joselle brookwater d4 | fin
Dec 17, 2015 2:46:54 GMT -5
Post by Lyn𝛿is on Dec 17, 2015 2:46:54 GMT -5
[googlefont="Lovers Quarrel:400"]
As soon as you hear the heavy footsteps on the ship's deck, your stomach fills with dread. He's angry, again. He always seems to be angry, these days, and it's all you can do to appease him before he goes on another one of his outbursts.
You were stupid, to agree to go sailing with him, on one of those months he seemed to have changed, when you finally believed the two of you could be happy together. You're as airheaded and brainless as he always told you you were, and now he's angry that you've forgotten to pack his razor and steered the ship the wrong way and goddammit you're from district four you should know this stuff can't you get anything right.
No one else wanted you, after all. You were always a problem child, hanging around the lowlife of the District and getting into scrapes with the Peacekeepers. Wild red hair frames your prominent stormy gray eyes and unforgiving stare, thin eyebrows that perpetually told onlookers that you wouldn't take any of their shit. Your face is round and full though, cheekbones cushioned beneath a layer of baby fat, lips full and pulled into a slight smirk, an air of innocence about you as you bounced through the district, catching paint smears and grass stains on your shirt and letting the sea breeze draw your hair up in tangles.
That had been when you were young, though. Since your parents died when you were barely ten, you bounced around from foster home to foster home. You grew leaner and more despairing, baggy, dark clothing over freckled, tanned skin, ill-fitting just like how you felt in all of the different houses. Until, that day on the docks, you finally met him.
It was love at first sight as you stared into his dreamy gaze, and you talked for hours before he swept you up into your arms and promised he would always be there to take care of you. He was much older, and it was all that your skinny, undernourished fourteen-year-old self could do to refrain from crying on the spot because you finally saw an end to the hellish instability that had been your life for the past four years. And for the most part, that promise had held true. He was well-regarded in the district, and you had never lacked for food or shelter since then, gaining a healthy amount of curves in all the right places and growing into a tall, elegant young woman.
Despite that, though, there's still an empty feeling in your stomach, a gnawing anxiety that never seemed to go away. Once, you'd dreamed of being an artist, but you've stopped painting ever since he told you he hated your landscapes and you were too terrified to pick up a brush when you could hear him pacing around the house and knew he could barge into the room at any moment. The ones you once had you've burned, now; you were never any good at it anyways. But you're still one of the lucky ones, you remind yourself. There are those in the district working long, dangerous hours for little pay, and the least you can do is be grateful to him for taking you in.
The hatch creaks slowly as he steps out from beneath the deck, and you tense, expecting him to shout at you like he had earlier today. Instead, his voice is sweet, as though nothing had happened. "Hey, love, what are you thinking about?" You wait, afraid for the other shoe to drop.
"Nothing much, just looking at the sunset, that's all. Isn't it beautiful today?" You've perfected this dance, the soft words and ingenuous tone of voice, because thoughts are dangerous, especially thoughts of escape, especially thoughts that didn't include him in them. Where would you go, even if you did? Your parents are dead, you don't have any friends to speak of, and he would always be in the district, following you, watching you.
He looks pleased - you've passed his test once again - and lays his hand on top of yours, quieting their restless tapping. His face leans forward as he smashes his lips on top of yours, his hot breath, vaguely smelling like rum, swirling in your mouth.
His fingers run through your hair as he breaks free from the embrace and gazes straight into your eyes. "Mhm. Come on though, you need to wear your hair down. How many times have I told you, you look so much better when you're not sticking it in an ugly ponytail." And with a flick of his wrist, the hair tie sails over the edge of the ship, disappearing into the water below, and you can do nothing but smile and nod. The sea breeze whips the now-loose hair into your face, obscuring your vision and wrapping around your throat like the thick coils of a snake.
You would never be free, after all. After you survive the Reapings, the two of you would marry, and you would continue to live inside the house that had slowly become your prison. You seldom had reason to leave the house, except the rare days he took you to the town square to shop together. It would be everything you dreamed of as a kid, except the dream now felt more like a nightmare, and the nightmare is slowly coming true before your eyes.
And it's that thought that finally, finally makes you snap.
You grit your teeth, take a deep breath, and knock his hand away from your head. "I can do whatever the damn hell I want with my hair, all right?" you growl, and for a moment it's so silent you could hear the fish splashing in the water below. His face darkens.
"Whatever the damn hell," he mimics. "Don't you dare talk to me like that. I'm just trying to tell you" - he reaches backwards, gathering his own wind-swept hair with his hands and scowling for extra emphasis - "that this makes you look hideous. But if you want to seem like an old hag, be my guest."
"The only one I see calling me an old hag is you!"
"Oh, silly girl. Didn't you ever stop and think? Other people are just too polite to say such things out loud. It's only because I love you that I point out your flaws."
"I don't see what's wrong with -"
"You've always been too stubborn for your own good. If you truly don't care - if your sense of beauty is so skewed that you can't tell the difference between this" - he seizes your hair, grabbing it in fistfuls in his clenched hands - "and this - then do it for my sake! Because it is disrespectful to me that, as my girlfriend, you insist on wearing your hair like a common fishmonger!"
But you jerk free from his grasp, and he lunges for you again but this time instead of grabbing your hair his fingers close around your throat, and for those terrible moments you're convinced that he's finally decided to try and kill you, until he pulls his hands loose and lets go - no, that's not true, he did try to kill you, and you should thank him for having the restraint to stop himself - no, what are you thinking, since when did you thank your attempted murderer -
Your eyes spot a small knife, nestled between the coil of rope beneath the rigging, and you suddenly see a way out.
It bounces off a rib on your first try, and you can see the shock and betrayal written across his face, but you don't stop, your hand swinging again and again as the knife grows slippery with coppery-red smears until you can feel it bury itself into his chest all the way to the hilt.
"You - ungrateful - bitch -" he manages to choke out, each word sending a spray of blood into your face as he doubles over, clutching his stomach, but you've had enough of his words, and with one shove he goes sprawling over the edge of the boat, disappearing into the waves.
There's a brief sense of relief, as you let out the breath you've been holding for too many years. The wind feels cool against your face, and your hair is blowing loosely back, locks streaming in the wind, and the curls suddenly feel no longer like constricting snakes but like freedom. You don't mind having your hair down so much.
That's when the guilt and panic set in, because you're a murderer now and you killed him over a stupid argument about hair that didn't even matter anyways. You don't deserve to feel relieved because all he ever wanted was to care about you and you repaid him with a knife in the chest and now you're leaning over the water, tears falling in the waves almost as if you're willing him back from the murky depths to embrace you and comfort you, but this time that you're shaking and crying, there's no one there for you anymore.
You manage, somehow, to scrub the bloodstains from the deck and steer the ship back to shore before breaking down in a sobbing mess in front of the Peacekeepers that worked the docks. They ask you why you're crying, and the lie comes easily to your lips. He fell overboard in the storm, you say between hiccuping breaths, I reached my hand out to save him but it was too late...
You've had a lot of practice, after all, with sweet words and vulnerable expressions, and the overworked recruits barely spare you a second glance before writing off the case. He doesn't disappear from your mind so easily, his voice still whispering murderer, ingrate, silly girl at you even though you step through the gates of the community home for the second time with your head held high and your eyes fixed straight ahead. It's better to bear the guilt of a murderer, you tell yourself, than to live your whole life on eggshells, chained to his every whim.
On the good days, you can occasionally believe that's true.
Joselle Brookwater
eighteen. district four. female
As soon as you hear the heavy footsteps on the ship's deck, your stomach fills with dread. He's angry, again. He always seems to be angry, these days, and it's all you can do to appease him before he goes on another one of his outbursts.
You were stupid, to agree to go sailing with him, on one of those months he seemed to have changed, when you finally believed the two of you could be happy together. You're as airheaded and brainless as he always told you you were, and now he's angry that you've forgotten to pack his razor and steered the ship the wrong way and goddammit you're from district four you should know this stuff can't you get anything right.
No one else wanted you, after all. You were always a problem child, hanging around the lowlife of the District and getting into scrapes with the Peacekeepers. Wild red hair frames your prominent stormy gray eyes and unforgiving stare, thin eyebrows that perpetually told onlookers that you wouldn't take any of their shit. Your face is round and full though, cheekbones cushioned beneath a layer of baby fat, lips full and pulled into a slight smirk, an air of innocence about you as you bounced through the district, catching paint smears and grass stains on your shirt and letting the sea breeze draw your hair up in tangles.
That had been when you were young, though. Since your parents died when you were barely ten, you bounced around from foster home to foster home. You grew leaner and more despairing, baggy, dark clothing over freckled, tanned skin, ill-fitting just like how you felt in all of the different houses. Until, that day on the docks, you finally met him.
It was love at first sight as you stared into his dreamy gaze, and you talked for hours before he swept you up into your arms and promised he would always be there to take care of you. He was much older, and it was all that your skinny, undernourished fourteen-year-old self could do to refrain from crying on the spot because you finally saw an end to the hellish instability that had been your life for the past four years. And for the most part, that promise had held true. He was well-regarded in the district, and you had never lacked for food or shelter since then, gaining a healthy amount of curves in all the right places and growing into a tall, elegant young woman.
Despite that, though, there's still an empty feeling in your stomach, a gnawing anxiety that never seemed to go away. Once, you'd dreamed of being an artist, but you've stopped painting ever since he told you he hated your landscapes and you were too terrified to pick up a brush when you could hear him pacing around the house and knew he could barge into the room at any moment. The ones you once had you've burned, now; you were never any good at it anyways. But you're still one of the lucky ones, you remind yourself. There are those in the district working long, dangerous hours for little pay, and the least you can do is be grateful to him for taking you in.
The hatch creaks slowly as he steps out from beneath the deck, and you tense, expecting him to shout at you like he had earlier today. Instead, his voice is sweet, as though nothing had happened. "Hey, love, what are you thinking about?" You wait, afraid for the other shoe to drop.
"Nothing much, just looking at the sunset, that's all. Isn't it beautiful today?" You've perfected this dance, the soft words and ingenuous tone of voice, because thoughts are dangerous, especially thoughts of escape, especially thoughts that didn't include him in them. Where would you go, even if you did? Your parents are dead, you don't have any friends to speak of, and he would always be in the district, following you, watching you.
He looks pleased - you've passed his test once again - and lays his hand on top of yours, quieting their restless tapping. His face leans forward as he smashes his lips on top of yours, his hot breath, vaguely smelling like rum, swirling in your mouth.
His fingers run through your hair as he breaks free from the embrace and gazes straight into your eyes. "Mhm. Come on though, you need to wear your hair down. How many times have I told you, you look so much better when you're not sticking it in an ugly ponytail." And with a flick of his wrist, the hair tie sails over the edge of the ship, disappearing into the water below, and you can do nothing but smile and nod. The sea breeze whips the now-loose hair into your face, obscuring your vision and wrapping around your throat like the thick coils of a snake.
You would never be free, after all. After you survive the Reapings, the two of you would marry, and you would continue to live inside the house that had slowly become your prison. You seldom had reason to leave the house, except the rare days he took you to the town square to shop together. It would be everything you dreamed of as a kid, except the dream now felt more like a nightmare, and the nightmare is slowly coming true before your eyes.
And it's that thought that finally, finally makes you snap.
You grit your teeth, take a deep breath, and knock his hand away from your head. "I can do whatever the damn hell I want with my hair, all right?" you growl, and for a moment it's so silent you could hear the fish splashing in the water below. His face darkens.
"Whatever the damn hell," he mimics. "Don't you dare talk to me like that. I'm just trying to tell you" - he reaches backwards, gathering his own wind-swept hair with his hands and scowling for extra emphasis - "that this makes you look hideous. But if you want to seem like an old hag, be my guest."
"The only one I see calling me an old hag is you!"
"Oh, silly girl. Didn't you ever stop and think? Other people are just too polite to say such things out loud. It's only because I love you that I point out your flaws."
"I don't see what's wrong with -"
"You've always been too stubborn for your own good. If you truly don't care - if your sense of beauty is so skewed that you can't tell the difference between this" - he seizes your hair, grabbing it in fistfuls in his clenched hands - "and this - then do it for my sake! Because it is disrespectful to me that, as my girlfriend, you insist on wearing your hair like a common fishmonger!"
But you jerk free from his grasp, and he lunges for you again but this time instead of grabbing your hair his fingers close around your throat, and for those terrible moments you're convinced that he's finally decided to try and kill you, until he pulls his hands loose and lets go - no, that's not true, he did try to kill you, and you should thank him for having the restraint to stop himself - no, what are you thinking, since when did you thank your attempted murderer -
Your eyes spot a small knife, nestled between the coil of rope beneath the rigging, and you suddenly see a way out.
It bounces off a rib on your first try, and you can see the shock and betrayal written across his face, but you don't stop, your hand swinging again and again as the knife grows slippery with coppery-red smears until you can feel it bury itself into his chest all the way to the hilt.
"You - ungrateful - bitch -" he manages to choke out, each word sending a spray of blood into your face as he doubles over, clutching his stomach, but you've had enough of his words, and with one shove he goes sprawling over the edge of the boat, disappearing into the waves.
There's a brief sense of relief, as you let out the breath you've been holding for too many years. The wind feels cool against your face, and your hair is blowing loosely back, locks streaming in the wind, and the curls suddenly feel no longer like constricting snakes but like freedom. You don't mind having your hair down so much.
That's when the guilt and panic set in, because you're a murderer now and you killed him over a stupid argument about hair that didn't even matter anyways. You don't deserve to feel relieved because all he ever wanted was to care about you and you repaid him with a knife in the chest and now you're leaning over the water, tears falling in the waves almost as if you're willing him back from the murky depths to embrace you and comfort you, but this time that you're shaking and crying, there's no one there for you anymore.
You manage, somehow, to scrub the bloodstains from the deck and steer the ship back to shore before breaking down in a sobbing mess in front of the Peacekeepers that worked the docks. They ask you why you're crying, and the lie comes easily to your lips. He fell overboard in the storm, you say between hiccuping breaths, I reached my hand out to save him but it was too late...
You've had a lot of practice, after all, with sweet words and vulnerable expressions, and the overworked recruits barely spare you a second glance before writing off the case. He doesn't disappear from your mind so easily, his voice still whispering murderer, ingrate, silly girl at you even though you step through the gates of the community home for the second time with your head held high and your eyes fixed straight ahead. It's better to bear the guilt of a murderer, you tell yourself, than to live your whole life on eggshells, chained to his every whim.
On the good days, you can occasionally believe that's true.
