Cedric Lane | District 12 | Hunger Games: The RPG

Cedric Lane | District 12 Dec 30, 2011 22:22:14 GMT -5

Post by chelsey on Dec 30, 2011 22:22:14 GMT -5

the broken melody.

f i r s t a n d l a s t // Cedric Lane

t h e c o u n t d o w n // eighteen

s w i f t a s r a g i n g w a t e r // male

h e l l o n e a r t h // District 12

t h e m e s o n g // In My Life by The Beatles

f a c e c l a i m // Stuart Sutcliffe

t h r o u g h d a r k l e n s

a p p e a r a n c e

Some joke that nothing lies behind his dark sunglasses, anymore, except for empty sockets where his eyes should’ve been.

Though, I know better than to abide by gossip.

Those dark shades are always there, perched upon the bridge of his nose, always sitting above that smirk of a smile that never left his lips. Girls were crazy over it. Fawning over him and the mystery that loomed above him wherever he went. ~~I was one of those girls.~~ Who was the man behind the glasses? What adventures awaited beneath the lens?

I’ve never seen the eyes for myself - at least not in broad daylight. Never witnessed the dreamy colors bathe in sunlight, or dance with the blue sky. No, those brown irises only appeared under the luminous cloak of the moon, constantly gazing up towards the star blanketed sky - as if trying to reach something that was unreachable in this realm of earth. They never looked at me, he never looked at me, unless, of course, those damn shades were there to form a flimsy barrier between us. But I looked into them. I stared into those eyes constantly, drinking in the sight as much as he would allow, lapping it up as if it were a drop of fresh water in the middle of a barren desert. It was hard not to stare at them. They were beautiful. The kind of warmth that made you want to brush away all the sadness they've ever witnessed and just cradle him close to you. The kind of rich brown that, if you looked into them for long enough, made you want to swim in them for hours - and swam I did. I swam in endless loops and never ending circles, drowning in the warm abyss that colored his empty eyes, drowning but not really willing myself to go back up for air. He was my air. His eyes were my oasis, and I kept my vision averted there as much as possible. I was searching for something within him - like how he was searching for something in the stars.

But I guess we searched for two completely different things. Me, for something to unlock the gate that restricted his affections towards ~~the world~~ our relationship, fling, bond, whatever. Him? For something to give him an easy way out - an escape.

I never found what I was searching for. But he did.

You’da think you’ve never seen a man run that fast. ~~What was he running from? Happiness? Love? Commitment? And was it me chasing him away with it?~~

[/I]

I miss his leather jacket. Beat up and as raggedy as it is, it completed his bad boy image just as much as his dark shades did. It fitted him perfectly, hanging over his frame and hiding how weak and skinny he actually was. I miss his soft, brown hair that fell across his forehead on somedays, and were slicked back on others. I remember how silky they felt between my fingers when I’d run my hands through his hair while we kissed. Those lips that mine had touched possessed so much more talent than mere kissing, however. ~~Although he did do one heck of a job of it.~~ No, those soft lips emitted a raspy voice that could hit the notes and tunes of any song. It had just the right amount of scratch in it to get you [/color]begging for more. Begging to hear that voice sing for you one more time, even if it was only just for a few more seconds. It - he - is intoxicating. But, there was always that guitar - oh, that bloody, wretched excuse for an instrument. Scratched, dented, untuned. His hands, already creased with dirt and soot from working in the minds, grew dry and callous over years of bending his fingers and dancing them across the strings of the guitar. I’ve never seen a day where the instrument was not slung across his back or chest - the pair is inseparable. He was more in love with it than with me. How could I blame him for it, though? I did nothing but fog his mind with chastised thoughts of commitment. His ~~baby~~ guitar provided him an escape.

And that was all he ever wanted to begin with.[/justify][/blockquote]

b e h i n d t h e s h a d e s

p e r s o n a l i t y

Here’s the deal if you’re a girl, and if you ever collide worlds with Cedric Lane. He’ll make you believe he fancies you. He’ll flirt with you, say all these sweet things to you to get you to fall over your own two feet for him, among them being ”You’re different from the rest.” You’ll fall for his wit, his spontaneity, his bad boy persona. He’ll give you the best romantic experience you ever could hope for, and more. The kind of romance where there’s a rush of adrenaline everyday, the kind of romance that keeps you wanting more with each passing second. Then you’ll notice the blank look in his eyes when he sees you. The way he’ll stiffly embrace you. The way he no longer says sweet things to you. The way he seems to be searching in a crowd of faces, and never finds what he needs. Then, as quick as the the romance began, it ends. And Cedric Lane is gone. Of course, you’ll get over him in time, finding another one to fill the empty gape that he left in your heart. But you will never, ever forget your romance with Cedric Lane. And neither will that girl… or that girl… or that girl… or that girl.

And that’s just the way he likes it. He’s unfulfilled with life, looking for something to brighten up his days. But a simple fling isn't what he needs - what he need is someone who can fill that hole inside of him, someone who can show him the whole scope of life. That is, if he ever gave them enough time to show him.

It’s just the way he works, it’s just the way the wheels in his head turns. He has a reputation to keep up with.

Apparently, the dark shades and worn out leather jacket didn’t serve as the only characteristics for maintaining the ”bad boy” image. ~~Surprise, surprise, he actually has to be bad.~~

He has to walk like one. He has to talk like one. He has to whine like one, spit like one, tease like one, sing like one. He is one.

When he's not running from commitment, he's running from the law. Not a day did his taste buds not crave for danger. He’s a one man rebellion - going from stealing at markets to slipping beyond the fence that lined District Twelve. Running from peacekeepers is his daily exercise. He always made it out alive of their clutches alive, though - always narrowly escaping prison, death, or execution. ~~No, he’d kill himself before he allowed any filthy Capitol mutts to execute him.~~ He always ran out in just the nick of time - besides, isn’t being fast just one of the things the kid’s good at?

But, he isn’t as bad as he wants everyone to believe. Because, behind those damned glasses of his, lies a stray puppy - naive and innocent - waiting for someone to find him, and bring him to a new home. He needed this support, he needed this strength to lean upon when his own strength failed him. He needed it, and he needs it now. Vulnerability shook beneath the heavy lens of his.

And, he was terrified of it.

Terrified of falling, breaking, shattering. Terrified of being broken ~~more broken than he is now~~ beyond repair. But, most of all, he was terrified of someone ever witnessing him during these moments of vulnerability.

That wit of his is something I miss more than anything. It always took him less than a second to conjure up a conversation where he left it’s partner speechless and racking their sorry brains for a reply that could beat his. Course, no reply ever beat his. Oh, and that persuasive tongue of his - it always managed to talk itself out of a sticky situation, and into something he found much more satisfying. He convinced people to believe what he believed with a wink of his eyes, a signature smile, and the use of his words. It helps knowing that if mere speaking didn’t work, then his singing most certainly will. He had all the girls wobbling in their spongy knees in mere minutes.

Maybe I should’ve known, then, that he was up to no good.

Should’ve seen him sneaking behind school property with another girl clinging onto his arms, should’ve realized that his lips have been smacked upon by hundreds of other lips, should’ve listened to all of the other girl’s warnings of how he always ended up leaving in the end. ~~No, no, he would never leave. He can’t. He told me I was special, that I was different than the rest. That he loved me, and only me…~~ But, I guess I was wrong.

Because he left me just like all the others.

w h a t c r a c k e d t h e s h e l l

h i s t o r y

I already knew him before I even met him.

The asshole with the glasses and beat up guitar. The bastard who always had a new girl clinging to his arm every week. The guy who spewed witty remarks at you like daggers, and you were the target. But, most of all, he was the predator.

And I his prey.

Blurs of black and white run through my mind when I try to recall what happened that day. Eye contact exchanged from yards away, smiles received and returned, the slightest of touches brushing against our shoulders or our hands when we walked by each other. Did he feel the electricity that I felt? Did he feel the way the sun shined brighter, the birds sung louder, and the way the day grew longer? Before I had a chance to get a grip on reality, he somehow reached within the chasms of my heart, and planted himself there - forever rooted within me through the blood that pumped through my veins.

Few things I remember about our relationship, few things that have forever been impressed into the tissues of my very being: the way he kissed me as if the world would end the next day, the way he made me constantly crave for his presence and affection when he wasn’t with me, the way he murmured song lyrics into my skin when it rained. It was like he was helium, and I a balloon. And every time I was with him - touched him, kissed him, thought of him - my sides would stretch, stretch, and stretch until I was nothing more than a floating mass of rubber, flying all the way into the atmosphere. He was the fuel that kept me on high, that kept me growing up, and up, and up. And, yet, at the same time, he was still the string that kept my anchored to the ground, anchored to reality.

If it was love or infatuation, I never had a chance to find out, because one second he was with me, and the next he was gone.

Did it end? Or was there nothing to end to begin with? Was there nothing that ever really started? Did it ever even begin?

It’s funny how everyone always thought of Cedric as the arrogant asshole who didn’t have a sensitive bone in his body. In reality, they all couldn’t have been more wrong. He was full of emotions, full of unvoiced opinions and silent thoughts. His bones were made of glass, and wore battle scars of the infinite times they've been shattered time and time again from the harsh impact of falling, falling, falling. He was more vulnerable than they all gave him credit for. What’s even more funny is how everyone thought he couldn’t care less about the girls he screwed over, when, in truth, it was a single girl that shaped him into the way he is today.

Her name was Astrid.

Tucked into a pocket of his leather jacket was an old photograph of a girl with the sun in her hair and the sky in her eyes. The color faded over the years, but even so, anyone could see the radiance that flowed in and out of her smile. Maybe she was the helium to Cedric, and he the balloon.

On that night, he placed the jacket around my shoulders so I could endure the cold of the evening. I stuffed my hands into the pockets of his jacket, searching for more warmth to lean into, when I found the old photograph hiding in the corners of the leather. I unfolded the photo, and discovered her.

There was no going back after that. Cedric tore the picture from my hands and folded it back into the hem of his jeans, not allowing me to see it again. I didn’t need to see it anyway, he painted the picture of her perfectly with his story. He didn’t want to talk about her at first, but after some bribing and a lot of bickering, he faltered, crumbled, gave in, and burst.

This was the first and last time I ever saw Cedric Lane cry.

The tears that hid beneath his eyes for so long poured forth as if there was nothing that could stop them. Something I hadn’t seen before in him suddenly emerged - despair. It brushed his tired eyes, cradled his worn features, caressed his tear stained cheeks. His armor melted away, and revealed thetrembling little child that had always hid before it.

Astrid was his first and only love. She was the Sun to him, and he the moon to her. He gave her music, and she gave him the voice. Young love was beautiful like this - addicting, spontaneous, crazy, and indestructible. Oh, but they couldn’t have been more further from indestructible.

Astrid fell victim to the only thing in this world that can destroy faith, hope, and love - death.

The illness was quick, and spread through her veins within a matter of weeks. She died in his arms when they were only sixteen, the last thing she heard was Cedric singing sweet lullabies into the crown of her head, despite the tears that strangled his throat. No one would ever meet Astrid again. No one would ever know of her passion, her wisdom, her beauty, her dreams. No one would ever see the sun in her hair, or the sky in her eyes. No one would ever again fill in the hole that she had left open in Cedric.