ophelia mortuus ; d12 cb

Her fingers seek the warmth of fresh bruises. Push and push and push until their color deepens and her interest fades, the white noise buzzing between her ears gets loud again and her horrible curiosity seeks something with more teeth. Fee's not a strange child - she was raised better than that. The girl merely lives in perpetual motion, burning up as much as she burns through.

& bloody knuckles & broken windows & bruising kisses &

Have you ever felt so much, you can't feel anything at all? Eventually it's all the same aching pain that spills out, anyway. Did they expect anger when they told her she was leaving the Capitol? Surely not that serene smile, shrugging her shoulders as she shoved a wrinkled jersey into her duffle bag.

She should have been livid. She probably is. It's building up now, the makings of a beautiful mess. If anything she's biding her time until they're all falling apart too.

As long as there's open sky, Fee will find something to satiate the rotten parts of her. To let those that are golden take root too.

& toothy grins & grass stains & ’good game!’ & clasped hands &

The youngest Mortuus, so removed from her mother's legacy that she's oft cast in shadow.

Tries to find a way to glow.

Destruction is a vice.

And it is all her's.