Gardenia Voire -D1- -FIN-

G a rd e n i a .


"We are all stars in the sky
We all shimmer then decay
So I wonder - did I burn out, make a mark
Or fade away"

Giardenia is a name that means pleasant flower. She sprouted in district one, born to parents on the right side of the tracks. She was raised to be a lady, prim, and proper and graceful. She is the picture of elegance, her hair always with the right amount of bounce and shine, blush contouring her cheekbones, eye-shadow giving her irises just enough pop to keep her gaze alluring.

The face she wears is a mask, and it is not. She is the daughter her parents wanted and she is not. The life of a career held no joy for her. She was meant to be a dancer. She was meant for the finer things in life, for the stage and luxuriousness. Her stature could be considered petite, but her dreams and aspirations have always cast a long shadow.

A chrysalis needs time to form the beating heart within it. Her chrysalis was time. Wrapped in a cocoon of failure and half-truths whispered in the dark of night, the bitter taste of disappointment in her chest, washed away with another glass of champagne as though it might finally numb the pain. Over time she became a porcelain doll. It’s a funny thing, not being in control of yourself.

Following the rituals of socializing that were laid down centuries ago by the people who determined what high society was defined as. Sacrifices had to be made for the good of the family name. She had to be an example to her three siblings. Or be made one.

It was her stubbornness that got her in the end.

She couldn’t stand being made to dance like a marionette when there was a beat in her heart her feet had to move to, a tune on her lips and a song in her soul. She ran away at sixteen, rejecting the opulence she was born into. She would chase her dreams and achieve them without the trappings of her family name. But dreams do not come cheap, and the real world was unlike anything she had been prepared for.

Starry eyes and talent are not accepted currencies and the money she stole from her parents when she left quickly ran out. Even in a rich district like district one, there is an underbelly and naivety is chewed up and spit out as easily as it might be in a place like nine or twelve.

She tried going back then, attempting to apologize, begging for a second chance, but heaven’s gate remained barred for a sinner who had dared dream of her own ivory throne. The Voire family only had three children, she was informed. It was suggested she remove herself from the property before they called the peacekeepers for trespassing.

She managed to get a job washing dishes after that, a far cry from her hopes and aspirations, and unfortunately not something in her skillset, having had a maid to deal with that. It turned out to be harder than she thought it would be. She was fired not long after the eighth time she’d broken a dish.

Running out of options, she took any odd job she could, working until her fingers were raw and sleep was a memory. Until there were no tears left to shed, only a bottle to drown them in. When that wasn’t enough to pay the piper, she turned to less than legal means to come up with the cash she needed, peddling morphling for a hard woman.

After some product went missing and she was singled out as the cause, she thought her life was over. But her boss offered her a chance to pay off her debt and to work towards her dream and the same time. She accepted. She’d already sacrificed her time, her body and her dignity on the altar of her dream. What else did she have to offer but her soul?

The last two years, felt like an eternity, and by the end of it, she was in hell.

Only until she had enough, she’d told herself. But she sank deeper into debt instead. The cost of food, shelter and interest her boss said. The game was rigged against her. She dreamed of a stage and of adoring fans, but she was paid in leers and whistles instead. If she was able to, she would have hopped off the music box that she chained herself to.

But she can’t. Eighteen is old enough to know how the world works, but it is also young enough not to care. Dreams are for the people who can afford them. The past is a patchwork of stitches holding together a rag doll who burst at the seams one too many times.

In the present day, the curtain rises. There is rum and coke on her breath. A fire burning in her gut. In the darkness of the audience she can see her name in lights. She ripples into starlight,dancing into the cosmos of infinity.

She loses herself in the rhythm. Inside she is breaking,but the tears do not come. The pole is cold against her back. All she wanted was to be a dancer. But those who cannot afford their dreams sometimes have to settle for nightmares. She was a flower once, pruned too early and put in a vase, put on display.

Withering slowly as the water runs out.