six feet under. [shrimp]

six feet under. [shrimp] Aug 10, 2011 0:36:12 GMT -5

Post by Lulu on Aug 10, 2011 0:36:12 GMT -5

prove to me i'm not gonna die alone
put your arm round my collarbone
open the door

Digging at night was far better than digging during the day, for many reasons. For one, it was quieter. Three was a very busy, bustling urban district, and Ciro lived smack in the middle of it. During the daylight hours, even into the night a bit, there were constant car horns beeping and wheels skidding and people yelling as if no one could hear them. Not to mention the two factories on either side of the funeral parlor - the noise that came from them could be astoundingly irritating. Ciro didn't particularly like all these noises; they interrupted his thoughts and were a rather large nuisance. He much preferred the silence of night.

The most important reason, though, was that he was alone. Other people made him uncomfortable - he didn't know how to talk to them, not in the slightest. Didn't most people talk about their hobbies? What they like to do? "Oh yeah, in my spare time I like to shine up the shoes of corpses. That's only when I'm not busy digging graves, though." When he was at a loss for words, Ciro automatically began to talk about work. And since his job was one of the very few professions in which your clients were dead rather than living...well...needless to say, most people don't "get it". So being alone was nice. Being alone meant there was no one to freak out with talk of corpses. Being alone meant he could just think for a bit. Oh, and dig. Digging and thinking was a great way to spend a night.

The familiar rhythmic shoveling pattern soothed Ciro's mind, despite the monotony of it. The current grave he was digging was for an old woman, 75 years old when she had died of a stroke just the past week, and her son was handling her funeral. The gravestone had already been carved - Lucinda Bolt; beloved wife, doting mother, adored grandmother - and was sitting at the head of the hole he was digging, which was nearly five feet deep. Only a foot to go.

The funeral would be the morning after next, so technically he still had time to dig the next day. This was probably a better idea, seeing as it was...what, nearing midnight? Yes, it must be by now. But Ciro wasn't a bit tired, and hadn't been all day. In fact, the eighteen-year-old was rarely tired, which was probably a bit odd, but it didn't bother him. He didn't like sleeping, anyway; his sleep was often disturbed by his mother's wailing, because her headaches seemed to worsen at night. She'd been getting them more and more frequently lately; the doctors said this was an unavoidable result of her head trauma, despite the fact that it had been nearly fourteen years, and the most they could do was give her medicine to lessen her pain. It was the same with the seizures - those were happening a lot more often, and Ciro couldn't help but worry that his mother's fragile nervous system wouldn't hold out much longer. Perhaps soon she'd be lowered in the ground, maybe into a grave Ciro dug himself. Zoe Scope; caring mother, dear wife.

[/color] Death. Why did it have to come for everyone?

Ciro had once talked about his mother's situation with Hayes - despite the drastic age difference, Hayes was the only person in the world Ciro actually felt close to. He'd understood when Ciro had voiced his mixed opinions on his mother dying; he wasn't sure if he'd be particularly upset, seeing as he and his mother had never really connected. For the first few years of his life, she'd always been working. For the rest, she'd been his teacher, rather than his parent. On top of that - he'd never told anyone except Hayes this - her condition actually scared him, and he didn't like being around her because of it. He hated seeing her in the wheelchair, unable to move anything below her waist. He hated seeing her clutch her head in pain as one of her migraines hit. And he absolutely hated seeing her seize. He could vividly remember that very first time, when he was only four years old. She'd been so hurt, so beat up after her accident. Little Ciro had sat at her bedside with his father, watching her as she ate a bowl of soup. And then...her eyes had rolled back in her head and the tremors started, and Ciro had watched, wide-eyed, as his father completely lost it, trying to hold her steady and dial emergency at the same time. And each seizure he'd witnessed since then had been equally as awful.

So, naturally, he tried to avoid the apartment above the parlor whenever possible, and instead kept to the workroom, embalming bodies and organizing funerals while his father assisted his mother with whatever she needed, or the cemetery, where he dug graves, sometimes with Hayes and sometimes without. It was much nicer out here, especially at night. He liked it better than in the workroom, because sometimes it felt as if the dead bodies were watching him.

As he tossed another shovelful of dirt out of the hole, a sound startled him, causing him to drop the spade right on his foot and give a sharp grunt of pain. Who could possibly be in the graveyard at this time of night? Sure, sometimes people came to visit graves late, but that didn't really happen that often; being out late at night wasn't really advisable for many unless work required it, seeing as Peacekeepers patrolled the streets. It probably was a mourner, though. The dark-haired boy climbed out of the whole and peered around in the darkness; sure enough, he was pretty sure he could spot a shadowy form crouched near a grave towards the back of the yard.

Maybe approaching a dark figure in the middle of the night was a really stupid move. Maybe this was a grave robber, or something, and he was getting himself into a situation that could possibly land him in a grave himself. Ciro Scope; cherished son. But hey, it was his job to watch over the cemetery, right? His father had named him his official business partner as soon as he turned sixteen, so technically he owned half of this property. So whether he liked it or not, he had to protect it. "Hey!" he called, taking a deep breath and walking closer to the figure. "Someone there?"

don't lie to me if you're putting the dog to sleep
the pet you just couldn't keep
couldn't afford

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six feet under. [shrimp] Oct 16, 2011 17:59:39 GMT -5

Post by shrimp on Oct 16, 2011 17:59:39 GMT -5

p r e w i t t

Two words have changed Lyla Matheson's life ("I volunteer! My name is Aenor Kembry, and I volunteer!"), and Prewitt never forgets this. In fact, everyday that he sees the girl who has too blonde hair and wears too bright clothes, he thanks Aenor Kembry for sacrificing herself for Lyla's sake. Had Aenor not volunteered to take Lyla's place, Prewitt is sure that Lyla would be dead already, killed by someone or other in order for Lethe Turnder to gain her place among the victors, a pedestal that was both revered among citizens. District 3 hadn't gotten that honor in years, and Aenor Kembry is proof of that.

He stands here now, looking at the headstone of the girl who saved his best friend's life, here to give her his own sense of gratitude. He knows that he's never met the girl, that she's never met him, but he's sure that wherever she is, if she can see this, she will nontheless feel grateful for it. Or at least, he tries to tell himself this as he sits on cool grass, feeling the wind whistle through a lone tree that stands limply in the clearing of stones. It's an isolated area - not many people are out here at this time, so he knows that he can say whatever he'd like to Ms. Kembry without being interrupted by people calling him strange. He's even brought an offering for the ghost of District Three - a rose; it's a bit darkened on the edges and a tad bit wilted from being bought cheap illegally, but he hopes it will do.

Prewitt doesn't quite know what to say at these kind of things - the only relatives that he knows are his parents and his aunt Sylvia, and all three of them are in relatively good health (although of course, all four of the Pierces have or will have some sort of lung problem if they continue to work in the smoky district); he's never been to a funeral, never had to see some die before his eyes (except in the Hunger Games, but if he tries to make it seem like it's all just a Capitol movie, it's slightly more bearable and less real). But here, he knows that he has to say something now - it's not like the dead can read minds - otherwise, this will be all for nothing. So he sits there for a moment, before trying to speak.

"Umm... Hi, Aenor," he mumbles, the voice barely audible against the wind. "I'm Prewitt, Lyla's friend." He knows that perhaps Aenor isn't there, or maybe she doesn't remember Lyla or maybe she does and hates her (the possibilities are endless and he would prefer to not delve into the different branches of the afterlife). "I umm... I just wanted to say thank you. For, you know... Saving Lyla's life when you volunteered. I-it... It was a very brave thing to do, and I won't forget it. So, thanks." He smiles once, an attempt to please something that may or may not be there, and stands up, having nothing more to say. He lays the rose down, saying "This is for you Aenor, goodbye," before finally deciding to leave. Only instead of gracefully exiting, he turns around and trips on the side of a headstone, landing with a thump on the ground (he whispers apologizes profusely to Ailia Goodnite).

And then, contact. He freezes - someone is here? Why? Is it a ghost? But only then, as he turns around, does he realize that it is not possible for it to have been a ghostly apparition. Rather, it is the caretaker of the graveyard, around his age. And to Prewitt, it looks like the pale boy means business. Quickly, he stands up, brushing himself off and stutters a simple "U-um... H-h-hi," perhaps as an icebreaker of some sort (because the awkward tension is icy cold). He walks a bit closer, the other boy's face becoming more discernible against the pitch-black, monotonous background as the distance between them decreases, finally stopping a few graves away.

"S-sorry... Umm, should I go? I mean... Should... S-should I?"