danielle roche {nine} fin
Apr 2, 2017 22:07:29 GMT -5
Post by solo on Apr 2, 2017 22:07:29 GMT -5
( N A M E ) Danielle Roche
( G E N D E R ) Female
( A G E ) Eighteen
( D I S T R I C T ) Nine
( A P P E A R A N C E ) Ever since I was a child, I've been brittle as a leaf in the middle of autumn. Everything about me, my hair, my skin, my nails, my bones. It's all fragile and delicate, something you could break with the slightest tap. Step on me and you might here that satisfying crackle people seem to love. My skeleton, the pieces that hold me together, the structure that's meant to stay put, has snapped in two more times than I care to count. Sprains, fractures, joints popping out of place, I've had them all at one point or another. It's what most of our money went in to when I was younger.
Chicken-legs is what they call me in school, because they weren't intelligent enough to think of anything better. Still, it was a two-edged sword that cut my skin and hurt. Chicken because I avoided anything that involved physical exertion, legs because I was thin as a twig and tall as a tree. I stopped keeping track when I hit 5' 7" at the age of 14. I used to be obsessed with my weight, but not so much anymore. Mom kept telling me to eat more so I'd have better cushioning for "those nasty bones of mine". But I never liked eating all that much.
Mom's got nice, silvery hair that she can tie up and smooth out with ease, while mine is brown and wiry, easily tangled and difficult to get under control. My face is long and angular, like the rest of my body. Bones jut out at odd angles and the term grace seems to be a foreign concept to me. My eyes are some sort of pale blue-green, kind of like my Dad's, only his are full of laughter and wisdom. My parents have tried to convince me I'm beautiful, but the more they talk about it, the more I find myself not caring.
( P E R S O N A L I T Y ) The one thing I'd say I'm any good at is running. I've always been a good runner, I suppose because of my legs. I can run, and I can run fast. Mom never liked it, because the impact of my feet on the ground always seemed to rock my bone structure, and it wasn't unusual for me to come back with a sprained ankle or a joint out of place. It hurt, but it was worth it. The feeling of freedom, the thought that maybe, just maybe, if I moved fast enough, I could lift myself off the ground and fly away--that made the suffering become incomparably small.
I've always loved the idea of flying. Being able to soar above the clouds, weaving in and out of them, getting a peak of the earth far below me. I'd be untouchable. I wouldn't break because there would be nothing to break me. Clouds don't sever. Air doesn't crush. Everything turns into nothing, I am invincible to the world, and what used to hurt doesn't exist anymore. Or at least, that's how I imagine it would be.
Mom says I get lost in my imagination too much. She says I can get carried away with a single thought that becomes a thousand, that I can remove myself from this reality and go to another one that no one else seems to understand. I don't mind being alone there, really. In fact, I think I like it better that way. It would seem awfully crowded if my reality were to start receiving visitors. It's peaceful there, quiet, relaxing. I can ignore the names and the danger and everything I don't want to think about. I can wonder and question things that will never matter in this reality, and no one can tell me it's all for nothing.
I never liked having friends. They were too real, too tangible. I was always scared they'd end up breaking with me. So I kept myself away from them, learned to do things alone, tried to talk as little as I could. I like it that way. I don't have to worry about what's happening with them or what they're going through. I can keep to myself, read a good book, sit outside and count the ants on the sidewalk. It's not that I don't like talking to people. I just don't want to be the cause of another broken body.
( H I S T O R Y ) I don't think I was ever meant to be a part of this world. I'm from somewhere else, some distant planet where life is simple and the bad things don't happen. Mom and Dad have always promised me that this is where I'm meant to exist. But I'm not sure I've ever believed them.
I'm the only child in our family, I think because my parents never meant to have any in the first place. That's part of the reason I don't think I'm meant to be here. If they didn't want me, why was I brought into the world? And why do they pretend it's okay? Of course, I know they love me, and I know that to be true. It still doesn't mean they wanted me, and it doesn't justify my existence. I've always thought that the reason I break so easily is because I wasn't built for this reality.
My parents kept me at home for the duration of my younger years. Until I was old enough to start high school, I was told to stay near the house, to go out as little as possible, to be smart and keep myself safe. They never liked it when I was broken, so they tried to stop it from happening. I did my schoolwork at home and tried to keep up with the kids around me while never actually interacting with any of them. I was never allowed to go to the market, they never permitted me to help in the fields. I was to stay home and pretend I didn't exist. Sometimes, I can almost convince myself that it's true.
I've only ever climbed a tree once in my life. We don't have a whole lot of them here in Nine, mostly because the earth we have is taken up by wide-spread fields, reaching as far as the eye can see. But we do have a few. My parents had one in our front yard, a little birch with peeling bark and leaves that turned yellow in the fall. I waited till they had left for work, and when I was certain I was alone, I ran outside and scaled my way up the trunk. I was surprisingly good, for a girl who hadn't climbed a tree before. What I didn't realize was that the branches were just as brittle as my own framework. I heard it crack, saw the wood splintering, felt the anxiety when I know I'm about to break again. The branch snapped in two, I tumbled down to earth, and I fractured three different bones. I was confined to my room for weeks, and when I cam out finally, the tree wasn't there anymore.
( G E N D E R ) Female
( A G E ) Eighteen
( D I S T R I C T ) Nine
( A P P E A R A N C E ) Ever since I was a child, I've been brittle as a leaf in the middle of autumn. Everything about me, my hair, my skin, my nails, my bones. It's all fragile and delicate, something you could break with the slightest tap. Step on me and you might here that satisfying crackle people seem to love. My skeleton, the pieces that hold me together, the structure that's meant to stay put, has snapped in two more times than I care to count. Sprains, fractures, joints popping out of place, I've had them all at one point or another. It's what most of our money went in to when I was younger.
Chicken-legs is what they call me in school, because they weren't intelligent enough to think of anything better. Still, it was a two-edged sword that cut my skin and hurt. Chicken because I avoided anything that involved physical exertion, legs because I was thin as a twig and tall as a tree. I stopped keeping track when I hit 5' 7" at the age of 14. I used to be obsessed with my weight, but not so much anymore. Mom kept telling me to eat more so I'd have better cushioning for "those nasty bones of mine". But I never liked eating all that much.
Mom's got nice, silvery hair that she can tie up and smooth out with ease, while mine is brown and wiry, easily tangled and difficult to get under control. My face is long and angular, like the rest of my body. Bones jut out at odd angles and the term grace seems to be a foreign concept to me. My eyes are some sort of pale blue-green, kind of like my Dad's, only his are full of laughter and wisdom. My parents have tried to convince me I'm beautiful, but the more they talk about it, the more I find myself not caring.
( P E R S O N A L I T Y ) The one thing I'd say I'm any good at is running. I've always been a good runner, I suppose because of my legs. I can run, and I can run fast. Mom never liked it, because the impact of my feet on the ground always seemed to rock my bone structure, and it wasn't unusual for me to come back with a sprained ankle or a joint out of place. It hurt, but it was worth it. The feeling of freedom, the thought that maybe, just maybe, if I moved fast enough, I could lift myself off the ground and fly away--that made the suffering become incomparably small.
I've always loved the idea of flying. Being able to soar above the clouds, weaving in and out of them, getting a peak of the earth far below me. I'd be untouchable. I wouldn't break because there would be nothing to break me. Clouds don't sever. Air doesn't crush. Everything turns into nothing, I am invincible to the world, and what used to hurt doesn't exist anymore. Or at least, that's how I imagine it would be.
Mom says I get lost in my imagination too much. She says I can get carried away with a single thought that becomes a thousand, that I can remove myself from this reality and go to another one that no one else seems to understand. I don't mind being alone there, really. In fact, I think I like it better that way. It would seem awfully crowded if my reality were to start receiving visitors. It's peaceful there, quiet, relaxing. I can ignore the names and the danger and everything I don't want to think about. I can wonder and question things that will never matter in this reality, and no one can tell me it's all for nothing.
I never liked having friends. They were too real, too tangible. I was always scared they'd end up breaking with me. So I kept myself away from them, learned to do things alone, tried to talk as little as I could. I like it that way. I don't have to worry about what's happening with them or what they're going through. I can keep to myself, read a good book, sit outside and count the ants on the sidewalk. It's not that I don't like talking to people. I just don't want to be the cause of another broken body.
( H I S T O R Y ) I don't think I was ever meant to be a part of this world. I'm from somewhere else, some distant planet where life is simple and the bad things don't happen. Mom and Dad have always promised me that this is where I'm meant to exist. But I'm not sure I've ever believed them.
I'm the only child in our family, I think because my parents never meant to have any in the first place. That's part of the reason I don't think I'm meant to be here. If they didn't want me, why was I brought into the world? And why do they pretend it's okay? Of course, I know they love me, and I know that to be true. It still doesn't mean they wanted me, and it doesn't justify my existence. I've always thought that the reason I break so easily is because I wasn't built for this reality.
My parents kept me at home for the duration of my younger years. Until I was old enough to start high school, I was told to stay near the house, to go out as little as possible, to be smart and keep myself safe. They never liked it when I was broken, so they tried to stop it from happening. I did my schoolwork at home and tried to keep up with the kids around me while never actually interacting with any of them. I was never allowed to go to the market, they never permitted me to help in the fields. I was to stay home and pretend I didn't exist. Sometimes, I can almost convince myself that it's true.
I've only ever climbed a tree once in my life. We don't have a whole lot of them here in Nine, mostly because the earth we have is taken up by wide-spread fields, reaching as far as the eye can see. But we do have a few. My parents had one in our front yard, a little birch with peeling bark and leaves that turned yellow in the fall. I waited till they had left for work, and when I was certain I was alone, I ran outside and scaled my way up the trunk. I was surprisingly good, for a girl who hadn't climbed a tree before. What I didn't realize was that the branches were just as brittle as my own framework. I heard it crack, saw the wood splintering, felt the anxiety when I know I'm about to break again. The branch snapped in two, I tumbled down to earth, and I fractured three different bones. I was confined to my room for weeks, and when I cam out finally, the tree wasn't there anymore.
