Imp Stole :||: D8 :|: FIN

"Stitch by stitch, I try and fix, the hearts of those that have been tricked"


    In a small ally, near a dark corner of a smog filled district. Rests the home of the Stole's. The walls remember, and the people forget. Her name was Imp. Her house was filled with those that share her blood. Her mother, father, brother and herself. She the youngest of them. Her hair chestnut, like the fur of a beaver, like bark of the trees. Her skin a burnt olive, a blank canvass. Her eyes an ebony brown, dark like the falling stream of blood from a deep wound. Her lips salmon, like the peaks of the mountain during sunset. Her lengthy physique put her at the height of 5'8". Her structure curving like the path of a roaring river. Many would stamp her with "beautiful", but she did no such thing. After all, beauty was an image that was worthless. Her fingers showed that of many cuts. The sensation of needle entering skin, was something she had become very comfortable with. It was almost painless by this point. Her hands an endless trail of burns, feeling the contact of a blistering iron against her working palm. 

    Her body was covered in clothing that had been rejected by those that shopped in her mothers store. Every stitch pulled by herself or that of her mother. She had no room for fashion, she simply wore what was appropriate for the season. Why buy likable clothing when you can wear your own creations? Though she wasn't known for her fashion, she was known for her families wealth. They may not have been rich, but for the means of district eight, they made due. Her families wealth came with agony, and a price higher then happiness. It seems funny, her family having more wealth then most, but still not a single coin was tossed in the direction of Imp. Her presents, was quiet, unnerving. She had an odd way of making a discomfort in the room. Could that have forced his anger?Could that have been why he practiced this form of harm?

--

    Her voice was soft, her eyes were kind. She meant no harm to a single person she had crossed paths with. But could this be weakness? She would harm who she had to, but she was loyal. And loyalty can hold a heavy toll. It applies pressure around the heart, and it constricts until there is no longer a thump...thump...thump. Until emotions are a rarity. And fear is something that is no more. But you see, she had not reached this point. Her heart still felt, and her mind still hoped. She spoke only when spoken too. Her being afraid of causing someone else discomfort. But because of her over cation, landed herself doing the opposite. She was a silent fighter, never approaching her issues verbally, but simply fighting internally. Feeling the push and pull of her mind over matter. Her being was to opulent to withstand the destruction of others. Yet she still withstood exactly what she wasn't strong enough to do. Her body fought because it had to, not for any benefit. 

    Her love for those around her was tremendous. Her mind never faltered, and her head never tilted. She was sane in all aspects, yet she was treated like she was incapable of comprehension. Her silence, caused rumors of stupidity, rumors of idiocy. Her schooling was soaring above average, and her handiness in job made her valued. Her mind had an issue with focusing with the task at hand, and her eyes always seemed to wonder, but she still made everything fall into its rightful place. Her capability in independence was required for her survival. She had not been carried through live. She had an old soul, her eyes filtering out the negative, and replacing it with life. She only saw the potential, never the consequences. 

    When a task had risen over her horizon, it became her only priority. She would become attached to a passion, and she would never be able to stop. Ideas were her heroine, her own personal drive. Without a drive what would she be? Beaten, broken, nothing to work toward. She was at peace with her seamstress lifestyle. Her skills in finding friendship were lacking, to say the least. And her over all level of charisma was rather low. She had a love for adventure, though her adventures were of a small scale. And her over active heart landed her in trouble a lot of the time. Her fight for acceptance, and her struggle for good treatment, has only made most of her past more vividly remembered. She has spent so long trying to forget, but with the kind of mark left on her, every waking moment was a constant remembrance of the heavy weight of her heart.

--

    The Stole's home was crowded with pain and bad omens. It made for a scare among many of the district residents. Everyone knew to avoid, that little dark ally, near that little dark corner. Her childhood was young and cheerful. Never a bland day, her hours filled with wonder, and running through open fields. Her nights spent close to her mother, close to her father, her brothers love radiating through the air, filling her body with warmth. Her family was perfect. Her father was a salesman at her mothers store. Her mother a seamstress, sewing nearly everything that they had to sell, well that is besides what she had sewn herself. Her home was filled with the stitched clothing that was unwanted, or rather expensive. Many people of district nine where not the richest of people. And this made for a hard living at times, but they did rather fine for a district eight family. 

    It wasn't until her father had wasted away his life in toxic water, and his mother in work, that was when things became bad. Her brother had become their target. His body plastered with the colors of black and blue. The length of his spine dripping red. Things went on like this for a long while, driving him into a state she had never seen him before. He had changed in so many ways, he wasn't the boy she grew up to love, he was a monster. Rather her mother and father were the monsters, driving him to this state of mind. It wasn't long until he started to retaliate, but it wasn't his parents that became his target, it was her. Her face soon was met with the right hook of her own brother. His beatings occurring more so then ever, his torment beyond repair was now ruining the life of his own blood.

    He seemed to target the left side of her face, causing it to swell and blister, causing it to turn many shades of purple. His right swing made her eyes stream with blood. It made her tears burn, and her sobs silent. One night he had become to violent and forced his fist into her left eye. Causing her optic nerve to detach. She had became blind to everything on that side of her face. Her world was simply half, every viewing point destroyed. Her face healed, but her vision never returned. It was after this day, that father beat him, he beat him until breathe never returned to his lunges. He beat him to death. Her father was killed for his wrong doing, and mother shunned for standing by his side. There was only the two of them left. Her mother and herself, she was forced to live with a women that wanted nothing to do with her, and an empty house that no longer holds two knowing bodies. The house remembers, but the people will try to forget.