LUCAH GAVIN ELBOURNE [d4] || FINISHED

Ahora en este momento esta orden es alto.

There is nothing special about me. I am your average cynical, reclusive, germaphobe, hateful eighteen-year-old. My dark brown eyes could be called black, but to call them that my irises would have to be completely nonexistant (for they would blend then, right?). I have once been told that they look like the end of the skylight, the purplish-black that surrounds you right before the moon begins to emerge. I suppose if I have heard anything, that seems to be the most accurate description. My hair is similarily dark as it curls and flips somewhat dramatically at the end. It's too long for some I suppose, but any shorter and it looks wrong. My lips are thick and full, or at least they seemed to be that way last time I had the opportunity to see myself in a reflection. I punched the last mirror I've seen, honestly. My nose is a tad large for my face, but it does not necessarily look bad. A small stubble can be seen on my face at times, but only when I didn't think about a shave that day.

I am not fit. I eat, yes. Most everyone in the District does. With an abundance of food from the sea constantly at our fingertips, even the poorest of us all can craft a rod and pick out a fish or two. I just don't eat a lot. It's just more of a mess to clean up, and more calories I won't burn. The constant sight and taste of seafood can be overbearing and sickening at times, so I tend to steer clear of the one thing that keeps my home running. My body has meat-I certainly don't look like one of the more unlucky souls from the lower Districts-but it's definitely not comparable to the large frames of the ones who work to prepare themselves for the Games. I never understood the reasoning behind the bulking up; it just means you've become adjusted to a bigger diet, which is exactly what one will not find in the arena. It's somewhat a big disadvantage on their part, but nobody has the guts to tell them that.

For the sake of clothing, the District is just lucky I don't patrol the streets bare. I could care less whether or not my outfit complies with "fashion standards" at the current moment. I put on the cleanest things I can find in my closet, not caring if it matches or not. I've never been one to worry about my outward image; I don't take the time to make relationships with people that would care, anyways. I wear what fits, what keeps me comfortable, and what keeps me warm. To worry about anything more than that is just more food on my plate that I can't manage to swallow. Somehow though, I manage to come out of my house looking better than a lot of others. Or so my sister says. She's the one who pays attention to what people are wearing. I never understood why it matters to her, but at least it keeps her happy and preoccupied.

My hands seem to be the most interesting thing about me. The edge of my hand is almost always black, saturated with the dark ink and graphite from pens and pencils. I write to the bottom of pages, my hand not able to keep up with the pace my mind is racing at. Fingernails are bitten down to the quick, for the sake of keeping them short and out of the way. The pain doesn't hurt enough to make me notice it, so I continue at it. Scars are scattered all around my knuckles, wrists and palms. Too many mirrors broken and too many slips with the knife to call them accidents anymore. Now it just seems like a common part of my life. I don't even really consider it self-harm, I do it too little. Just when I have it in my hand, just when it's clean and sterile, just when I want to know that something in my life is real. It's not self-harm. Is it?

Mirando en el fregadero de la sangre y la chapa picado.

Hosca carga está llena, así lento en la división.

I can practically see the germs wriggling around on every exposed inch of everything. It's like they're only there to taunt me, to make me feel weak and powerless. Living within a body's length to the edge of the water, where the waves come to meet the sand, is fortunate; our need for legitimate cleaning supplies is nonexistant, as we can use the endless saltwater to sanitize and scrub. I spend my days working it into every surface in our house, and at the end of the day I can take a little pride in knowing that I'm the reason why the house is literally shining. By the time I finish, the sunset is visible through our windows, casting a bright red and yellow glow into our home, and I can see everything sparkling as the light hits it. Some might call it beautiful, but I only take it as an irritating reminder that I'll have to repeat the process again the next day.

The closest thing I have to a friend is my journal. One of my favourite things about it is that it doesn't even appear to be one; it looks more like an old, faded textbook from some class I took long ago, which is perfect for concealing it amongst the stacks of books on my shelves. A lot of people journal-a lot more than you would think-but most don't write the kinds of things that I do. That journal is full of memories and dark voids that I don't wish to re-enter–each time you delve into one, it becomes harder and harder to resurface yourself. And each time you emerge from it, it comes to be more painful to do; you have adjusted to the darkness and despair that surrounds the void, to the point where it feels more familiar than anything else you've ever experienced.

People don't take the time to give me attention, and I don't have the urge to give it, either. There is nothing remarkably striking about anybody to me, and to say that one person deserves another's attention more than someone else is perposterous. Instead of regarding everyone equally, I sway in the other direction and don't regard anyone at all. It's easier that way, anyway; you're not obligated to anyone, or to anything, and you can focus on yourself rather than trying to impress someone who won't be in your life for very much longer. People make plans with one another to remain friends for their entirety of their lifetimes, or promise to keep their bond strong even through times of strife and sadness, but it most always never happens. People change, grow up, move on, and forget. It is human nature, after all.

I am quite a good friend if you take your time with me, though. I've only had two friends in my life, and only one is still alive. Both have told me I'm a great listener. I suppose I would just rather have them put their faith and trust in me than the other way around. I observe more than I speak, slow to react. Quick, unprecedented actions only ask for more conflict and wasted time and energy. If more people took mere seconds before they said something potentially offensive or questionable to another and thought to themselves Is this really how I want to come across to this person? then I guarantee it would be so much easier for me and countless others to trust and enjoy other people. But it will never happen; it will never click in people to perhaps consider the intentions appreciate the motives of others.

I have more faith in myself than I do in anyone else. There is only one person in anyone's life that they can count on one-hundred percent, and that is their own self. You yourself know your true intentions and motives, and you yourself know what you need to accomplish in life in order to feel successful. Nobody else can answer the same for you. I do not put my energy into people because I know that they will only wind up beneath my expectations. Each time I place my trust inside someone's hands, I set myself up for disappointment and failure. It's not something you ever truly accept, it's just something you learn to live with and hope that you understand why you placed your bar so high to begin with. Place your bar lower, and you will never be disheartened.

My mother raised my sister and me speaking two languages. I don't know what the other language is called, the one we don't use as much-she told me once, long ago, but I was either too indifferent or too distract to retain it. I rarely use the other one anymore, seeing as nobody speaks it here. We get odd looks and reactions from people when we use it in public. It's an uncommon sound, a foreign language. They must think we're talking about them, or something else just as mischievious. People don't trust what they don't understand. I prefer to speak to my sister in this language, though. It gives us the privacy and comfort that we need to discuss personal matters, as well as to ensure that our business isn't spread throughout the District.

Estoy rompiendo en los puentes, y al final de todas tus líneas.

Corta todas las cuerdas y me deje caer.

Her body, floating weightlessly on the top of the water. Her hair was spread out around her, like a halo to an angel. She was brilliantly blonde, brilliantly happy, brilliantly beautiful. And then suddenly, shockingly fast, she was gone. The grace that she had brought into everyone's life, the smile she gave that lingered long after she had gone, the way her voice lilted with every syllable–it had all suddenly disappeared.

She had never really liked the water. Coming from District Four, it's about the oddest thing you could hear. The energy of the waves scared her for the same reason that it made me feel minimal and insignifcant: its power is greater than yours. She strayed away from her father's boat and dock, and spent most of her time away from the beach line. The fact that a fisherman's daughter deterred from the water was a choice of subject matter among the District around us, and it brought a lot of shame and discomfort to her family. Her mother's constant chastizing got to her, often sending her storming out of the house and into my place. She was the only one that I would let into my house without a reprimand–but again, she was also the only one who even had the urge to visit to begin with.

I don't really remember how I had come to befriend her. Normally I walk the opposite way when I see a person my age headed towards me, but something about her radiated difference. Maybe it was the way she held herself upright, with the utmost confidence and determination. It might have also been the way that she came up to me first, as if she had even the slightest reason to speak with me. Her upfront attitude was remarkable and inspiring to me. The way she presented herself always made me smile, something that next to nobody else could ever manage. The seasons came, went and evolved, and so did our relationship. I don't recall the exact moment when I realized that she was all I needed in this world, but it honestly isn't that important. All I really needed to know and understand was that she was the only thing that kept me going, the sole reason behind why I was still here.

I can see her clearly, even though it happened four years ago. Some say fourteen is too young an age to understand what being in love feels like–but them saying that just means they never understood true love to begin with. Every day it gets harder to say her name, to see it written down. That one word holds so many individual memories, different thoughts and emotions. It's odd how every day the haze that has engulfed me ever since her death has been slowly whisping away. Pretty soon it'll feel like it never existed. Which means it will feel like she never existed.

Y ahora todo tu amor es desperdiciado.

My parents had never liked her. But they never took the time to understand the complex being that she was, either. My father was too busy at work on his boat to spend time with her, to listen to the cadence of her voice and absorb all of the dreams and ideas that swam in her head. He had never been there for my sister and me either, though, so I never really expected him to get to know her. He knew her father well, the one who considered her a disgrace. I wonder if he felt the same way about her, and was secretly grateful that neither of his children had come out like her. He doesn't know that I did, though. But he would know, if he ever said more than ten words to me in a day. The moon rising in the sky marks the time when he returns home, and I have been in bed long before that. He might come say hello to me on certain nights, perhaps the ones where he doesn't feel as tired. Maybe I drain it out of him.

Mother is always gone, too. I have no clue where she spends her nights. I have thought of the worst, and I don't wish to see my mom in that light. One time I tried to follow her out into the night, to actually see where she spent her time in the dark. My father had been coming home from work at the same time, and had spotted me sneaking though the District, between the dim glows of the streetlights. He told me to go home, to forget everything that I had just seen, that some things in this life-and in this family-were better left unknown and untouched. Whether or not he cares or really understands what Mother is doing, it still digs deep knowing that he trusts neither me nor my sister to handle something that goes on right inside of our own home. My sister thinks men pay her to do things. In fact, she's quite sure of it. Where else would the extra money come from, the extra cash that seems to always be abundant in my parents' wallets and even my own at times? It's not like Father ever made that much with his job. I can even remember a time-not too long ago, either-where the threat of losing the home had lingered above everyone. And then suddenly, all thoughts of losing anything had disappeared. As if nothing had ever happened. As if everything really was okay.

Sissy wants me to believe everything is okay. In a way, she's always been more of a mother to me than Mother has. We should have switched roles, her being the older sister and me the younger brother, instead of the other way around. Sissy can be helpful to me, especially when thoughts of her infest my mind so much they are almost tangible. She knows what I go through, but she does not understand. I guess I could say the same with her. I know not what she experiences with each passing day, but at least I know. And knowing is half the battle. She is great, to everyone. We are quite opposite, yet we don't fight like one might think we would. She's there to let me know everything will turn up okay, even if the current moment wants to make you believe otherwise. But I don't really want to listen to what she has to say about potential happiness and satisfaction. Most of the time I tell her to stop talking, it'll never happen for me, I will always be like this. She pushes, tries to make me believe otherwise, but I shut her down. Still, I appreciate knowing she wants the best for me. In return, I help her with the little things, like homework and dinner. Our relationship is odd, compared to most others. But in reality, she's probably the most normal thing about my life.

I don't go to school anymore. There never really was a point for me to go. I never learned anything, nothing worth retaining, anyways. Everything they teach you is worthless to the rest of your existence. If you can come out of there with one or two facts about life, then all the more to you. But it had never been able to do that for me. I could learn more about the world I live in by just spending one hour in the midst of the city than I could by sitting in a classroom for a day, eyes trained on the tiny words in a textbook. Books are great things, but you can't read about something and expect to know each and every aspect of it. To truly know everything, you have to experience it. School was just a waste of my days, when I could instead be absorbing the sun or spending my time writing. My sister does still go, though, and she seems to enjoy it. Perhaps it gives her pleasure thinking she's getting something worthwhile out of it. Or maybe it's something to keep her preoccupied, instead of going stir-crazy at home. I don't tell her why I dropped school. She's never asked, so I don't bring it up. My parents have more "important" things to carry on with. The fact that the school never really noticed my leave was quite amusing. I was never the best student, or one with good attitude. I'm more than sure they were happy to see me gone.

¿Quién te gusta; quién va a luchar?

odair
colour scheme
FC is Tyler Posey
Lyrics used lovingly from Skinny Love by Bon Iver