eyes. I can feel the lump in my throat rise, and it stops me from saying anything. I should tell her that it’s okay to hate me, because I can hate me too. I hate that we ever got separated. I hate that I was selfish enough to take her to District Eleven. I hate that my family is just one big mess of boys that never knew how to take care of themselves. And what’s worse, is I hate that we let go of one another, because I thought that letting go was something we were supposed to do. I don’t say a word, though. Freya’s at least speaking to me now, even if every word out of her mouth rings hollow. The words linger on her lips and I turn my head, pushing it down into my shoulder. There was the pain of losing her, and not knowing if she’d been alive, that was one thing. But that she’s never going to forgive me? I take a deep breath and bring my wrist across my eyes.

And it’s okay now -- I’m okay...I’m sorry.

Stop. I just want her to stop. I want her to go away, to just hide back in the bathroom and beat her fists into the wall. Because if she were beating out her anger, and if she was smashing things to bits, at least she would be letting out how she really felt. But here? When she says she’s sorry, it’s dead leaves and brackish water; she’s hiding behind a wall that doesn’t serve either of us. And it’s not for me. I know it from my mother, from my father, from Sampson and all the folks that say they’ve loved me. Saying you’re sorry—like this? It’s not about the other person. Saying I’m sorry is a way of forgiving yourself, so that you can feel better. It’s selfish. You got every right to say it, sure—because at least you’re trying to make things right. But then people hide behind those words so that they don’t have to face what’s right in front of you. Just words, just words that people think won’t make either of us guilty. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—say it enough and it’s the same as your heart beating, rum tum, rum tum, rum tum.

My mother said, I’m sorry when she told me I wasn’t from a great wandering tribe. Guess that was supposed to free her from going back to District Eleven, and leaving me alone. Or when, I’m fifteen—and, and this man… this man says to me that I’m supposed to get on my own, to go on and get, because he has three boys already, and the capitol will tear them apart if I stay. I’m sorry, he says, his own flesh and blood more important than the boy right in front of his face. Well—I’m not sorry. No, I can’t be sorry when I don’t feel like being sorry makes a difference. Because who out of all this is supposed to be sorry for just existing, and for making the choices we did to get here? We did what we had to do to survive, and I’m supposed to be sorry, or Freya’s supposed to be sorry for the way that things turned out? Well I’m not going to say I’m sorry, I can’t say I’m sorry for all the things that happened to me.

Her thumb brushes across my knuckles, and I turn back to look at her. At first, I can’t help but cock my head. I want to pull my hand away like it’s been scalded, but instead I bring it to my cheek. I wipe away the snot from underneath my nose and do my best to fold my lips into a smile. Even if my chest is heavy, and it takes effort not to slump my shoulders, I know it’s what I have to do. To lie—for her. Because if I, Rum Tum Tugger, decide that I’m going to tell Freya that she’s a liar, and push her away, then what does that give me? Where did going after the truth get me, when I asked to become an Izar? Or when I fought to find my brothers? Even now… where has that gotten me? A collar around my neck, in a house that makes it hard to breathe, with a girl that seems to tell me what I came looking for isn’t here anymore. So even if she’s not sorry, even if she’s trying to hide behind her words, I can play along. I can grow up. Because wearing my heart on my sleeve was for the years when I didn’t know any better. Adults know that you have to hide behind these little lies because even if it hurts, it won’t hurt as much as not having it at all.

“It’s okay,” I reply. I twist my fingers through one another and rub at my knuckles. “It’s my fault. I should’ve known better.” I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. “I should’ve let you be.” Looking down at the floor proves far easier than looking into Freya’s eyes. “You got a lot of things to teach me, anyway. I’m still not used to everything here. I’m—” I blink and take in another breath of air.

“I’m sorry, too.”

made by remi of isc
inspired by abby's template

Last Edit: Nov 18, 2014 0:06:26 GMT -5 by Deleted

cici
Hunter

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last seen Sept 10, 2020 20:01:40 GMT -5

Periphescence [Frumtum] Nov 26, 2014 13:11:54 GMT -5

Post by cici on Nov 26, 2014 13:11:54 GMT -5

“From now on, forget happiness."

freya hanig

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s my fault. I should have known better. I should’ve let you be. You got a lot of things to teach me, anyway. I’m still not used to everything here. I’m – I’m sorry too.” His words take up meaningless, empty space within my ears. He is wrong. Everyone is wrong. Even the sun is wrong for shining through the curtains of my window in its usual mocking manner. The only things I could ever teach Rum Tum are how to stop the stars from shining in his eyes and how to stare blankly at the walls for hours without feeling the urge to be anywhere else. I can teach him how to smile without actually smiling and how to bury sadness beneath layers and layers of false truths, but I can’t teach him how to fix this, much less how to fix me. I’ve learned that peace is earned through make pretend and that happiness is just an unobtainable object on the other side of the mirror, but maybe Rum Tum is just better at navigating the game of life than I am.

I look down at the floor and then up at Rum Tum only to see that his gaze is, too, is diverted. I can remember the way he looked down at his hands when he told me of how his mother was killed and of how his father abandoned him. Rum Tum isn’t a terribly difficult person to read. Just by the way he hangs his head, I know that there is something troubling him, and that something is so obviously me. But I don’t want him to hurt the way I hurt.

I force another smile onto my face, but I feel cold; I feel dead. “It’s okay. We’ll work things out. Me and you,” I say, but I know that there is nothing to work out. This is reality and trying to change it will only make things worse. But I have to keep feeding Rum Tum hope so that his smile doesn’t disappear. However, my words feel destructive in my mouth: bitter and dishonest and destructive. It hurts to lie to Rum Tum, and it hurts even more to lie to myself.

Still, I keep lying. “Well…I think I’m finally feeling well enough to go to school today.” I look at the clock: nearly 11:30. “So I should go. Late, I guess.” I neglect my morning responsibilities and don’t even bother changing out of the clothes I’ve been wearing since yesterday. I just need to get out of this room. More importantly, I just need to get away from Rum Tum. I exit the room, dart down the stairs, slip on a pair of shoes, and escape to the outdoors without grabbing a coat. Falling snow settles on my shoulders, and I shiver, crossing over to the side of the house and finding a place to sit in the middle of the snow-covered ground. Only then do I realize that it is Saturday, and my lie about going to school was completely irrelevant; then again, I doubt Rum Tum even knows what school is, much less that it only happens five days a week.

The snow keeps falling onto my head, onto my face, and my clothes are now wet, my body is cold, and I feel like an alien in my own skin; still, I just want to stay here a little longer, because sometimes it gets so cold that it starts to feel warm, and sometimes I hurt so much that I stop feeling pain, and sometimes I tell enough lies that I start speaking truths.

“Now it’s just about saving the remains,
the wreckage,
the appearance.”