Linda Shane// D6// FIN
Mar 6, 2018 8:48:02 GMT -5
Post by Unitato15 on Mar 6, 2018 8:48:02 GMT -5
Name: Linda Shane
District: 6
Age: 18
Fc: Kate Micucci
I replace my thoughts and hopes and broken dreams with the quiet loudness that is a high. I snort and I inject and I smoke, all of the needless, pointless feeling leaving my body as I do. Not at the same time of course, the stink hasn't affected me that much. I tend to just pick a poison based on availability. Today's pleasurable infection involves injection.
Breathing in and breathing out, my body smiles and shivers. I'm nothing but an entity watching over this mortal realm. A being of photons and oxygen that doesn't float but rather lie between the fabric of reality. A light show plays behind my eyes, a welcome retreat from the same old sob story I've been facing for years. The high over time slowly fades, bringing me back and closer to the stinging bees that reside within my mind.
The hunger for a hiding place has also faded, but I know that it is only for the moment. It's only a matter of time before the void calls to me once more and I stick that needle right back into my flesh. Blood only leaves my body when I allow it to and maybe now is one of those moments. I look to my flesh for the drop of blood that sometimes leaks from the opening the syringe creates.
The little crimson pool rises to the surface and I exhale a little longer than normal. The desk drawer dully squeals as it's opened. I always make sure to keep bandaids in my desk for the kids who come in to read. Even in a library the little shits manage to injure themselves . At least, that's what I tell people anyway. Can't have any of my loyal customers finding out that their friendly neighborhood librarian gives herself the heavy stuff every day. And uses little bitch bandaids to hide the evidence.
I pull down my sleeve, throw the used syringe in the black trash bag to my left (I don't worry about being caught, no one ever questions syringes around here, what with all the shrinks and all).
Hey now, I know what you're thinking. "What's a lil bitch like you doing injecting that shit during library hours?"
Well, honey, the library isn't really open right now so I'm not really sure exactly what your fucking problem is? Ok fine, maybe that's not your point. Sigh. Whatever. It's not like anyone really visits this Ripredforsaken shithole. I mean, why would they? We don't exactly live in a free information sort of society. My hunger for knowledge is barely even partially satisfied.
My mom always did say that I have an addictive personality but, I thought she was just being cute. Nah, turns out I'd get addicted to random shit all the time or whatever. Guess that's why I'm here.
Now you might be asking me how and why I even have a job. The answer is: I'm good at what I do. Books were my first addiction. And I have never been able to give them up. Even when my blood would run hot with painkilling substances I could still make time for a lil literary r&r.
I've always been more interested in the words on a page than the bones in a body, and I suppose that's been my downfall. The only job I've felt connected to in this town, is the one I'm in now. For better or for worse, I guess I've at least found myself.
As hard as my parents pushed, I knew I could never be as good with my hands as they, that I could never mend a body like I can mend a bookshelf or a frayed page. Its not like I kept that hidden from them. My stubborn ass would deliberately fail those medical tests in school.
Every time I'd fail my mom'd try to "talk sense into me" and every time that failed, she'd tell me I could at least work to be a trophy wife. I'd always laugh in her face. Me? A trophy wife? I was a 4'8" 14 year old with pig tails and body acne. Who was she trying to fool?
I mean sure, I've improved since then but BARELY. My pigtails gave way to an ugly little swoosh, my tits just kinda chilled at the same size they've been since junior high and my acne's been replaced by injection scars. Even with my big brown eyes and soft lopsided smile, my tiny ass would be a participation trophy at best.
I still can't believe they've never pushed me to the games. I'm smart, good at hiding and I'm not afraid of blood. Sure I can't fight and I'm only moderately fast but people have won with less. I mean, it's not like my parents've ever been opposed to the games. And I'm sure they'd take the victor money. My only theory for why they might never have mentioned it is that by the time I'd gotten old enough to have a strong chance of being reaped they'd already given up on me.
My mother hasn't talked to me since my 17th birthday and my father's always working. The fuckers still let me live in their house, but they act like I'm not there. I'm just a drug addicted ghost, haunting the land of fuckheads, working at the library of getting fucked up.
My drug dealer say I'm a firecracker but he doesn't know me high. On a good day I'm pissy and sarcastic. On a bad day....watch the fuck out. I wouldn't call myself a hothead exactly, just someone who doesn't take shit and let's be real, in a pretentious place like this, everybody's a shit.
District: 6
Age: 18
Fc: Kate Micucci
I replace my thoughts and hopes and broken dreams with the quiet loudness that is a high. I snort and I inject and I smoke, all of the needless, pointless feeling leaving my body as I do. Not at the same time of course, the stink hasn't affected me that much. I tend to just pick a poison based on availability. Today's pleasurable infection involves injection.
Breathing in and breathing out, my body smiles and shivers. I'm nothing but an entity watching over this mortal realm. A being of photons and oxygen that doesn't float but rather lie between the fabric of reality. A light show plays behind my eyes, a welcome retreat from the same old sob story I've been facing for years. The high over time slowly fades, bringing me back and closer to the stinging bees that reside within my mind.
The hunger for a hiding place has also faded, but I know that it is only for the moment. It's only a matter of time before the void calls to me once more and I stick that needle right back into my flesh. Blood only leaves my body when I allow it to and maybe now is one of those moments. I look to my flesh for the drop of blood that sometimes leaks from the opening the syringe creates.
The little crimson pool rises to the surface and I exhale a little longer than normal. The desk drawer dully squeals as it's opened. I always make sure to keep bandaids in my desk for the kids who come in to read. Even in a library the little shits manage to injure themselves . At least, that's what I tell people anyway. Can't have any of my loyal customers finding out that their friendly neighborhood librarian gives herself the heavy stuff every day. And uses little bitch bandaids to hide the evidence.
I pull down my sleeve, throw the used syringe in the black trash bag to my left (I don't worry about being caught, no one ever questions syringes around here, what with all the shrinks and all).
Hey now, I know what you're thinking. "What's a lil bitch like you doing injecting that shit during library hours?"
Well, honey, the library isn't really open right now so I'm not really sure exactly what your fucking problem is? Ok fine, maybe that's not your point. Sigh. Whatever. It's not like anyone really visits this Ripredforsaken shithole. I mean, why would they? We don't exactly live in a free information sort of society. My hunger for knowledge is barely even partially satisfied.
My mom always did say that I have an addictive personality but, I thought she was just being cute. Nah, turns out I'd get addicted to random shit all the time or whatever. Guess that's why I'm here.
Now you might be asking me how and why I even have a job. The answer is: I'm good at what I do. Books were my first addiction. And I have never been able to give them up. Even when my blood would run hot with painkilling substances I could still make time for a lil literary r&r.
I've always been more interested in the words on a page than the bones in a body, and I suppose that's been my downfall. The only job I've felt connected to in this town, is the one I'm in now. For better or for worse, I guess I've at least found myself.
As hard as my parents pushed, I knew I could never be as good with my hands as they, that I could never mend a body like I can mend a bookshelf or a frayed page. Its not like I kept that hidden from them. My stubborn ass would deliberately fail those medical tests in school.
Every time I'd fail my mom'd try to "talk sense into me" and every time that failed, she'd tell me I could at least work to be a trophy wife. I'd always laugh in her face. Me? A trophy wife? I was a 4'8" 14 year old with pig tails and body acne. Who was she trying to fool?
I mean sure, I've improved since then but BARELY. My pigtails gave way to an ugly little swoosh, my tits just kinda chilled at the same size they've been since junior high and my acne's been replaced by injection scars. Even with my big brown eyes and soft lopsided smile, my tiny ass would be a participation trophy at best.
I still can't believe they've never pushed me to the games. I'm smart, good at hiding and I'm not afraid of blood. Sure I can't fight and I'm only moderately fast but people have won with less. I mean, it's not like my parents've ever been opposed to the games. And I'm sure they'd take the victor money. My only theory for why they might never have mentioned it is that by the time I'd gotten old enough to have a strong chance of being reaped they'd already given up on me.
My mother hasn't talked to me since my 17th birthday and my father's always working. The fuckers still let me live in their house, but they act like I'm not there. I'm just a drug addicted ghost, haunting the land of fuckheads, working at the library of getting fucked up.
My drug dealer say I'm a firecracker but he doesn't know me high. On a good day I'm pissy and sarcastic. On a bad day....watch the fuck out. I wouldn't call myself a hothead exactly, just someone who doesn't take shit and let's be real, in a pretentious place like this, everybody's a shit.
