Seeing color (onyx)

Chevi
Merchant

175 POSTS

last seen Oct 31, 2017 3:32:02 GMT -5

Seeing color (onyx) Mar 17, 2016 15:58:52 GMT -5

Post by Chevi on Mar 17, 2016 15:58:52 GMT -5

Bea Button
Words keep people warm

Bea reached into the basket to pet the soft rolls of yarn with a certain pride. While the colorful bundles were mostly her mother's work, she also helped a lot in creating them - tended to the sheep, collected the wool at the shearing, helped to clean and comb and spin (she was still learning, and since they only had one spinning wheel she mostly had to stand by and watch - Mother didn't let her practice on the valuable fluff), and helped roll the yarn into balls by color once it was properly dyed and dried. The vibrant colors and soft texture were as much the result of her own work as they were the family's, and she hoped that one day she'd be making them on her own.
Skipping down the road she turned on the street where the nice houses were. She was making a delivery today, to one of the wealthy families. She had put on her nice clothes for the occasion (which meant they barely had any colorful dye stains at all), and the chilly spring air made her cheeks pink by the time she made it to the correct address. Hoisting the basket on her arm, she paused for a moment, then reached out to knock on the door.

Thanks Kire for the template!

Hello, I'm your friendly neighborhood researcher

Onyx
Capitol Resident

1,169 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her
last seen Jan 3, 2023 15:20:14 GMT -5

in between somewhere and nowhere

Seeing color (onyx) Mar 19, 2016 12:00:10 GMT -5

Post by Onyx on Mar 19, 2016 12:00:10 GMT -5

“is anything as strange as a normal person?”

ELENA EBOWE - EIGHTEEN - DISTRICT EIGHT

I haven't spoken to my mother in almost two weeks.

When I see her, it's as briefly as spotting a comet in the night sky. The door of her office creaks open, the cracking of the hinges sounding like taunting laughter. Then, I hear the light shuffle of her bare feet move from that room into the kitchen, their bedroom or my father's office. I spot a whisper of her auburn hair, maybe the swishing tail of her night dress, and then she's gone again, back to her books, or on the telephone to the Mayor, or organising a seminar for Capitol representatives, writing Panem a history. For whatever reason - one I know I can never ask for - my mother's work load has increased recently. Perhaps people have started to ask questions. I know I would. I sometimes feel sorry for her. If there's even one plothole in the accounts of our country's glorious past, father and I could lose her forever. Hatefully, I sometimes catch myself musing that for pandering to the Capitol, truthfully or not, she might deserve it.

At least her being so busy with work means I can get away with more interaction with the outside world. It's almost never my own overactive brain which prevents me from communicating with normal people, but the guilt my parents put on me which sends a blinding stream of discipline-associated images - {candle, robed lady, sword} - in front of my eyes. Today, in defiance, I've decided to create and, more importantly, seek resources externally. Yesterday, I met a woman who makes curtains, and bought fabric; thick, purple sheets that shone like fish skin. Today, I intend to buy yarn to match. I admire the salespeople who carry and deliver door to door, especially in more sophisticated areas like my neighbourhood (how Rene would hate me being so humble about my wealth). I can only imagine it must be humiliating to be paraded as a worker in front of people who can, like my mother, afford to spend days at home, working only when she chooses and living how she likes. Perhaps it's wrong for me to think so... haughtily. I know it is. Nevertheless, I've been nurtured into preferring my lifestyle. And when I'm not chasing Rene, the street-rat who intrigues me and plagues my mind with {snake} constantly, I prefer to surround myself with comfort. Wealth.

When the door knocks, excited images spiral up my body like ribbons. I skip down the stairs, acting half my age, and as I pass my mother's study I hear pages turning and a wheezing cough, but the entrance remains firmly barred. With one hand I unhook the chain from our large front door, and swing it back, letting bright daylight throw itself onto my feet. My eyes take a minute to adjust to the sudden change in exposure, a dull headache beginning to form like a stormcloud at the front of my brain. When the fog clears, I regard the girl in front of me, basket of threads on her arm.

She has a warm, round face, and a bright smile. Her hair is darker than mine but with the same red tints, and there's a softness to her which immediately makes me feel safe, something I don't take for granted. I decide that I like her already, and greet her with a gentle smile. "Hello," my voice is calm and, I hope, welcoming, "I'm Elena." The sound of my own name triggers a flurry of referential images in my mind, as if my synesthaetic alter-ego has suddenly realised that's me! that's me! Mentally, I brush the symbols away and focus on the person in front of me. The basket of yarn is practically overflowing, and she holds it protectively, like a baby or a young animal. It would be a shame to end my encounter with a new person so quickly, I think, marveling at how deprived of human contact I've recently been. And yet, I have to confess the truth in it, and further than that, combat it. I resolve myself to this, and add, "would you like to come in?"

Words: 691 Tagged: Chevi

Notes: hey, welcome again! I hope you enjoy!

© delusional

Last Edit: Apr 28, 2016 5:14:05 GMT -5 by Onyx

someday we'll be drinking with the seldom seen kid

Chevi
Merchant

175 POSTS

last seen Oct 31, 2017 3:32:02 GMT -5

Seeing color (onyx) Mar 20, 2016 10:49:31 GMT -5

Post by Chevi on Mar 20, 2016 10:49:31 GMT -5

Bea Button
Words keep people warm

The girl that opens the door is sooo... pretty! Why is it that rich people always look so pretty? Everyone in the Capitol... So many colors, so much beauty. I always wanted to ask, but there is no one to ask. My brothers make jokes about hot chicks, and my parents tell me I have better things to do... I never had a rich friend. They tell me I am not supposed to.
"Hello. I'm Elena. Would you like to come in?"
What? Oh. I have been staring, haven't I? I have the yarn to deliver, and... Come in? Am I supposed to? Is it rude if I say no? I do want to go in. I always wondered what these houses look like on the inside, and she seems friendly. Maybe I'll go in, just a little.
Manners. Mom told me not to forget my manners.
"Hello! My name is Bea. Bea Button. I have your yarn delivery... And yes, thank you, it's a little chilly out here..."

Thanks Kire for the template!

Hello, I'm your friendly neighborhood researcher

Onyx
Capitol Resident

1,169 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her
last seen Jan 3, 2023 15:20:14 GMT -5

in between somewhere and nowhere

Seeing color (onyx) Mar 22, 2016 8:04:22 GMT -5

Post by Onyx on Mar 22, 2016 8:04:22 GMT -5

“is anything as strange as a normal person?”

ELENA EBOWE - EIGHTEEN - DISTICT EIGHT

I step to one side, ushering the newly introduced Bea into my house. Her name, like her voice, conjures light, merry images in my head; {bird; moon; angel}. I don’t regard the girl as being necessarily memorable, and so I wave them out of my mind like I would a cobweb from a doorway.

The hallway is long, with doors to the kitchen and my parents’ studies on either side, and a worn red rug lies prone under our feet, as if it’s prostrating itself. Although I know Bea couldn’t notice, I can instantly spot all the marks which mark points of my arguments with my parents, and my moments of insanity as sensory overload or stress drive me into a blind panic. There’s dark smudges on the white walls from my fingers, covered in paint, or dirt from the Capitol truck which I run away from so hurriedly after my bi-annual check-ups. Splintering wood runs up several of the bannister beams where I have knocked into them as I’ve fallen down the stairs in the middle of a panic, or have kicked them on purpose in frustration at myself or someone else. Seeing them with someone else’s view in mind, I begin to feel my cheeks grow hot with shame. I know how childish I can be, when living gets hard, but I also know that I deserve to be allowed to be frustrated, in a way no one else ever could.

As we reach the bottom of the stairs, where around the corner the passageway leads on to the dining room and lounge, I turn to Bea and open my arms in a welcoming shrug. ”This is it, I guess”, I say dismissively, and instantly regret it. I know I must have so much more of a home than this girl, and I am doing her a great injustice by disregarding my privilege. Studying her face, I look for any sign of hurt or discomfort, and although her smile seems firmly intact her eyes seem to tell a different story. Hopefully I’m just misinterpreting her expression? I hazard, but feeling of intense guilt, and all the images they bring with, have already started to form in my stomach.

I reach for the bannister and grip it as I wait for the emotional flurry to pass. My eyes close lightly and my free hand goes to my temples. ”Sorry,” I excuse myself, ”just a headache.” Reopening my eyes to regard my guest again, I force a smile onto my lips. I’m grateful for this girl’s company and don’t want to lose it by pushing her away, so I ask, ”would you like to see my room?” If she’s as enthusiastic about textiles as she is about the materials that form the discipline, showing her what I’ve been making is sure to dissipate the tension I feel I must have just caused.

Words: 482 Tagged: Chevi

Notes: sorry this one is a little shorter, but I have an ideeaa~

© delusional

Last Edit: Mar 22, 2016 8:07:07 GMT -5 by Onyx

someday we'll be drinking with the seldom seen kid

Chevi
Merchant

175 POSTS

last seen Oct 31, 2017 3:32:02 GMT -5

Seeing color (onyx) Mar 22, 2016 22:41:33 GMT -5

Post by Chevi on Mar 22, 2016 22:41:33 GMT -5

Bea Button
Words keep people warm

I follow the girl inside the house. It is a large house. I expected it to be. It is not as shiny and fancy as I imagine the Capitol houses to be... but it is bigger than I've ever been to, and a lot more quiet. Between my parents, my brothers, the sheep, and the constant work, our house is rarely ever completely quiet.
I think I am staring. I must be, trying to take it all in and admire the wood and the carpet and the... she looks at me funny and I feel my cheeks turn pink.
”This is it, I guess... Sorry... just a headache. Would you like to see my room?”
A headache? Poor girl. Maybe she needs to lie down? She seems to be okay, or at least pretends to be, and I really am curious about her room. Maybe it's good for her to be in her room, if she is dizzy and having headaches.
"Yes, I would love to." I nod with a smile and follow her. She was just supposed to pay for the yarn, because customers don't usually invite me in, but now I am here, and I don't mind. I like making friends.
"What do you use all the rooms for?" I venture "Do you have siblings?"

Thanks Kire for the template!

Hello, I'm your friendly neighborhood researcher

Onyx
Capitol Resident

1,169 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her
last seen Jan 3, 2023 15:20:14 GMT -5

in between somewhere and nowhere

Seeing color (onyx) Mar 28, 2016 8:25:12 GMT -5

Post by Onyx on Mar 28, 2016 8:25:12 GMT -5

“is anything as strange as a normal person?”

ELENA EBOWE - EIGHTEEN - DISTrICT EIGHT

We reach the upper landing and pause, allowing Bea a moment to look around her and take in the house. From up here, the structure feels as fragile as a human skeleton, and if the wind which playfully rubs up against its walls might knock it over at any second. A small cloud of dust puffs from the ceiling into the space between us two, and I hold my breath until it passes to keep from coughing. Coughing, sneezing, hiccuping; anything which may make my brain think that I'm dying, is a dangerous trigger for my hallucinations. My defense mechanisms are clearly seriously out of tune - they blind and deafen me, leaving me confused and, indeed, defenseless. Could anything save my life in a crisis, when sometimes I can't even save myself?

Bea peers at the closed doors which line the halls in wonderment that I haven't seen in a long time - only in photos of myself as a child, when I still saw myself as a superhero, and not as ill, and so did my parents. What does my father think of me? I wonder. There are weeks when I see him even less frequently than my mother - his guard operations have taken him further and further from our edge of the Dsitrict. Although he never completed his Peacekeeper training - not able to leave his family, which I have always appreciated - he has enough of the skills for the Mayor to put him on guard and supervision duties in the most chaotic, rebellious areas of our city. He might not be able to dole out punishments, but he is still large enough, with his heavy brow an grim-set features, to intimidate the more naive miscreants into changing their minds about what they've planned to do.

I hear my mother open her study door downstairs, and hurriedly usher Bea along towards my room. Without knowing what sort of mood my mother is in, it would be a bad idea to let her know I've brought a stranger into her house. "What do you use all the rooms for?" she asks, but I hush her and gesture to my room. Softer now, Bea continues, "do you have siblings?" Out of the corner of my eye, I glance my mothers pale foot emerge from the doorway of her study, and I grasp Bea's wrist and yank her into my bedroom. "Sorry," I excuse, "my mother's fairly tightly wound at the moment." Like a demonic jack-in-the-box, I muse, but don't say it out loud. I close the door to my room firmly, and press my worn rug against the gap at the bottom to prevent a draught stretching in. From behind it, I her my mother call, softly but threateningly, "Elena, is that you?" I ignore it, and smile at Bea.

"No, no siblings. Most of the rooms are for storage," I explain, without going into too much detail. It wouldn't be good to let my guest know that one room is full of highly confidential maps and books from the Old World, references for what my mother should include in her government-approved history books. Or what she should exclude. And, I know, it certainly wouldn't be wise to describe the room that extends to the side of my parent's bedroom, which is full of ammunition and personnel-grade guns and tazers. Nothing in there is as severe as a Peacekeeper's barbed whip or as deadly as the electrified fence that runs around the District boundary, but the presence of the weapons in the room are enough to keep us safe from anyone who might bear a grudge against either of my influential parents. Though who would want to harm a Capitol pet, rather than going straight to the source? I'd need to be as paranoid as my father to answer that question, but I still can see the sense behind having some sort of protection.

Gesturing to the bed, I offer my guest a seat. "May I see the threads? They have to match this..." I turn to my armoire, old and large and polished, its gleaming chestnut colour in contrast to the white and pale green that the rest of my room is painted in, and pull the door open, reaching in to pull out the beginnings of my creation while still facing Bea. She still looks as excited as ever, and I feel supported by her warmth, as if she truly believes that I can finish the project that I've started, and that I'm so wonderfully talented for doing so. However, when I see a frown begin to descend on her brow like a midnight fog, the feeling leaves me, and instead I am confused and a little scared.

I look down at the fabric which I hold in my hands, spread on display to my guest, and suddenly I realise the source of her puzzlement. What was once the panels of a dress, in beautiful shining violet fabric, tacked together deftly by my own hands, now hangs from the wire in shreds. The full skirt is limp and greasy-looking, individual strands of the woven cloth hanging down like witch's hair. The shoulders and hips appear to be dirtied by some sort of dust or dirt. It's ruined beyond repair. I turn the dress to myself and stare at it again, horrified. Buzzing images of panic play at the edges of my vision like crawling insects. "How..." I manage, my voice shaky and hoarse. I have forgotten Bea, looking only at the terrible damage done to my creation. I cough out a sob, and a moan of despair begin to form low in my throat. I'm not sad, though - I'm hatefully angry, and afraid. Who could have done this to me, and why? It could only have happened overnight, when I was lying in bed, in a deep sleep. dreaming vividly of running and fighting unseen foes. I woke up sweating, my heart racing with fear and adrenaline...

But what if I wasn't asleep? What if, in a haze caused by my hallucinations, my dreams were just a way of rationalising an energetic night I couldn''t remember? As my groan increases in volume, and I fall to my knees, holding the broken shreds of that beautiful fishscale fabric to my chest, I think, horrified: Could I have done this to myself?

Words: 1059 Tagged: Chevi
Notes: sorry for the delay

Last Edit: Mar 28, 2016 8:25:57 GMT -5 by Onyx

someday we'll be drinking with the seldom seen kid

Chevi
Merchant

175 POSTS

last seen Oct 31, 2017 3:32:02 GMT -5

Seeing color (onyx) Mar 29, 2016 20:37:27 GMT -5

Post by Chevi on Mar 29, 2016 20:37:27 GMT -5

Bea Button
Words keep people warm

She ushers me into a room as a lady comes out of a study and calls her name. Is it her mother? Are we in trouble? Am I supposed to be in here? I don't want to get into trouble in a house like this. I am pretty sure Mom would be angry if she knew I came in. We don't usually mix with rich people. I feel a little self-conscious as Elena pulls me into her room.
"Sorry... my mother's fairly tightly wound at the moment. No, no siblings. Most of the rooms are for storage... May I see the threads? They have to match this..."
Storage? How can people have so much stuff that they need entire rooms to store it? It is unfathomable to me. Sure, we have things like wool and work tools at home, but having such a large mansion, with rooms, and hallways, and then filling it with stuff... it sounds like a fairy tale to me. Rooms filled with gold.
I am pretty sure I am not supposed to be in here.

She opens a closet to show me what she needed the threads for. I hope I have the right colors. And quality. It would be bad if I went home without getting the delivery accepted...

The dress... is not much to look at. It's in shreds. I am not sure if she wants to fix it up, but even to my knowledge about sewing, which is nearly none, it seems kind of beyond repair. It is still pretty, though, the color and the fabric. It would have been very beautiful in its full state.

Elena is shaking. She looks upset. Did she not know the dress looked like this? Maybe she things I think she's dumb, for wanting to fix it. I don't think it's dumb. Maybe the dress is important to her... But then she falls to her knees and looks like she is about to cry.

Oh no.

I put my basket aside and slide off the bed to wrap my arms around her, by knitted shawl covering her shoulders as I give her a warm hug. Hugs make things better. That is one of the few facts of life I know for certain.

"I'm sorry... Shhh. It's okay. Don't cry."

Thanks Kire for the template!

Hello, I'm your friendly neighborhood researcher

Onyx
Capitol Resident

1,169 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her
last seen Jan 3, 2023 15:20:14 GMT -5

in between somewhere and nowhere

Seeing color (onyx) Apr 28, 2016 6:04:04 GMT -5

Post by Onyx on Apr 28, 2016 6:04:04 GMT -5

“is anything as strange as a normal person?”

ELENA EBOWE - EIGHTEEN - DISTRICT EIGHT

The hopelessness rises in my stomach like a wave, salty and metallic, as I clutch the shredded dress to my chest. Bea's hands are comforting like small, warm patches of sunlight on my shoulders. I can tell how much my body must be shaking by how still she holds herself. Nausea threatens to overcome me, bubbling cold in my throat and my head. Even the symbols which blind me do no more damage than the ringing anger in my ears and the blurriness of my tear-filled vision.

I try to make eye contact with Bea - Bea, a force of hope and joy if ever I met one - and I can't even find her with my narrowed, panicked breadth of sight. Instead I let my eyes fix on a point dead ahead of me, which must be the large veiled window although all I can make out is one hazy patch that's brighter than the rest. When I speak to Bea again, my voice still isn't level, but is toneless. "I need you to go." I can feel her fingers dig in to my shoulders briefly, lightly, a clear sign of her surprise. Hastily and nasally, I add, "I- I'm sorry... I'm so sorry." I struggle to stand, shrugging off the shawl that Bea has caringly thrown over my shoulders. How can I mistreat her so?

My legs feel like blades of grass, trying to support the load of a body weighed down by new grief, as I stagger over to the table by my bed. I drop the shreds of dress onto the bedspread, not ever daring to look at them, and open the small drawer in the side table. "Here," I hold out the two coins I have found there to Bea, "please, take them." With fingers now wet from wiping my eyes, I close Bea's own fingers around the coins, closing them tightly in her fist. Then, with urgency, I usher her out of my bedroom. When we reach the top of the stairs, I stop. I can't let my mother see me like this. Looking down to the front door, it's like there's an age of walking between here and there. "Can you, um, go down by yourself?" Not being able to explain why sends a flare of negative signals though my head, but I know that the humiliation of telling the truth - I'm afraid of my mother, and more afraid of myself - would make it worse.

My thoughts are filled with confusion and fear as Bea nods slightly and begins to head down the stairs. How could I have done this? I try to remember back to the previous night, but everything before waking up this morning to the doorbell ringing is dim and incomprehensible. It's almost as if a second person occupied my body. I could never be so savage, particularly not to something I cared about so much... could I? I think again of times in the past - kicking out one of the banister railings in a fit of rage at my parents, finding abandoned houses to break the windows and doors of when I lost patience with my own recovery, tearing wires and electrodes off my own body during one of my checkups when the pressure became too much...

And then I think of Rene. Rene to me was like a project. The impatience I felt at him wasn't painful or infuriating, but determined. And, beyond that, Rene was someone as fucked up as I felt. I wasn't embarrassed to let him know that. Bea, on the other hand, is far kinder than Rene, but in an almost shameful way. I'm here, watching her descend the stairs without me, because I'm embarrassed to not be all good like she is - and I know that that's the truth. Remembering the shreds of the dress, something I was excited to show her because she would be excited too, leaves my mouth bitter and dry. It's good that she's leaving. I can't bear feeling like this.

As the door clicks shut behind her, my mother called "Elena?" once as the house falls silent again, my panic begins to subside. In its place I'm left with a neutral ache. My face is straight and my hallucinations settle to nothingness once again. I now know three new things.

The first is that there is something new that is terribly, deeply wrong with me.
The second is that, if I ever want to get better, I will have to go through the humiliation of explaining it not only to the doctors, but to my mother.
The third is that, in order to survive between today and that point, without going insane, I have to find Rene.

someday we'll be drinking with the seldom seen kid