pyrope blackmore, district two

A newly emerged child squirmed beneath harsh fluorescent light, alongside two other tiny infants, born only minutes apart. Despite sharing one cramped womb, their faces were their own. Maggie. Hurricane. Pyrope. Sisters forever bonded by blood to the Blackmore family.

She was born a sunset, a beacon of blinding light against pink and crimson and gold, melted together in a finale before nightfall. Her hair matches the vibrant shades of oranges between red and gold, from birth to her new broken age.

She is a sunset (with fading colors on the inside but radiant as ever in agony) in beautiful birth to the shudder and the shatter.

Through her year-old body, rivalry was strung. The barrier between the Blackmores and Birches holds strong, their own arrogance and petty hatred casting them into a caustic clash between the two families, showered in wealth and power.

Their children are trophies, shining gold and valuable. In families of careers, there is no rest until perfection. And Pyrope Blackmore is no exception.

They saw golden in her skin, so golden she would be.

She was a porcelain doll, wrapped in blankets, dull, incapable knife in hand, waiting to be sharpened. She was born into innocence and purity, bathed in light from the heavens, as all children are. She was yet to bleed and break, to fall victim to the abyss that awaited her.

Chubby cheeks glowing with rose and great sapphire eyes and bells of laughter could not be mistaken for anything but innocent.

(Change is certainly a grim reality.)

Stumbling was natural, and no one looked twice when a toddler tripped over her own tiny feet. Unruly red hair was cute and bleary blue marble eyes summoned awws in adoration.

Peace was all she knew.

If only she had known to cherish it.

She traded in her blue eyes for a pair of green ones, and tears for laughter.

She was loud; her voice was a pair of cymbals clashing together. There was nothing that could muffle her megaphones for vocal cords, not a soft, "Hush, darling," and not a harsh, "Shut the fuck up, Pyrope."

Silence could never stay on her tongue.

She was born to roar with the lions.

(But now she just sits in silence.)

She loved to observe the older Blackmores practice with weapons, chubby cheeks like a pair of plump, red apples as she smiled at them and their almost inhuman grace.

The knives, she thought, were sparkly. Pretty, like one of Mother's silver gowns. She wished to hold them, to glide her finger along the end to feel if the metal was as cold as she thought.

But Mother warned her never to play with knives, for they were only meant for one thing:

pain.

Mother gave her a turtle for her sixth birthday, a tiny little thing the color of ivy. Ittle spilled from her lips, excluding the L from Little. But she decided Ittle suited the tiny turtle better, and so Ittle it became.

"Why Ittle? That's not even a name, or a word, for that matter," her mother said.

"It's unique! No one has a pet named Ittle, so he'll be special forever!" she squealed, holding up the turtle in her small hands.

She loved animals, especially little creatures. Her hands were gentle with compassion for things that could not care for themselves. She remembers how mother told her that one day, she wouldn't be caring for helpless things.

She never understood what she meant.

A blueprint was drawn up on pink paper by a sloppy hand with pencil, to turn the Blackmore mansion into a zoo. When she held up the blueprint in her hands for her mother to see, the response was not a yes or a no, but instead, laughter.

"Lovely. Very creative, Pyrope," her mother giggled.

"So can I have a zoo?"

"Zoos won't be your priority later."

"Why not? You said I can have anything I want. And what else would I ever want to have? I want a zoo!"

"You'll be a career, and careers don't need zoos."

Her mouth turned down in an exaggerated frown, the warning before the onslaught of a tantrum.

And she screamed that careers were stupid and she hated them and she would never be one, that zoos were her true calling.

Her mother shook her head and walked away, blueprint in hand, leaving her daughter to bawl on the floor.

Pyrope Blackmore always gets what she wants, always has her way -

but not that day.

There is a grave, marked by a ruddy colored rock, where Ittle lies. She found him dead, crushed like a ball of glass, on the floor where she had left him. She had gone to the kitchen for a glass of orange juice, and found that one glass of morning sunshine came with a price tag.

She screamed. And cried. And pointed fingers.

She traded her beloved turtle for a punching bag, found in her room when she returned from school.

Powerful fists, her mother told her, were the first steps along the path of a career.

Her hands were molded into stones against the surface of the punching bag. Hands like those were meant to hold knives, her mother decided.

She was no longer a weak girl, made of paper. She had risen into a tower of steel, sprung up from the ground after a heavy rain of desire for power and strength.

And the blood pumping in her veins, her mother decided, was meant to be spilled in the arena.

Pyrope Blackmore, little girl career.

She became locked in a masquerade, dancing in newfound ruthlessness, adorned with a blood-red dress and a mask of ice. And it is a mask she wears well, with full lips flat and muscles limp - perfect composure.

She did not smile much anymore, for happiness did not often shine over her head.

"You don't need smiles. They won't make you stronger, and they won't make you prettier, either," her mother told her.

She believed her oh so wise mentor.

Knives. Spears. Bows. Arrows. Swords.

This was - this is - her world, her ground, her air.

She matched the blade of her sword. Sharp. Deadly. Cold. And her mask was even icier than the armor over her delicate skin.

Despite the ice, she was in the middle of a swarm of friends. Perhaps they were drawn to her way with words, how she could twist them like malleable clay and weave her way into anyone she desired. Or perhaps it was her beauty, or the name Blackmore tied to the end of Pyrope.

No matter the reason - she was a queen.

Crowns suit her, she decided. Inferiority was a weight she could not stand against; power was a luxury that lifted her lighter than a feather.

A mask. A suit of armor. A crown.

She felt invincible. She felt secure.

(And she was so, so wrong.)

She swore to never be weak again.

Beneath everything, the armor, the tongue of fire, her skin is still paper and her insides are clouds. It is a weakness no one had exposed before, not even her mother's wrathful scolding each time she dared to slip from perfect grace.

It was just weeks before her fifteenth birthday when her heart took control over her mind, and carried her to the boy who would leave her as paper and clouds with broken armor, a lost mask, a cracked crown, and a fallen sword.

Mason.

She could already feel everything crumble.

There was a boy with arms open to embrace her - and no one held Pyrope Blackmore this way. She was a girl broken by harshness and cruelty, who ran into the arms of a boy with promises glistening on his lips. Promises of happiness, love, and everything Pyrope wanted.

In his warmth, everything melted away, leaving just the two of them. There was no longer the insecurity of her appearance - no, "If only your nose was smaller . . ." - or her actions - no, "Why didn't you throw that damn knife at the bullseye?".

She wanted a fairy tale. And fairy tales do not exist, not in a nation swimming in poison, not in a world shrouded by night.

"I'm the only one who will ever love you."

(Perhaps he was right, but she does not believe Mason was capable of love. In his own sick way, maybe he did love her.)

The name Pyrope does not sing through people's heads. She does not make her hearth in their hearts. People are useless, heartless, mindless, ruthless, hopeless -

not worth her time, not worth her pain.

Mason proved her right, the moment he raised his fist to shatter her heart (and much more than that) and opened his mouth to tear his words into her chest.

Her skin became a canvas,

black purple blue,

red.

The end of long sleeves to cover the damage, the painting, were clenched in a pair of clammy, trembling hands. Her summer clothes were shoved to the back of her closet - for the exposing of her skin revealed the hideous truth in Mason's clenched hands.

She felt darkness swell within her - and she's never been a good person, but she's never been dark. Not like this. The desire - the need - for destruction collided with dark, born from pain and rage and hatred and helplessness.

(Pyrope Blackmore is not helpless.)

She thought she could slice through the misery with a dagger, cut it apart until it flew into the wind as harmless bits of debris. And Mason was the misery, walking, talking, lying.

She could not cut up the misery, saw through each bone and listen to the sound like her favorite song. So she cut off his hands, so he could never harm anyone again. And she severed his tongue, so he could never tell another lie or speak of her revenge.

She'll never forget the joy that rushed through her at the sound of his flesh and bone parting beneath her knife. It should have repulsed her, sent her screaming at her own hands, forever stained with blood. But it brought a smile to her face, a movement she had not felt for a long time.

Revenge was beautiful.

The hole in her chest would never leave, but filling it with his blood and anguish would fill the void,

for now.

Agony.