IGNATIUS "IGNITE" FLETCHER D1 {FINISHED}

cass
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IGNATIUS "IGNITE" FLETCHER D1 {FINISHED} Mar 12, 2012 18:49:16 GMT -5

Quote

Post by cass on Mar 12, 2012 18:49:16 GMT -5

Name: IGNATIUS FLETCHER
Age: 17
Gender: Male
District/Area: District 1
Appearance:

Personality:

NOTHING I LOVE MORE THEN BEING OUTSIDE. STARS SCARE THE BEJEVAS OUT OF ME. I'M STUBBORN, I GET OT FROM MY SISTER. I HATE FANCY DRESS. A PAIR OF SLACKS AND A LOOSE TOP FOR ME. IMAPTIENCE. FRRIENDS WHO NEEDS THEM? BUT I FIND MYSELF WITH A LOT.

History:

THE LETTERS. RUN HIDE. MY FATHERS HOME. COWER. SCREAM. HE IS GOING TO HIT ME. I'M NOT A WHIMP. I KNOW HOW TO FIGHT.THE LETTERS. MY SISTER WORRIES. I DON'T KNOW WHETHER I CARE ANYMORE. I MISS HER, BUT SHE IS THE LEAST OF MY WORRIES. THE STAIRS. THE LETTERS. HE CAN'T CLIMB THEM DRUNK. NO. MOTHER RUN. THE LETTERS.

Codeword: ODAIR
Comments/Other:

FC- CALEB LANDRY JONES
LYRICS-"VISIONS" BY ABNORMALITY

THE BROTHER OF ELEGANTS AMAZING MARIAN FLETCHER

Doing
Deep Thought
Talking
Hearing

Last Edit: Mar 21, 2012 2:43:58 GMT -5 by cass

cass
Retired Staff

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last seen Oct 24, 2021 18:11:43 GMT -5

IGNATIUS "IGNITE" FLETCHER D1 {FINISHED} Mar 13, 2012 3:03:59 GMT -5

Quote

Post by cass on Mar 13, 2012 3:03:59 GMT -5

/ Ignatius Fletcher /

Doing
In My Head
Listen Closely
I Hear You

Such sordid words have fallen
Into deaf ears
A mind ignored in swollen form

☪ The Beginning

NAME // IGNATIUS FLETCHER
AGE // ONE AND A SEVEN
DISTRICT // ONE
GENDER // MALE
SEXUALITY // I JUST DON'T KNOW

//appearance.

Sit that was all the lady in the pink frilly dress had said. She had just given me a stern look, a simple command before walking away. I don’t feel like sitting. She came back within a few seconds and her face darkened with a scowl as she saw me still standing in the room. I sat hurriedly. She looked more like a bulldog then a maid. The lady sat down opposite to me, her pink dress stood out against the bright white of the stool. In comparison my pale grey designer cut jeans and equally pale shirt blended in. I looked like a no one compared to her, just part of the scenery. Then again I had always just been invisible.

[/color]”Now deary tell me, tell me everything about you.” Why would I tell everything about myself to this women? Because if I don’t my 'father' will hurt me again…

”Well…” I didn't want to say anything. I couldn't. I couldn't tell this lady, the way my chin would jut out slightly more then I liked, and how sometimes when I ate it seemed to always get in the way. It infuriated me; it made me feel like I was an idiot. I felt uneven, insecure about the way I looked. My long angular face does nothing to make me more comfortable, I always find myself sparring a quick glance at a window, or puddle, or I would rub it unconsciously, my fingers lingering on the sharp jut at the tip of a large prominent face. Well at least my ears decided to sit back and let the chin take all the glory, although I wished they hadn’t. It gives me a very strange uneven look. A chin that bludges out and ears that seem to be glued to the sides of my head. It was fairly safe to say, I hated my face.

I don’t know why, but when people look at my ~~amazingly sexy face,~~[/s] face they don’t see my nose. My face it is just so pale that my nose like blends in. It has no shape. It’s just well there. It makes it funny though when I put a spoon on it and it looks like it is just floating there. My lips unlike my darling sisters are somewhat quite thin, but they sit well against another’s. Yes, I have tested it before. More than once. My sister says I have more freckles then there are stars, this makes me snort, also cower in fear. I don’t know why, actually I do, but I have this fear of stars, to me they look like a bunch of eyes staring at you, picking at your every move. Haunting, following me. I rather like to think my freckles are like little splotches of paint, like the artwork that I am.

Fire, fire, fire my sister would scream when we were young, she would run from me, snickering and snorting at the ginger hair atop of my head. I quite like it. She made me feel uncomfortable, but whenever she would come over to me and touch it she would giggle, in that sweet way that little girls do. Even though she is a year older than me, sometimes I felt older. My hair, it does look like orange flames, it is really ginger and sticks out against my white skin. Sometimes I can just imagine myself like a glowing orb, always visible. I feel like a beacon, a place where people can come when they are lost and scream “I’m here; I’m here, by the bright orange fire.” One day maybe someone will mistake me the light of the lost. I doesn’t really help that my hair is pretty long, it just gives it that you know longer like, it makes it so messy and really annoying to care for, it just gets so knotty and just ugh. Omg I sound like a girl.

When you look into a face what is the first thing you see? Me, I see nothing. I don’t really look at people’s faces, they just don’t interest me, but my mother doesn’t like the way I avert everyone’s gazes, so she has begun to force me to look into people’s eyes. Into their souls. I hate looking, staring into people’s eyes, but then I really love it. I love seeing all the different colours and how some eyes can change from the deepest of greens to the most simple of blues. It fascinates me. When I look in the mirror I look at my eyes. I stare for ages, just to try and pick out all the most strangest shades of blue, or the most unique of colours. I love the way my eyes start off as a deep rich blue in the centre, kind of like the ocean at its deepest, almost black, but not quite. Then they move to the finer and more beautiful blues, until finely they end, dull and plain like my life. My eyes are my favourite part of my body and no matter how many times I stare at them they always look different.

I hate the way my mother is so persistent on always choosing my clothes. The way she picks out the most revolting and idiotic looking shirts, or the pants that just want to float out into a point. I love wearing clothes that hang loosely, that just sit there and don’t choke me to death, or are tight enough to suffocate me. But I never get a choice, when your mother always thinks she is right, what choice do you get in the matter of just little things like clothes choice? You get nothing, but a glare or scowl if you argue. I once chose my own clothes and my mother said I looked like a prostitute, that had just finished a nights work. I can’t say I nearly cried, my father being the awful man he was laughed.

My eyes once more return to the lady in front of me, who in turn stares back at me. How could I tell her any of that? I couldn’t. I found myself staring once more at her, but she showed no signs of leaving.
[/blockquote][/size][/justify]

And it's routine to tolerate
The scars are embedded
Lost in translation

//personality.

A long time ago I was out with my friends, I had quite a few of them, but now a days I have a lot more. Don’t ask me how I got them. I don’t know and to be honest I really don’t like most of them. But when I was younger around the age of twelve I had a really small tight knit group of friends, there was only three of us. We use to do all the bad stuff, all the stuff that most kids run away from. None of it was good. I would get up to all sorts of trouble, but I never told anyone about what kind of things we did. Only myself and my friends knew about any of it. Then one day my darling father decided to follow us. I think it began everything. I think he figured out all the lies that had passed between us. He just became so agressive. I became fearful and scared. Someone I am not.

I could still remember it as clearly as I could see the posh, ugly pink lady in front of me. I hadn’t known that Marina was following us, I had to admit that she was very good at keeping quiet. The district had been quiet which was very unusually for a Saturday evening. I could still feel the way the hot sun pounded my back, and the way the sweat tickled as it ran down my skin. The ground had had heat waves rolling off of it, you could see the heat. I had neglected to wear a shirt that day, and red patches littered the pale skin of my back. My friends and I were headed to the small lake that sited at the very edge of the district. A tall cliff ran down one side, perfect for diving off and into the cool water. I hadn’t yet jumped off the cliff yet, I was looking forward to it. It wasn’t a very long walk from the more middle class part of the district, but from right at the top of where I lived, it was a decent length. I was a good liar and it had been easy to leave without my parents knowing where I was going. The bigger the lie the easier it was to believe

To be honest I had no clue on how deep the water was, but I am naïve and I believe everything I hear, I heard about water. I didn’t think I just went. I don’t think before I act. I see , hear something I like I do it, stuff thinking, thinking only creates fear, then once fear has settled in you become hesitant. Hesitance then leads to you doing nothing. I wasn’t going to let that happen. I wanted to swim, and so I would. Regardless, of me not knowing anything about the water. So we went to the cliff, my friends and I. I am not the bravest person in the world, so I stood back and waited for them to go first, ever since my father started bashing and abusing me. I just became less open and a little more shy, just in case something I did would set him off and I would turn up to school littered with bruises, cuts and scratches. I would try and hide, but he would always find me. If I got away, he would wait. Just wait until I came back.

I still remember pushing my best friend over the edge, he smiled at me as he feel, he gave an excitement yip as he feel, turning himself into a dive. I looked down, and prepared myself to jump over the edge, and follow my best friend. When my father sudden;y appeared. I screamed, it was probably the first time I had screamed i ny life, but it wouldn't be the last. I would scream a lot more. I still remember the pain I felt as his arm shot out and wrapped tightly around my arm, the wayhe dug his nails in, and the way I squeled in surprise and pain. I can still remember the eyes, the way they looked, as if there was not enough space in them, to show just how much he hated me. I'm a brave person, but when it came to this man, I am a coward. I will sit back and not speak. I will do as I'm told. I take the beatings, because i'm too weak to do anything. I'm to small and uncapable of protecting myself. I'm useless. I'm worse off then my sister, at least she got away.

I’m a stubborn person, so at first in my ignorance I thought back against him. I pulled myself hit him and yelled curses at him. But all this man’s life he had trained as a career, he had trained from dawn to dask in the arts of fighting. He was way stronger then I was. But I’m stubborn so I kept fighting as he pulled me into the forest that surrounded the lake. I kept tugging and hitting him, but it felt like I was just hitting a wall, you could hit it as much as you wanted, but no matter how many times you hit it, you couldn’t dent it. Eventually I gave up. I wanted to cry, but I knew no good would come of it. That’s another thing about me. I give up. Just let myself get taken, I just throw my hands in the air and say “I’m finished.” I don’t keep fighting. Why fight when there is nothing to fight for. I have never been that person who will fight to the end. I don’t think I ever will be that kind of person. I’ve always hidden from a fight, and if I’m part of it I will give up, if everything is against me, I don’t keep going.

He dragged me deep into the forest, than to my surprised we stopped. I’m an aggressive person, so I instantly felt myself grow angry at the man who know towered over me. I was angry, and really scared. I had no energy to do anything. I wanted to go home. Then he started hitting me. I blocked the first hit and easily retaliated with my own, but when I am scared I go all uncoordinated and sloppy. He easily blocked it and he just kept hitting me. Even when I cried out to stop, even when I started crying. I don’t cry. I guess my anger at what was happening was the only thing stopping me from completely breaking down. The anger bubbled beneath the surface and I know that it wanted to come out. It just wouldn’t. It couldn’t. It was too scared. Even the fact that I was a career and could fight did nothing against each hit. Each hit was worse than the first, and each hit mad eme cry, and cry, but no one could hear me. Except for the man that stared down at his son, stared at him right in the eyes, before punching him in the face.

I snapped my eyes back to the room, focusing once again on the lady in front of me. Her eyes stayed focus on me, and i knew I couldn't tell her about all the beatings, or the fact that I was an impatient, selfish,weak and pathetic idiot that could do nothing. I wasn't going to tell her any of it. "Wake up boy. Speak." She snapped at me. I turned a stoney glare at her. She was treating me like my father. Like everyone in my life had treated me. Like a dog. They all treated me that way, ever since Marian left...

Or maybe you didn't hear me
The beast in the beauty
Loathing and listening

//history.

It all started a long time ago, I was no more than two when my elder sister left. She use to play with me all the time, we would spend hours together, playing and drawing with crayons, she would explain to me what it was like to be a career, and what we would have to do. She told me just how amazing our parents were, how soft and gentle they were. They to her were perfect. Then she disappeared. For I don’t even know how long I never saw her. I had to teach myself things I only knew from a kind word from her or a laugh. I didn’t know how to draw without her steady hand to guide me, even though she was only a year older than me, it felt like we were the same, but yet it felt as if she was yeas older then I, as if she was my mother, and I was her child. In those times I spent with her sitting outside of our house I could relax, I didn’t pent up my anger, or steal food for my own good, from my own kitchen. I was free to be the independent strong brave two year old that I had been.

When she left it tore me apart, I cried for days and days, my mother could do nothing to help me, no maid no one could, they couldn’t do anything to shut me up, or stop the flow of tears that just fell down my face. Then I went for a car ride one day. I of course cried, and cried the whole trip. Then we stopped by the most outer skirts of the district, the edges where only the poorest of the essentially rich district lived it was a horrible place. The car slide through the area like a charry in a lettuce field, it shone out so much, and yes we had a car, it was one of those pieces of crap that only ran for a little over an hour before breaking down. It had almost, almost made my family go broke when they had brought it. I still to be honest don’t know why they did.

We pulled up to an old house, and to my absolute delight I saw Marian. She stood at the first step of the house. Ran right up to her and hugged her and hugged her. I wasn’t sure I would ever let her go again. But of course of I had to. This time I didn’t cry I guess, because I knew that she was here, and that no matter what happened I would know where she was. And every day I ached to see her. I wanted her to see me, but she never came. Then when I turned seven I took the chance and found my way to the place I could only remember scraps of. I followed a memory of a two year old. I found her though. I found her. I found the place she stayed the hell she lived in. I begged her a lot to come back, but she never would.

Then the letters started, slowly at first, but then they seemed to always come, we sent letters all the time to one another. We told each other secrets we would never tell another or truths that others could never know. She sent me letters that flowed and seemed to be the work of artists, whilst my letters were disjointed and ugly. We still meet every now and then, I could never and still don’t understand why she doesn’t visit me. I always find my way to the place where she lives, but she has never once done it for me. I often find myself wondering why she never came to visit. Usually when I am staring at a letter that seems so old that the most slightest of a breeze would tear it to pieces. The rest are gone. All of them were destroyed. I have but only one left. The only when I could save, before he took them all away.

[/i]

That was the day the bashing’s started, the day I went for a trip to the lake. The day my dad checked my room. The day the terror started I remember after the forest, how he had basically dragged my body home. My mother hadn’t been home. Blood essentially covered my face, and I knew that if I would have had the energy to look at my body I would see a lot of things that would normally make me vomit. He stumbled away from him, and he followed me into the loving room. I cried out as he followed me. All I could feel was fear, it was even over running the pain I felt. I knew that if this man wanted to he could easily kill me. He shoved me in the back and I went flying onto the carpet. I cried as my head smashed with the table, and I screamed as he tilted my head pack, pinning me down on my stomach. Pain and fear, it was all that I knew at that moment. At was all that I felt.

He bent low against my ear. ”Now you listen to me boy. You will stop sending those letters to that girl. She will mean nothing to you. She will be dead to you. If you don’t I will kill her.” He spat the words at me. I could hear the venom that dripped off each of those words as he spoke about her. I cried out as he smashed my head against the carpet. ”Do you hear me.” He snarled. I let out what I could only call a whimper. He stood up and dusted his pants as if this was just any ordinary day. As if bashing up his son was a normal thing. As if I meant nothing. The letters stopped. I was scared, I was frightened. I didn’t want to see her get killed because of me. I loved Marian so much, but I think the main reason why I stopped sending the letters was because I was scared. I was the scaredest I had ever felt. The bashings never stopped.

Only when my father died did it all changed. I am not afraid to say that I don't miss him. Not one little bit. I feel no remorse for the man that bashed me. Even though he taught me how to fight, how to do first aid, how to heal even the smallest of wounds to the most complex. I don't care he was a bad man. He seperated my family. He destryed us all. It was his own fault. But what I can say is that it was the most happiest day of my life to see Marian move back into the house. Althou it seems that our relationship still needs to heal, we are together again. I hope it will always be that way.[/blockquote][/size][/justify]

So where will you run
If the sky starts falling
When your home is nowhere to be found

//other.

// FC - Caleb Landry Jones
// Lyrics - Visions By Anormality
// Other Charries - Here <3

[/size]

☪ Life Goes On

The letters weren't the end of our relationship, they were just the beginning...

Last Edit: Mar 21, 2012 18:19:27 GMT -5 by cass

cass Retired Staff 4,822 POSTS last seen Oct 24, 2021 18:11:43 GMT -5	IGNATIUS "IGNITE" FLETCHER D1 {FINISHED} Mar 20, 2012 4:53:05 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by cass on Mar 20, 2012 4:53:05 GMT -5 Finally Finished! :D <3 I hope you like him <33

semper Retired Staff 2,354 POSTS last seen Jan 1, 2014 0:57:11 GMT -5	IGNATIUS "IGNITE" FLETCHER D1 {FINISHED} Mar 20, 2012 5:25:13 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by semper on Mar 20, 2012 5:25:13 GMT -5 HE IS ACCEPTED BECAUSE I LOVE HIS COLORS <3 xD Accepted! ^^ [/size]
	i hear the mountains calling me home