down fills the ground | blanche + jezebel {blitz}
Sept 20, 2015 10:17:49 GMT -5
Post by я𝑜𝓈𝑒 on Sept 20, 2015 10:17:49 GMT -5
[presto]
CHAPTER III.
- ❧ -
I have seen her before. On her face, she wears a ghost I recognize, a bloody phantom of a screaming dead girl. I saw her, elevated from the crowd, the face of her fallen sister slapped onto a screen, during Kirito Miristioma's speech. I saw her, with her little sister, whose face was cracked like a porcelain platter.
She's Blanche Summit.
I saw her sister fall. I saw the blood, pooling on the ground, rolling over the dirt like a crimson avalanche. I saw the anthem illuminating the sky with the ghostly blue image of Stella Summit's face. The blare of the National Anthem of Panem across the District Square made me want to plug my ears and scream until I could hear it no longer.
The anthem is President Snow, mocking us. PRIDE, PRIDE FOR YOUR COUNTRY IN THE DEATH OF AN INNOCENT! is laced between the notes of sickeningly upbeat song.
I have never felt such anger boil in my chest.
There is only one sadness, etched in stone, that overtakes the sorrow I feel swelling within me and leaking from my eyes as I stand, helpless, watching the Hunger Games rage from the District Square. Each year we watch horror unravel before our eyes; each year, we can do nothing to patch up the gashes and wipe up the oozing blood.
In the Arena, rainstorms of red pelt the ground every day. I wonder if the wind tastes metallic, like the blood from a cut tongue. I would ask the tributes, if they weren't a pile of bones and rotting flesh in a casket six feet under. I would ask a victor, but they don't come to District Seven often, only to read a pre-written speech expressing their oh so deep apologies. I would ask Blanche Summit, but she was not the one who was slaughtered for entertainment.
My feet drift toward the Summit girl, my body working independently from my mind. I find myself pondering if I will see shattered green glass in her eyes, scattered from the blow of Stella's death. I wonder if she will be a cold slab of stone, cut out in the shape of a girl for show -
Just like me.
"You're Blanche," I say softly, "Stella Summit's sister, aren't you?"
[/presto]
CHAPTER III.
down fills the ground
- ❧ -
{ up with your turret
aren't we just terrified? ;
aren't we just terrified? ;
I have seen her before. On her face, she wears a ghost I recognize, a bloody phantom of a screaming dead girl. I saw her, elevated from the crowd, the face of her fallen sister slapped onto a screen, during Kirito Miristioma's speech. I saw her, with her little sister, whose face was cracked like a porcelain platter.
She's Blanche Summit.
I saw her sister fall. I saw the blood, pooling on the ground, rolling over the dirt like a crimson avalanche. I saw the anthem illuminating the sky with the ghostly blue image of Stella Summit's face. The blare of the National Anthem of Panem across the District Square made me want to plug my ears and scream until I could hear it no longer.
The anthem is President Snow, mocking us. PRIDE, PRIDE FOR YOUR COUNTRY IN THE DEATH OF AN INNOCENT! is laced between the notes of sickeningly upbeat song.
I have never felt such anger boil in my chest.
There is only one sadness, etched in stone, that overtakes the sorrow I feel swelling within me and leaking from my eyes as I stand, helpless, watching the Hunger Games rage from the District Square. Each year we watch horror unravel before our eyes; each year, we can do nothing to patch up the gashes and wipe up the oozing blood.
In the Arena, rainstorms of red pelt the ground every day. I wonder if the wind tastes metallic, like the blood from a cut tongue. I would ask the tributes, if they weren't a pile of bones and rotting flesh in a casket six feet under. I would ask a victor, but they don't come to District Seven often, only to read a pre-written speech expressing their oh so deep apologies. I would ask Blanche Summit, but she was not the one who was slaughtered for entertainment.
My feet drift toward the Summit girl, my body working independently from my mind. I find myself pondering if I will see shattered green glass in her eyes, scattered from the blow of Stella's death. I wonder if she will be a cold slab of stone, cut out in the shape of a girl for show -
Just like me.
"You're Blanche," I say softly, "Stella Summit's sister, aren't you?"
{ shale, screen your worry
from what you won't ever find ;
from what you won't ever find ;
