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read all about it | kieran/ellerie ⋆·✵
Nov 6, 2016 9:44:23 GMT -5
Post by d4 tati pelotte [azalea] on Nov 6, 2016 9:44:23 GMT -5
I'd once thought that being iron meant being unbreakable. There was more that tied to me to Leticia and Noelia; we were united by blood but found pride in sisterhood. A shoulder to cry on, open arms to run to; I was swallowed whole by the calling of my own name, and once it was called, I was erased.
No longer a girl or sister—only a memory. I now stand alone in the storm with the expectation that death eliminates weakness and sows a seed of growth. It is assumed that I must learn from their mistakes and rise above the tears and brokenhearted feelings which have become my home.
But no two stories are the same, so I find ghosts in myself. And it feels like I have been caught in a cold shower and kept there for eternity, like I have been soaked through with ice, cutting out the warmth and good like it has no place inside me. Blood ties you to a murderous depiction of your name, and when Noelia killed the young boy from Two, I felt my heart sink.
Because in this world, killing equates to strength. And though some see it as a compliment, I cannot bring myself to force resiliency and see beauty in cruelty. My sisters longed for a good life only found within one another: to help, to heal and to save. Born into a game of survival, they forced themselves to wear family like love and be angels of light.
And I see it, I understand how strength sounds like a good thing, but when you believe in service and not servitude, it hurts.
Similarities can be drawn from my experience to countless of others in Ten alone. Notably, the nobility who wear cardboard crowns assuming they will last a lifetime, but this year proved that the untouchable are, in fact, touchable.
Running the roads of freedom would eventually lead Saffron Lowe into a dead end, and when Myara Lowe graced the stage like a lost calf, the Lowe reign came to an end. The calling of her name set the cardboard crown alight, and ashes quickly became an impossible puzzle to piece back together. On the second day, I watched as all the petals were picked from her flower.
She was going to make it—not.
A new victor has been crowned and it is not Myara Lowe, and so the power falls back to the Emberstatt family.
The boy is my age, I see him and realise that at fourteen, the only rain he's ever felt is from the sky. Never ripped, only torn, he doesn't know how it feels to be shredded and question whether or not you still exist. He will never understand the emotions you feel when you read a dead person's diary to try and figure out how they wish to be laid to rest.
Kieran Emberstatt doesn't know. And though our stories are the same in some respects, they are just words on a page. Nothing more, nothing less. He doesn't know, feel or understand self-infliction of emotional pain and I hope that he never has to.
For his sake.
He stands like a cut-out piece of the night. Surrounded by an aura of mystery, I am drawn to the darkness he embodies. Except, I don't know if that is what it really is, and whether I'm pulled by a sick bond that would never be enough to keep us together.
But I stand here alone, my only company: the corpses on my shoulders and voices in my head. They whisper into my ear and there is nothing I can do—it is the only card I have to play.
Perhaps if Leticia or Noelia was here, I'd still be in the garden with dirty knees, wielding a plank of wood like a sword. An unbreakable imagination was cracked two years ago and I am left with cold replays of rising only to make the fall further.
"Kieran," I say, closed eyed, and with a clear heart.
"I don't know the difference between happy and sad any more, and I think that, maybe, you can help me."
Pulse as a headache, the words I speak are heavy. Voice like angels of the past but I sing the devil's song, and I hope that it is Kieran's favourite.
