penelope marcet, district five | finished

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the glow of hollywood signs
they sold you a bridge, they fed you the lines
you always confused your servants for friends
but you couldn't see how it ends
it's all or nothing to you

She was a girl before she was a galaxy.

Just paper, origami folded against its will — and then finally ashes floating up to space; a supernova. Windows locked tight, she made her own stars to wish upon. Jumping from rooftops and painting her skin with the violet hues of the night sky she longed so desperately to touch. She wanted to be an artist, but her hands were always shaking to the point that she couldn't create anything. But she could destroy. All of her misery was self-wrought.

She grew up in a happy home with caring parents, but it was silent. Cold. She couldn't handle the static. She craved something louder. A roar of thunder and a flash of lightning. They could bury her burnt corpse in a quiet place if it made them feel any better. All she wanted was to live. Her mother swallowed her vitamins each morning and her father checked his blood pressure every other night, but they did it all while digging their graves.

What was the point in preparing yourself for an endless slumber when you could rage against it? Why keep yourself alive for so long, just to die such a lonely death? Where was the meaning in it? She wasn't keen on polishing a tombstone her whole life. She was fine with just dirt; a marker of sorts to let passersby know something rested beneath it all. No one needed her skeleton's name. Penelope Marcet's legacy was for the living, not the dead. As it should be.

No one stopped her when she ran away. Mama caught her in the act, looked her in the face and saw the betrayal as it was happening, but she didn't shed a tear. There was no reason to scold a storm for causing destruction. What else could it do? The woman held her daughter close and kissed her cheek. "Go find it," she had whispered. "Go find what you're missing, and don't look back." Penelope never did. She couldn't. There had to be a reason for running. She'd make one. A coward could be a hero depending on the tale.

Sad eyes and a pretty pair of lips, she had her fair share of men resting beneath her heels. All begging for the currency of her flesh, all offering something shinier than the last, and all with bad intentions at their disposal. But selling herself was not her tragedy; it was not her salvation. She rejected each one and danced through the streets without a house to call her own. That was fine. It would all be okay. Sneaking into clubs and hanging from the rafters for free drinks, she kept herself alive. Adrenaline was her saviour. It raised her to reach heights she never thought possible.

"Put a ladder between this building and the next. If I can walk across it, dinner's on you." They always wanted to know what was in it for them, and she'd always toss her head back with a sharp laugh. "I'll be dead if I lose the bet. I'd say that's a fair enough bargain." She never fell, and she never went hungry. Most of all, she learned not to regret her decision. Years spent burying their hopes and dreams under her skin, her parents never learned that the soil was hard and dead until it was too late. Penelope learned how to make the flowers grow. Poisonous — but alive. That was what mattered.

When the invitation came, her petals unfurled in all of their deadly glory. After so long of rejecting every offer that came her way, she felt intrigued by the contents of the letter. It referred to her as Penelope Marcet; not 'that girl at last night's party,' not 'the woman who walked in the clouds,' and not 'that beautiful face whose name I didn't bother to catch.' There was respect in every word, genuine interest, and she finally found herself pulled to the concept of teamwork; working as a whole and not as her own independent force. "It takes a village," people would hiss. She'd put her teeth on display, mocking all of their warnings.

"I just need myself."

Until losing her independence and lowering her walls became the better option, at least. The snake can shed her skin and become the hypocrite if it suits her. She tied her hair back with velvet ribbons and stole a satin dress. Formal attire was a requirement, so place the blame on their shoulders. Not hers. A hotel with a secret and a bouncer guarding the elevator at the farthest end of the hall — "Invited, or paying?" She'd never pay. A flash of the card in her hand made that clear, and the man stepped aside to allow her access. "Cirque d'Étoiles awaits you."

And it swallowed her. Sinking to the depths of the establishment, doors opening up to reveal a world that was hidden away from those who couldn't afford a glimpse. But wealth wasn't an issue if you had the ability to capture attention, was it? She watched the performances and felt her throat tighten, a genuine joy taking hold of her that matched only how she felt during her feats of reckless abandon. Men escaping from locked spaces and masked figures playing tricks on the mind. Women nearly drowned themselves in clear water and a handsome face tamed lions like nothing wild could ever escape his control. He caught her gaze for a second, but then the curtains came falling.

She clapped with a wide grin when all was over, and she remained sitting even after the audience poured out of their seats and returned to their normal lives at the end of the night. Following instructions was strange, but a business proposal was a peculiarity she wanted to become familiar with. She wanted to be the first street-rat to build her own wings, even if that meant asking for a little help. She'd finish what Icarus couldn't. A man came out of the shadows and carried them with him, obscuring his face and greeting her. He appraised her, questioned her and answered all of her own, and then he smiled sharply. He made his interest clear when a gloved hand was outstretched between them. "So, Angel, you wanna make a living out of those stunts you like to pull?"

The contract for her soul was signed without a care, and she began her training as an aerial acrobat the very next day. "This'll be your one chance," one of her mentors had warned. "No one stays long if the crowd doesn't like them." She furrowed her brow, wrapping silk around her arm and twisting her torso with an arch of her legs. Her stare asked what she was too busy focusing to say. 'Why's that?' And for the first time, someone laughed at her with a knowing smirk. Not the other way around. "Because if they don't applaud, your act gets cut. And then it'll be time for someone even prettier than you to pick up where you couldn't succeed. Second chances don't exist here."

A week later, she made her debut, and she was sure to give the attendants exactly what they wanted. An endless cycle of attractive women went through her position, each one withering and being replaced, but she made a vow to be the first to last; to do the impossible. With spinning limbs and an arched back, she was no more captivating than the rest, but there was something gritty about her. Something that made it seem like she was dancing with the devil each time she took the stage, making love at the gates of heaven with each inch she climbed higher. She was blasphemous, and she was dangerous, and they loved her. Roses were stacked on her vanity each morning, and there was always a new suitor to reject. Always a new wrinkle showing in her reflection that she would notice with a weary frown. It was the curse of fame, she supposed.

The undoing of a starlet.

---

She's been performing for nearly a year, and she's shown no signs of stopping. She's become a highlight act, a star performer with guaranteed applause, but there's still fear. Paranoia that each time she performs it could be her last. But she's learning how to love herself, fiercely; for when the inevitable comes. When they tire of her, or when she falls and breaks all of her bones — when the sun will come to put her back in her place. She had been so content with living a short life, existing in the moment and dying with a bright spark, that she never learned what her parents had been trying to teach her. To be happy isn't something that can be given by anyone else. No audience, no shadow man; no one but herself. She thinks, at times, that she should have listened to them. That she should have been content with all of the static. But she lit the flames, so she has to be okay with burning.

Years later, an invitation is sent to a couple with a missing piece of their whole — but try as Penelope might to spot them in the crowd the following night, there's only a sea of faces that she cannot name. No family to call her own. No parents that she had chosen to give up. And she hangs there as the music reaches its crescendo, listless and with tears in her eyes, but it's all theatrical. Every broken heart is the sacrifice for a good show, right? That's what her boss says. Reserved seats that go unfilled should be the least of her worries. But it's okay. It has to be. She wanted this. She doesn't need anyone. She never has.

She's a galaxy on her own now. It's her own fault for not realizing how quiet the stars actually are.

what did you do to my eyes?
what did you sing to that lonely child?
promised it all but you lied
you better slow down, baby, soon
it's all or nothing to you