Short of -Breath- {South}

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gamemaker kelsier
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6,093 POSTS
Pronouns: they/them
last seen Nov 22, 2024 1:53:01 GMT -5

“And now that you don't have to be perfect, you can be good.” - steinbeck

Short of -Breath- {South} Oct 4, 2011 22:32:08 GMT -5

Post by gamemaker kelsier on Oct 4, 2011 22:32:08 GMT -5

Talking
Doing
Deep Thought
Hearing Maddox
Hearing

I'm running through the halls of the house, not caring about the way I just left my tea sitting cold and alone, not thinking about the way I appear to be most unladylike. My breath comes in rough beats although I have only run for a moment. It's most likely due to the heavy skirts I wear, and the corset holding in my stomach, so tightly until it's just an exercise to simply breath. My mouth is open in a panicked Ó'shape as I run, trying to suck in the entire world it would seem. It is taking forever just to reach my doors. I reach out and lay a hand on one of the iron handles, tearing it open with a rough bang, and quickly slamming it closed behind me, hastily throwing the lock to keep the monsters out.

Finally, I let a sob catch itself, and a tear roll from my eyes, and around the frame of my face. I tear of the stupid kid gloves I was wearing for the visit, and fling myself onto my bed, not giving a damn about the way my dress is sure to wrinkle. Almost immediately, there is banging upon my door, as my brother calls, "MARION!" Just my name over and over, but every time he does, it feels as if he is inflicting a great injury, the pain intensifying every single time he calls for me. He does not understand the tears of a girl. He does not understand why I am so upset. I hear muffled whispering outside my door, and finally the shouting stops.

I replay the afternoon in my mind, remembering the intense excitement for the afternoon visit, only because I would get to leave the house. Another family was coming for tea in the garden, that has a young man my age. I am surprised at myself that I did not see the trap I was falling into. My mother even had me wear my new blue dress. My hair done up in a lovely bun. If I had known what it was for, I would have shaved my head completely bald. I am betrothed to their idiot son, with his idiot talks of the weather and chess. It was done and dealt with in an instant, and I realized that I am Nothing more than a girl on display. He never says anything deep, I don't even know his favourite colour, and I am expected to love and cherish him as long as we both shall live. I can feel my cage growing smaller and smaller as I grow larger and more self-aware.

I want it all to go away, and in sudden rage, I stand and try to tear off my carefully buttoned and tied dress, trying to loosen the corset. But it is impossible, and the more I try and loosen, the more it tightens. Oh, to be a boy, I think for the umpteenth time as my frustration heightens. In my preoccupied efforts, my mind has wandered away from the afternoon, and I almost unlock my door to find the maid, and my hand is on the key, I am walking over to the knob when it all comes crashing down again. I drop the key as my eyes widen and my hand goes to my heart. To an onlooker I would look ridiculous placing it on my right side, but that is where my heart lies. I am in agony, and suddenly the tears are all coming down, fresh and unstopped.

They streak across my hot face, taking the make-up and mascara with them to reveal the spotted freckles underneath. I do the one thing I can do, and tear out all my hairpins, my hair cascading down to rest around my face one by one. I want to break free of this stupid life. I want to rid the world of hairpins and corsets, and live in the wild, as if I were an animal. I want to see the sun for at least a moment before I must go into the next cage. Maybe I shall catch a glimpse in transfer. A bitter laugh erupts from my throat, and after a moment of standing in front of the mirror, and seeing myself, I realize how hideous I look, and how unladylike. But for once, it does not bother me. I calm, watching my face as my laughter falters and stops. I cannot do anything about the tears that still fall, but I wipe the mascara off nonetheless. I almost smile at the site of my freckles.

Hair falls across my face, the thick curls and waves in pandemonium, unsure of where to rest themselves. They are used to being held in place and told what to do, and I wish I could not say the same for myself. I sit quietly, watching my tears fall, and I realize after a moment that my heart has been not only broken, but destroyed. Shakily, I stand to greet the coming dark coming in my window. Although the dinner hour has come and passed while I have sat staring, I find I am not hungry. I no longer get hungry. A sudden wave of exhaustion hits me, and I realize that this is my second day of not sleeping. I grab the chair for support as I wobble, but instead of fighting it like I always do, I cross the room to my bed.

I lie down across it, not even removing my shoes. My hair fans out underneath my head and I know I must look insane. My hands curl themselves into fists, and I roll onto my side, protecting my chest. Eyes fluttering, I let myself ride upon the next wave of tiredness, my tears making strands of hair stick to the underside of my face. All thoughts of the afternoon begin to vanish as my breathing calms and night dawns. Moonlight casts its monochrome glow upon the end of the bed. I have left my balcony doors open in the fading heat of the lost summer, and although I am touched with coldness, I am far too tired to stand up and close them. A thought of what sleeping might do to me, inflicts itself upon my mind, but it is banished and I sleep.

Last Edit: Oct 4, 2011 22:36:23 GMT -5 by gamemaker kelsier

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Short of -Breath- {South} Oct 4, 2011 23:03:17 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Oct 4, 2011 23:03:17 GMT -5

Light starts in a dark place, the story of a car chase
And I’ve become the criminal
And fleeing from this scene
And being caught in a bad dream
The truth becomes the unthinkable

Staking out a house is my least favorite part of this endless process for quite a few reasons, starting with the fact that it’s only marginally more entertaining than watching paint dry. I’ve been lurking in the bushes around this particular place for about a day and a half, making observations about the comings and goings of the people inside, and while I know it’s necessary if I actually want to pull this off, I’ve got a crick that’s not so much in my neck as it is down my entire spine, I haven’t slept in God-knows-how long, and the smell of dinner wafting from the kitchen window that I’m currently crouched beneath is making my stomach rumble so loudly that I’m sure they can hear it even through closed doors and the muffled laughter and conversation that slips out from the cracked-open portal.

District One isn’t somewhere I go too often, although there are slums here the poverty isn’t nearly as widespread as the rest of the districts, and I’m typically needed elsewhere. But I’m working my way back towards the Capitol for reasons I can’t really explain - there’s this deep-seated part of me that won’t rest until I can make sure that Marla and Prince are okay – and this is my last stop until then, so I figured that I’d pop in and do a few quick jobs before continuing on my way. This house in particular is huge, with gorgeous architecture and seemingly every imaginable luxury. The family inside is huge as well, more kids going in and out in a day than I’m able to count. The people I suppose are Mom and Dad left early yesterday morning looking like they were going on some sort of trip, and I can only assume that one of the older siblings has been left in charge, which will make what I need to do much easier. Frazzled teenager looking after five or six other kids, too much to do in not enough time… someone’s bound to leave a door unlocked or a window open, maybe even leave valuables laying around somewhere. Should be a cinch.

Floating on the confidence rush and really just needing to stretch a little bit before my muscles seize up until I can’t move, I decide that the few moments of silence from the kitchen must mean that dinner is over, and I take the opportunity to peek over the windowsill and get a good look inside, see if I can map out the layout of part of the house. The place is swanky, that’s for sure, good china and silver on the table that could be pawned off to buy a family in the district’s slums food for a month. The room isn’t empty, though, its sole occupant a lanky kid about my age that must be the oldest brother clearing the table by himself, narrow shoulders curled inward like he’s carrying the weight of the world. I’ve seen that look on people before, but it’s usually on the beaten-down, impoverished members of the population that I nick stuff from houses like this one to give a chance at a better life. Even though he can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen tops, he looks old. Haggard. Like he’s juggling about a million things at once. I get the impression that maybe Mom and Dad’s jaunts off into the wild blue yonder are a little more common than I’d initially thought, that this is who’s really in charge of this family, and the realization makes me think twice about robbing someone blind when they might have far more problems than they appear to.

“Riley!” A voice from some other part of the house rings out sharply, sounds like the loud-mouthed brunette that arrived a few hours ago, causing both me and the boy on the other side of the window to jump in surprise, the dishes falling the last inch or two from his hands into the sink with a melodious clatter. The boy – Riley, I guess – curses under his breath, pulling the wreckage of a broken plate out from the chrome-brushed basin as the same voice calls out again. “Riley, come help me with this! And bring Nutella!”

“Yeah, coming,” he replies in a considerably softer voice than the girl used, chucking the broken pieces of the plate in the trash as he turns around and leaves the room, that same look of constant concern beyond what someone our age should have etched into his face. This is my chance, right now, when no one’s in the kitchen. I could easily push the window open, climb through and hide in the pantry a few feet away until everyone is sleeping, and this family will wake up tomorrow with what’s probably a barely-noticeable portion of their assets missing while the poorer part of the district can afford necessities as a result. I shouldn’t feel bad about it. I shouldn’t. But I do, and it’s enough to make me back away from the window, darting through the shadows cast in the twilight by the mansion’s massive structure and fleeing back into the sparse woods surrounding it - my morals are damnable, difficult little fuckers sometimes, my job would admittedly be easier without them lurking around in the back of my head all the time – telling myself that in a district this filthy rich it should be easy to find a huge house whose occupants actually deserve to have their wealth redistributed.

I’m on the brink of disaster
Staring down the consequences
So brake hard, we’ll be better
Tonight I'll do
What it takes to fail

Whatever I told myself, though, it’s the middle of the night before I find a house that isn’t locked up tighter than the National Bank of Panem. While I’ve got plenty of skill picking locks, I don’t want to risk it in a district this ritzy, where there’s a chance of electronic security systems as well as the simple lower-district protections of deadbolts and keyholes. I’m more than aware of what happens to people that desert the Peacekeeping force, much less the ones that turn to a life of crime after doing so, and I’ve seen my face and the words dead or alive on enough Wanted posters to be so cavalier with my breaking and entering methods. Exhausted, achy, and hungry enough to start gnawing on my arm, I’m about to give up when I see the open doors greeting me like old friends from the second story of a house that gradually peeks out from between the shadow-cloaked forms of the trees, almost as huge as the place I’d had my eye on before my conscience drove me elsewhere. Slowly, luxuriously, I feel the most devilish of smirks spreading across the lower half of my face. It’s just too easy sometimes.

It’s a simple matter, really, a lack of challenge that in truth makes me a little disappointed. Sure, I got a thrill out of every successful heist for the first month or so, but now I thrive on challenges more than simple get-in-get-the-stuff-get-out operations like this one promises to be. Although I suppose it will be nice to get what I can quickly and maybe find somewhere where I can grab a few hours of rest before heading back to the shadier side of the district to share the spoils with people that are more likely to make good use of it than the previous owners. And then it’ll be a few more hours lurking around the fence until tomorrow night, back over the fence, and off to the Capitol. Easy, peasy, febreezy. The smirk transforms into an honest smile at the thought of seeing Marla and Prince after almost a year apart, even if it’s only for a few minutes to tell them what’s happened and what I’m doing before I disappear again for an indefinite amount of time. I’d take both of them with me if I could, I really would because even though I have all the grateful smiles and words of thanks from the people I help it gets to be so horribly lonely sometimes, but Prince has her modeling, something I’d never ask her to step away from in good conscience, and the idea of dragging my little sister into the wild with her ever-so-fragile health is something I can’t even begin to think of doing. So no, it will be quick, a simple reassurance that I’m all right and will do my best to stay in touch before I’m off again, back to this calling that I’ve found and can never, never leave.

There’s a tree conveniently placed next to the second floor balcony, and it’s only a few seconds before I’ve shimmied up the trunk and swung a leg over the railing landing in a silent crouch and squinting into the dark room beyond the open doors. Nothing to be seen, really, but I’m still cautious as I edge slowly through the doorframe and into the room. Nice décor, almost Capitolite in its finery; damask curtains, plush carpeting, a vanity fully stocked with silver mirrors and brushes… and then there’s the girl asleep in the bed a few feet away. Didn’t notice her until now.

Going there only faster
Jump the gun and throw it into gear
But the fact of the matter
We’re out of control asleep at the wheel
Asleep at the wheel

Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. I bite back a string of cursing that licks along the back of my teeth, eyes darting back towards the door because although houses usually have people in them I didn’t expect to actually walk into someone’s bedroom. But she looks to be in a pretty deep state of slumber, and I really don’t want to have climbed up here with nothing so show for it. It’s worth a shot, at least. I tiptoe around the room without taking my eyes off the sleeping form under the covers, picking up a few things here and there (the silver mirror and brush I saw earlier, some really nice jewelry, one or two designer purses) and shoving them unceremoniously into my bag before heading back to the door, one foot already on the balcony when the glimmer catches my eye from the bedside table.

The bejeweled hair comb is probably worth about what the average middle district worker makes in two years, and although I’d be stupid to try to snatch it when it’s only a few inches away from its sleeping owner, but on the other hand, I’d be stupid not to try when it has the potential to keep someone’s kid eating three squares a day for months. Groaning inwardly and silently cursing everything in the world that makes me impulsive enough to even try pulling this off, I roll my eyes before turning around and slowly, torturously slowly edging my way over to the comb’s resting place.

The girl’s really pretty up close. Of course I’d make note of that when I should have my eye on the prize, despite my higher calling of helping the poor I’m still a teenager with raging hormones and no real outlet for them, and it’s an unfortunate but true fact that the wealthy daughters of Panem’s aristocracy tend to be the best looking, better fed and better maintained than their poorer counterparts. She’s different, though, unruly auburn hair giving off a soft glow under the sliver of moonlight that falls into the room and a barely-visible smattering of freckles across her cheekbones. She looks more like a wood nymph forced into someone else’s life rather than the true essence of some rich politician’s daughter, and I’m contemplating this rather than grabbing the damned comb like I should be doing when she gives a very distinct twitch and her eyelashes flutter.

It takes maybe two seconds for me to be across the room and diving for cover in the only place I can find, the open door of a well-stocked closet, quickly shutting the door and trying to control the ragged, heavy breaths that want so desperately to crawl their way out of my lungs. Something - a sleeve, a pantsleg, the phantom feeling of the hangman’s noose that will be my fate if I’m caught – tangles around my limbs, but I’m too scared of making any noise to attempt to shake it off. Five seconds pass. Ten. Twenty. I’m just considering letting out a relieved exhalation when the door creaks open. Blink. Blink. Well, there’s only one thing to do in this situation. I put on my best charming smile, pulling arbitrarily at the fabric ensnaring my arms. “Hello. I seem to be trapped in your dresses. How do you wear these things?”

Maybe if I'm lucky, she'll believe I'm just a dream.

Night falls with no grace
I said I can do anything
But I can do anything wrong
And with burning speed, the rearview says
He's catching up to me, but I’m already gone

Last Edit: Oct 5, 2011 21:54:59 GMT -5 by Deleted

gamemaker kelsier
Graphics

6,093 POSTS
Pronouns: they/them
last seen Nov 22, 2024 1:53:01 GMT -5

“And now that you don't have to be perfect, you can be good.” - steinbeck

Short of -Breath- {South} Oct 5, 2011 23:50:40 GMT -5

Post by gamemaker kelsier on Oct 5, 2011 23:50:40 GMT -5

Talking
Doing
Deep Thought
Hearing Maddox
Hearing

Every time I try and reach out for him, he seems to get farther and farther away, and everything around me is conniving to block me from him. I run down my house's long hallway, trying to reach his bedroom door before he locks me away from him. And there he is, reaching towards that pouch he keeps on him always with the carved pipe in it. A scream of raw terror builds within me as his shaking hands go to light it. He looks so worn out and thin, and I want to take the evil thing and smash it on the ground. I am almost to him when the door shuts in front of my face. I open my mouth to call out his name, when my foot lands in a sunny room, and I am transported.

My younger brother stares at me mutely, and he appears to be about eleven. I am pleased to find that the dream has instantly gotten better, and am just about to voice this opinion to him, when my brother mutely lifts his shirt to reveal a smattering of bruises. And suddenly I realize that this is no dream, but a memory. My brother has no idea I stand here watching, for he is turned away from me. I stand, mutely, watching as my brother's face contorts in faces of pain when he tries to feel them, maybe to see if they have healed. I want to reach out and hold him, I should have been there to protect him, and I have failed him as an older sister. I almost run to him, when my father enters in one of his states. I realize what is about to happen, and in terror I scream, "CHARLES!" but I am pushed from the room like a leaf in the wind, even as I hear his scream of pain begin. I bang on the door for some time, and when I turn to lean against it, tears in my eyes, I find grass under my feet.

Something about the garden seems vaguely familiar, and after a moment's hesitance, I realize why. I just drank tea in it this afternoon, an afternoon that seems so very far away, yet so very close. This time, things will be different. I stride through the maze of rosebushes, my blue dress becoming ragged and torn, until it is simply a bundle of rags. I pay no mind, determined to arrive at my destination, if scathed, so be it. As I see the tea settings coming closer and closer to me, my mother dear appears in a lawn chair, and across from her sit my family to be. I take my seat beside my mother, ready to open my mouth and explain why I will not be marrying the dolt across from me. They are my dreams, I shall run them as I wish.

But before I can say even my name, I suddenly find myself locked in a glass case. My dress has turned to that of a shepherdess found in an old fairy tale book, and my wild curls have been tamed into ringlets. People walk around me, glancing in, sometimes shaking their heads yes, sometimes shaking them in a no. My mother stands in front, as if she was trying to sell me to this crowd of onlookers, and to my horror, I see her talking to the dolt and his mother. They seem to be trying to come to an agreement. I stand in a panic, too afraid to be in a rage. Quickly, I tear off my bonnet, and my tantrum finally draws a crowd. I rip off the dress, tearing the buttons off as I go, and it feels delicious. My mother looks very distressed, as I become naked in front of this crowd. I do not care, I don't even look at her. Before I can do anything more, the box turns into a cell, and the door opens, letting me walk out free. I see a man in the distance, and I run to him, calling out his name, yet I know it not. The want for him makes tears spring to my eyes, and I know then that it cannot be the dolt.

Confused blurriness greets me as I awake from my slumber.

I do not know how long I have slept, but I do know that it has been quite enough, thank-you. I let out a soft moan as my eyelids flutter, and a shadow relieves itself of the sight of my face. I blink in confusion, slowly sitting myself up to take stock of my situation. I feel the soreness that always creeps in after I fall asleep from exhaustion, the odd positions putting more than a crook in my back. I stretch, a mewling sound escaping as I do. After a moment, I shiver from the cold, and stand up to close the doors that have been rudely letting it in all this time. As I examine my sleepy expression in the mirror, I am pleased to find that it is clear of paints. I reach out a hand to lift the mirror that I know was there when I came in, but it is gone.

In surprise, I quickly bend down to check the floor underneath, to see if it fell , but it is not there either. Come to think of it, my brush isn't there either. In a real panic now, I run my hands through the drawer, looking to see if anything else has gone missing. A necklace I received from my new father is gone, along with a ring from my old father with my birthstone on it. It no longer fits me because I received it at the age of seven. A hand flutters to my chest, to see if-it is still there- a sigh of relief leaves me in a giant woosh as I realize that I am a fool for even thinking it gone when I always wear it. That does not however, explain the fact that these things are missing, since now and the afternoon. My addled brain works to come up with an answer.

as it does so, I pull at the strings of my dress. Now that I am calmer, it is a lot easier to remove it. I slip out of it, enjoying the feeling, but not the sudden chill of standing alone in my corset and undergarments. I skip my way over to the fireplace and light it up quickly. Most unladylike, mother, I know, but I am too cold to care. Once it is well lit, I survey my room, proud of that the light bouncing off the walls is mine, and mine alone because I made it. It's surprising how much the loss of the brush and the mirror do not bother me. I don't even care much for the jewelry. It only ever got in the way anyway. I begin to undo my corset, the simple release of even a few strings a blessing. But as I do so, my hand freezes as a simple thought comes to me.

I am staring at my closet door, the stupidity of myself hiding it's ugly head in shame. I cannot believe I am so dense to have not remembered the fact that I had flung it wide open earlier. Forgetting my half-nakedness, I grab the poker from my fireplace, inching quietly over to the door. What is strange is that I do not feel fear, but a nervous excitement. I place my hand on the knob, my hair falling upon my bare shoulders with a wild tickle. I hold the poker up like a weapon, and steady myself to see an ugly old burglar in my closet. With a slow turn I suddenly open it wide, jumping back as well in case the burglar decides to charge me. I hold my poker stick at the ready, and am unprepared for what I hear next.

“Hello. I seem to be trapped in your dresses. How do you wear these things?”

I stare at the boy who cannot be any older than me, tangled in mother's favourite chiffon. With a shocked surprise, I sit down with a thud, just missing the end of my bed, so I slide down to land on the floor. I know I must look ridiculous right now, with my mouth opened up in a wide 'O', but it is difficult when such a creature sits in front of you. His voice sounds like one of a boy who talks with squirrels daily, and is well versed in the chatter of a whole different country to my own. There is something about it that says, "Hello, I have never steeped foot in a wealthy household my entire life," but still managed to note the splendid taste of the cakes at so and so's tea. It tastes like pine needles, and feels like a soft wool sweater in the cold of winter. If I could even tell you what a home should feel like, that would be it.

Strange images decorate his arms, as if someone had taken a paint brush and just had at it. His hair is wild and messy, even as he looks at me, with that goofy face. The dress will be ruined now, but I don't find myself caring, instead, I swallow down nervousness and answer his question in what I hope is in the same light tone. "Not very easily." I smile uncertainly, never being in this situation before. As I continue to stare, i realize with a sudden gasp that there is a man in my closet, and I am half naked. In sudden embarrassment, I tear a light blanket off of my bed and fling it over myself, holding it up to cover the skin not in my corset. Anger remembers to flare through me, and with sudden annoyance, I wish for him to leave. If he is my knight in shining armor, he has come a tiny bit late, and taken my things to boot.

"You might have asked," I grumble, -unladylike!- "I would have given them to you happily." I speak of the ornaments he has taken from me of course. The blanket begins to slip down, and I do not fix it as I watch him struggle with the dress. The chain of my long locket reaches down to pool in my corset, and the firelight glints off of the bit that peaks out. With a sigh of defeat, I let my anger slip away, and stand up, uncaring for my half nakedness. Slipping into my closet to kneel beside the intruder, I lay a hand on his arm to stop his struggle, and quietly slip the dress away from him so he is freed. The warmth of his skin against my own does not escape my notice, in fact my body revels in it, a heat glowing on my cheeks. I keep still for a quick moment, our breath mingling, the harsh sound the only thing to break the night other than the crackling of the fire. I move back away, my cheeks warmed to steal the fire heat as cover for my sin of dreaming of his heat against mine.

"Why are you in my room? Other than stealing my things." I myself, even notice the desperate longing that leaks itself into my words, and I squeeze my eyes shut to keep out any impromptu tears. I have cried enough for today, and it is wearing me thin. For a moment though, I wish to believe that he is my knight in shining armor, come to save me from this cage. He is in my room because he has come to take me away. I know however with a quiet loneliness that he will leave in a moment. I stopped truly believing in heroes the moment I came to this household. I know now that if you want to be saved, the only one that can be doing the saving is you alone.

Last Edit: Oct 5, 2011 23:52:23 GMT -5 by gamemaker kelsier

compendium / avriel
clown car / pietro
2022 tracker / 2023 tracker / 2024 tracker

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Short of -Breath- {South} Oct 16, 2011 1:57:39 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Oct 16, 2011 1:57:39 GMT -5

I've been roaming around

I was looking down at all I see
Painted faces fill the places I can't reach
You know that I could use somebody
You know that I could use somebody

[/center]
It’s safe to say that this entire experience hasn’t played out the way I expected it to. What was supposed to be an easy, routine task has ended up landing me between a rock and a hard place, or more literally between the back of a closet and a pretty girl wielding a cast-iron poker like Excalibur. My mind is the oddest thing, really, because even though I should be freaking the hell out and quickly formulating escape plans - the last time someone caught me it involved screaming and frantic calls to law enforcement and me barely making it over the fence and into the night in time – all I can manage to think of is how she doesn’t really look so much like a wood nymph anymore when she could very easily impale me on a pointy piece of metal, more like one of the warrior princesses is all those comic books I read as a kid. Scary-pretty. Like she’s someone you’d love to ask out but you never do for fear she’ll kill you for having the audacity.

But then she smiles, and it all changes. Maybe it’s just been too long since I’ve actually seen a girl enough to remember, but I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen a smile like that. It lights up the room, brighter and warmer than the fire in the corner, and for a few seconds I’m that stupid teenager from the Capitol again, testing out the territory with another pretty girl. And then it’s gone, just as quickly as it came, and she’s back to that surly, snarly thing that’s still pretty but also distinctly more dangerous. At least she sat the poker down, though, so impalement is no longer on my list of immediate risk factors. Still, getting out of here would be nice, and sooner rather than later. With a mild groan, I realize that my plans for the next few days have all gone down the drain. If and when – emphasis on the if, because I have a feeling that if this girl doesn’t want me to leave then I won’t be leaving – I get out of here, she’s most certainly going to call law enforcement, which means my plan of heading to the slums and giving out what I can is pretty much impossible. No, I’ll be hauling ass over the fence and into the woods, running for a good twelve hours or so before I’ll feel safe enough to find a tree to camp out in. As if I wasn’t tired enough already.

”You might have asked. I would have given them to you happily,” the girl mumbles irritably, eyes glinting in the firelight that casts flickering shadows over the pale expanse of her shoulders. That’s another thing that’s odd about her. I’ve never seen someone so pale, not even in the Capitol where odd skin colors are commonplace. It’s almost like she’s never been in the sunlight, but the spray of freckles over her cheekbones tell me otherwise, sending a pang of misplaced nostalgia stabbing somewhere in my chest because Marla had freckles like that when she was little, before Mom made her surge them off. I’m reminded again of how even though I loathe my birthplace with more fiery hatred than anyone ought to have that I’m still horribly homesick. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from running around in the woods for a year, from seeing people that don’t have a place to lay their head at night still be able to smile, it’s that home isn’t a place. Home can be a person, though, I’ve seen enough proof of that, and maybe the only reason I’m even heading back to the Capitol is because of the fragile hope that seeing Marla and Prince again, even if just for a little while, might make me not feel so lonely all the time.

”Well if I’d have known that a beautiful, classy lady like yourself would be so generous, I would have certainly woken you up,” I drawl sardonically in response, throwing in an eye roll for effect before launching into a fresh struggle with the ~~straitjacket~~ dress imprisoning me. I only stop at the unexpected realization that I’m being assisted, the red-haired girl’s fingers flying swiftly over the fabric and helping me out of it (so it was caught on my bow. Knew it. Damn thing) until I’m completely liberated from the demonic contraption - seriously. Why on Earth would someone wear these things? But oddly enough, she just sort of stays there after she’s finished, her hand resting on my arm, the pallor of it made even more stark by the contrast with my own tan, not to mention the swirls of slightly faded ink that stand out even darker in comparison. For a few seconds (hours? Days? Millenia?) our eyes lock, and I take the time to notice that hers are big and dark and the kind you could really get lost in if you wanted to… But I don’t want to, no, not at all, so I look away and clear my throat, standing up and dusting myself off, adjusting the bow and quiver so they sit in the right place again before chancing another glance at her. ”Um… Thanks.”

Someone like you and all you know and how you speak

Countless lovers under cover of the street
You know that I could use somebody
You know that I could use somebody
Someone like you[/center]
”Why are you in my room? Other than stealing my things.” I swear, I can’t figure her out. One second she’s smiling and the next she’s helping me and now she chooses to get affronted? Women. Arching an eyebrow at her sudden hostility, I can’t help but crack a smile because she’s one of those girls that are really kind of adorable when they’re miffed, and I’ve never been one to let someone else have the last word.

”Stealing? Oh, that’s a naughty word, miss. I never steal. I just… sort of borrow a bit from those who can afford it.” A widened smile, a slight shrug. ”Although I suppose if this is borrowing then I’m in quite a bit of debt.”

I decide that the trinkets in my bag aren’t worth it. Hell, this girl… she might not even call the Peacekeepers if I give her stuff back. I can’t really read her, but she seems like the type to at least give me a head start before setting the bloodhounds of the Law on me, so I open up my bag and pull out everything I managed to grab; the comb, the mirror, he brush, the jewelry, the purses -Shame, really. Such a good haul, but nevertheless – and extending them towards her. ”No, but in all honesty, I’m not in it for my own profit, believe it or not. That stuff wasn’t for me.”

A glance out the window reveals the distant glimmering lights of the district, shimmering quietly like dying stars in the night. I nod towards them, looking back at the girl and wondering why she hasn’t reclaimed her belongings the second I offered them back to her. ”It’s for them. The people in the poor part of the District, I mean. There are people that live here who work all day and still don’t make enough to feed their family, or even keep a roof over their head. All the money goes to taxes or fees or putting their kids through Career training so they’ll be safer if they go in the Games, and well… I don’t really think that’s fair. That mirror and brush set? I’m not an appraiser, but from my experience something like that could get a kid three meals a day for about six months. No offense, miss, but it’s just my opinion that those hungry kids need the money that mirror could get them more than you need another piece of glass to look at yourself in.”

I shrug again, laying the pile of stuff gently down on the bedspread before heading back to the balcony, trying to figure out how I’m going to get back into the tree from here. ”Anyhow, I’d best be going. Sorry about waking you up and scaring you and taking your valuables without your permission. Pleasure making your acquaintance, Miss –“

And damn it all Ferrell you’re an idiot she’s just a girl and you need to run don’t you dare look back – then I turn around, hands stuffed into the worn linings of my pockets and another one of those stupid idiot-grins stretching across my face as I take one last look at the strange girl with the fiery hair and deepdark eyes. ”You know, I don’t believe I got your name.”

Off in the night while you live it up I'm off to sleep

Waging wars to shake the poet and the beat
I hope it's gonna make you notice
I hope it's gonna make you notice
Someone like me[/center][/justify][/blockquote][/size][/color]

Last Edit: Oct 16, 2011 2:01:42 GMT -5 by Deleted

gamemaker kelsier
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“And now that you don't have to be perfect, you can be good.” - steinbeck

Short of -Breath- {South} Oct 16, 2011 15:30:11 GMT -5

Post by gamemaker kelsier on Oct 16, 2011 15:30:11 GMT -5

Talking
Doing
Deep Thought
Hearing Maddox
Hearing

Opening in my eyes, I study the mantelpiece before turning to look at the theif once again. On it are faded photos, one of my biological father, another of my step father, and yet a third of my brother and I when we were rather young, the summer after we were separated and he came to visit me. I lift a hand, tracing my mother's face, the photo of her as a young girl looking nothing like me, as I am now. Somewhere in my mind, I make a decision, and all that's left to do is find out what that decision is. So, ever so slowly, I turn around, my face thoughtful, and lost of it's previous look of annoyance.

I watch him as he prowls almost cat like around the room, and I cannot help but enjoy his natural grace. It was quite unexpected due to the way he was caught so easily in the dress, but I find myself watching him instead of listening to the words that he spewed out. Yet, I find myself falling into a deep blush when he calls me beautiful. I know by his tone that it is almost meant to insult, but I have never been called beautiful before, and I plan to treasure the word. Oh yes, mother would be pleased, the one time I was called beautiful, it was by a young man who climbed into my window to steal my things. I carefully shake my head, trying to remove the thought from my mind. When he called me beautiful, he didn't mean it. It was meant to distract, and distract it had, for I had quite forgotten my original goal.

I play with the idea of just letting him leave, this rough, uncouth stranger that has invaded my privacy so easily. But I realize that I do not want to. The decision is saying a deep and resonant no. So I carefully move in front of the closed balcony doors, trying to look as if I moved there for a different reason. ”Stealing? Oh, that’s a naughty word, miss. I never steal. I just… sort of borrow a bit from those who can afford it.”I can't help laughing at this, it's most unladylike of me, but I throw my head back in a roar almost loud enough to wake my family, if it weren't for the fact that their suits were on completely different sides of the estate from mine. A hand flies to my mouth in remembrance, to hide the emotion. But just as quickly, I take it away again, at war with myself.

My life has been a series of actors taking their places, but the difference between them and I is that they always had a backstage to go to, while I was left with no place for myself. Not even a stage manager to my life, just an innocent bystander. He pulls my things out of his sack, and holds them out to me. I quietly look at these things that mean so little to me, and would mean so much more to someone else, apparently. Whatever that meant, I have never seen someone who is poorer than me, always of the same station, it never even occurred to me that there could be poor people, I thought peasants belonged in fairy tales. I'm still staring as he talks of why he steals, and who he gives it to, and I find it to be the most interesting thing I have heard in my entire career of existing.

Between two lungs it was released
The breath that carried me
The sigh that blew me forward

I stand silently, even as he finally places the things down on the bed. Probably done with waiting for my to take them. As he talks on, I stare at the pile of nothings, contemplating. Before I realize it, my nasty habit of chewing on my thumb nail is back, the delicate digit resting against my lips like a small bit of ivory. I move away from the balcony doors, trying to figure out why I was filled with so much annoyance before, when I knew they were in his sac, yet I cannot seem to pull it up, the dull emotion clawing down at my feet, while the dominant emotion of excitement rages war between my intestines. "No, you saved me, thank-you for the awakening," I say, neglecting to explain my meaning. And suddenly my eyes are glimmering, and I cannot stop smiling as I turn with a rush to my vanity and start pulling out more useless things. A necklace, a ring, an old jeweled picture frame lands on my bed beside the things, but I do not stop there, I am in what the call a fine frenzy.

I ignore the boy standing in my window sill, like an older version of the boy who never wanted to grow, casting his shadow along my wall. His quiver of sharp things, along with a long curved piece of wood with a bit of string attached. No, I begin to pull dresses off of their hooks, running out and throwing them onto the bed, taking ornaments from around the room, running and running around until I have it all, everything I own, sitting on this great pile that has suddenly grown bigger than all of Panem itself. My hair flies around me, and I know I must look like the devil himself as my face reddens with my excitement. I stop, standing stock still in my now empty closet, excluding one small, folded pile of clothing. I kneel down in my bloomers and corset, one hand caressing the fabric, his smell on them.

I float down as I realize that I will be abandoning my brother if I take this course of action. But my heart hardens as I remember that he is abandoning me to a life as sorrow if he lets me go through with this. I wish to see these poor people who don't even get food or shelter. I wish to taste the sun on my arms, and the sweetness of a cool brook on my heels. And I cannot do that if I stay here. If I stay, all will be nothing, just a new cage for me. That is what the nightmare was telling me, and I will heed it's warning. I stand, holding the pile up to my chest, grim determination stealing my outward appearance. I do not know if the boy has remained, but hopefully he realized what I was doing and did stay. Or he ran off into the night, which would be done rightfully so, why trust me?

I rush out of the closet, wondering if he still remains, and I see now that he asks for my name. I drop the pile of clothes at my feet, my locket swinging wildly upon it's chain, my hair beyond dishevelment. My breath catches in my throat again, and I suddenly come down to a landing, standing in front of the burglar, my hands on my hips, and my legs apart. I stand at the ready, and finally tell him my name.

"I am Maid Marian Fletcher, and I would be rather pleased with you if you would remove this damned corset."

And my running feet could fly
Each breath screaming
We are all too young to die