// Fire Burns Like Tears In My Heart // [Sycamore]

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// Fire Burns Like Tears In My Heart // [Sycamore] Apr 1, 2012 5:27:21 GMT -5

Post by florentine, d4b ❁ on Apr 1, 2012 5:27:21 GMT -5

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ARWEN

S YCAMORE

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the girl who wanted [/b][/size][/color][/font][/center]

- and this place is as desolate as the ocean, a silent desert of broken promises. So bleak and empty it is, overflowing with things that signify our losses. Each of us have them, engraved deep into our soul, hidden behind our eyes, memories of before we came to this house, before we were unwanted. At least, I think we all do. I've never really wanted to pry there with the others, mostly because I don't really try to pry anywhere at all. Hidden behind everything is misery, so why would I bother looking? I have enough of it myself to last me until the peeling paint on the four walls that surround me plasters itself back to the ancient bricks. And that, incase you cannot see this desolate, miserable place and it's sorrow beyond repair, is never at all.

Sometimes I look in the mirror. That is when I remember why I looked away to begin with. I'm not ugly, it's not that at all. In fact, even if I was I couldn't care less. It's just that when I see my eyes, great orbs of blue, and my complexion so pale, I cannot help but see my sisters staring back at me. Only their eyes are all dead, rotting away under the ground. No longer are they smiling children. Now they are empty, and I cannot bear to think of what their bodies look like, now they have been under the soil of the district for three full years. I shudder every time my mind stumbles upon that image, of those five tiny children captured before the age of ten, never growing up. Something I wish I'd never had to do alone. And my brothers, too, each a miniature of my father, still in their separate graves. And then, once my mind has lingered on the children for a moment too long, I drag it away and bite my lip to stop myself exploding and breaking down to nothing.

It never works. Always I let myself become so engrossed in myself and my own pain that I forget everyone else is suffering, too. Suffering more, perhaps. The walls of this house hold so much sorrow and despair I do not know how they manage to stand, with nothing at all holding them together. Lilith and Edgar are the only things stopping this place form tumbling into pieces, with me out on control and Lalia likewise, with Silas hidden in his shell and the smile finally gone from Septimus' face. Sometimes, though, when I look right at Lilith, look right into her eyes I can see that maybe, underneath, she's just as broken as the rest of us. And then it is gone and she is strong again, and I wonder how I will cope being the eldest once Lilith turns eighteen and is forced to leave. Then what will I do, how will I cope?

I know the truth. I wont. And that is why I need Lilith more than anyone else in this place. Not that I'd ever admit it.

Sometimes I just sit and stare at the peeling walls, and I wonder what would happen if one of us elder ones were reaped. Any of us at Sycamore could be, actually, now that Laila is twelve. Any of us except for Ara, of course, yet I think she is the least broken of all of us to begin with. The most likely to be adopted. The rest of us, we have no chance of living anywhere else, unless of course it is our name called at the reaping, and even then the only place we are going is death. Good.
Then I could see them all, those eleven family members I lost that fateful day, my parents.

I would cry into their arms but I wouldn't need to explode anymore, I wouldn't need to spiral out of control. I would kill myself, I really would, because there is nothing left. But for Silas. The thing is, Silas is my everything. He could never, never know but he is my very best friend and he is the only one I feel I can rely on in this pitiful excuse for a world. I don't love him in the way that my mother loved my father, or the way I am sure Lilith loves Edgar. Just in the way that I know he will always be there, and if once he was not I would not hesitate to leave this pitiful excuse for a world.

The walls of this place are as bare and cracked as my heart. Yet they still stand.

I am sitting on the floor, because it seems as though everything else is just as hard. I am in the attic because here I can be alone, and I am staring into the foggy old mirror that lives up here by the window. I cannot bare to look at myself, so instead I study the intricate design etched into the wood of the wall, not really thinking about it at all. I think, for once, about the others who are trapped here too, with nothing but sadness to turn to. I think of Lilith, and what I know of her past. Her parents were running away, and they were caught. That is all I know. Edgar was a doorstep baby, as was Laila. He has been here far longer than any of us, maybe even back when Miss Aggie was present enough to console him. I never asked. Nothing is known to me about Ruth nor Blaire, for nobody has ever told me. I figure from the boy's protectiveness of his sister that she was in some kind of danger at home, but I am clueless as to what. Septimus was abandoned here.

Silas. well, I know barely anything, for he hates to speak of it. His mother died, and his grandmother, too. My knowledge stops right there. Suddenly, I feel cheated, because I know almost nothing of the people I have lived with for the last three years. I don't know their stories like they know mine. I'm selfish. I'm in so much pain. So that is why I reach for behind the mirror for a shard of glass from the window, back when Septimus broke it two years back. I push back my sleeve and draw it across my flesh, indifferent to the pears of scarlet that appear on my skin. Usually I would not stop so soon, but I notice the glint of light shining from the mirror through the glass and I smile. I know what hurts more than the feel of flesh being cut in jagged lines - being burned. And what burns a girl like fire?

What girl deserves to be burnt more than me?

It is so much easier than you might imagine to angle the sunlight onto the newspaper and wait for it to burn. So slight is the flame at first that I barely feel it lick across my skin. And then it burns me like fire should and I smile. I smile like I haven't smiled in so long, yet at the same time tears tumble like rain from my closed eyes.

I am all but alone.

. . .

thank you chelsey for the template

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Last Edit: Jul 19, 2013 5:32:13 GMT -5 by florentine, d4b ❁

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// Fire Burns Like Tears In My Heart // [Sycamore] Apr 1, 2012 6:41:59 GMT -5

Post by ✨ zozo. on Apr 1, 2012 6:41:59 GMT -5

{ s i l a s }

People have this odd way of leaving me. Take my mother, for example. She left the moment I was born. Though I can't say it was her fault at all, because it wasn't. I killed her. I killed her the moment I came into this dreadful world. Before I learnt to walk or talk or sit up, even, I killed. Before I learnt to read or write or count, I killed. Before I took my first breath of oxygen, or blink of my eyes, or bat with my hands, I killed. Before I'd developed hands or feet or fingernails or eyelashes or pores or organs, I slowly sucked the life out of her, bit by bit, day by day. So much so that when it came to my birth, she could not go on. I pushed her over the edge and I ripped her from her life in agony and torture and replaced it with my own. It eats at me every day. Every second. Every tick, tick, ticking of the clock on my wall reminds me that I'm no good for anything but hurting people. Everything I touch turns to rust and dust.

Most people don't have the patience for sitting up here, in my little closet of a room - but most people haven't spent their lives waiting for the day when you manage to find a scrap of hope that tells you you're not all bad. We're all lost, here, in this run-down house. We all have blank patches in our pasts. Some consumed in them more than others. No-one here but Arwen bothers to care of my whereabouts, and even with her, we drift like tides. It hurts me so much inside to see her broken. She does not deserve to be broken. Whoever wished this upon her, who planned this, whoever carried out, must be going straight to hell or worse. Fate, God, whatever. I ache for the day when she can walk on her own two feet, patched up and mended and whole again. It will hurt in the good way to watch her stand strong without me, but hurt in that bad, devastating, wretched way when another person leaves me. She is too good for me. She is too good for anyone or anything. Sometimes, I distance myself from her because I fear that I will start to poison her with my past. One moment we're barely speaking, and the next she needs me and I'm there with her, telling her that she is marvellous, that she is good because she has never hurt a single person in her life. Good and bad is defined by killer and not-killer - at least in my head, anyway. I try so hard to explain to everyone what it means, how it works - but there's too many cogs and screws and tangled wires that make up my head to decode what I'm trying to say. I eventually give up and stay silent. Like anyone would care what I have to say. What a murderer would have to say.

I may as well get that word tattooed on my forehead. And all it's other synonyms. I can see it now: my skin a canvas, waiting to be scrawled with bad omens and horrors inked into my limbs, irremovable, permanent reminders of who I am and who I can never strive to become. I can be hurt, like Arwen, for she has nine more to mourn than me - but never good like her. My body a dictionary for all things bad. Repelling others has become second-nature to me, yet perhaps this would help out. I do not wish to seek the company of others, because I don't know what to do when I'm with them. Yet Arwen - because everything always links back to her - she is the one human being I can tolerate. Not tolerate, no... stand? And yet that sounds even worse. Never can I pick out the right word. It's always wrong, wrong, wrong.

Sometimes, I think back to what my Grandma used to tell me. It seems I'm always lingering there. Lost. I cannot escape it. She used to tell me 'Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.' It was some old quote that had been past down along with the dingy house we lived in, not much pleasanter than Sycamore - but at least it was a home. The thing was that I could not stop dwelling on the past. This.... thing, this horrible, horrible shadow that will stay with me forever will not keep at bay. Much like a birthmark, or a tattoo, perhaps. Something set in stone, unable to be removed. I did some reading of my own, since those days before Sycamore, and read that 'Every saint has a past and every sinner has a future.' I am no saint but am certainly a sinner.I have a past, and most likely no future. Maybe I was born backwards, twisted. Perhaps I was not meant to turn out like this. Perhaps, in some miraculous, perfect alternate universe, I live in a nice house with my Mother, her caring eyes on me as I lived and thrived and learned.

'It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that.'

describing [3B423B] thinking [849982] talking [444b59]

Last Edit: Apr 1, 2012 6:49:02 GMT -5 by ✨ zozo.

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// Fire Burns Like Tears In My Heart // [Sycamore] Apr 1, 2012 16:06:08 GMT -5

Post by arx!! on Apr 1, 2012 16:06:08 GMT -5

∫∫∫ -Death doesn't come when you wish it. -

- ₪ - ₪ - ₪ - ₪ - ₪ -

I can feel your stare burning into me. It hurts, yes, but crying out would only satisfy you. So I deal with the pain and the smell of my burning flesh. You may be the only that sees me for who I really am, but that gives you no right to attack me as if you were a lion and I were the sick, weak antelope. You press questions upon me, day after day, asking them as if they weren't meant to hurt me, even though I know you want them to. Your words might be passed off as the wind to others, but I can still pick them up - Your whispers meant for me. The whispers of a menace. The whispers that are meant to sting my ears and force tears of either rage or sadness into my eyes. But nothing you do will ever cause me to break. Not for you, not for anyone. No matter how hard you try, you will never see me flinch or cry out in pain. I will not let you have that satisfaction. Your stare may burn me and your whispers may cause agony but I will not give in. I will beat you - You will lose. Even if you are my soul.

This place is hell. Sycamore. A sort of hell for the living. Which I guess makes it perfect for me considering all sinners go to hell, right? It's hard not to smile at the thought of how perfect this place is for me. But then I never understand why all the others are here with me. But I suppose everyone has secrets, that everyone has some sin that can never be forgiven no matter how hard you try. So I guess that settles it then - Everyone here has sinned. And all have chosen to be part of this hell, my hell. Except - I know there is one exception. Ruth. But otherwise, everyone here, no matter how hard they try to seem good - They are all sinners, not saints. Evil, not good. Murderers, not saviors. Poison, not cookies. My dad was right when he said I was a killer - a murderer - and always would be. I have found that you can never reverse that. Once a killer, always a killer.

Blood pumps through my veins, even if I am a cold-blooded villain. Music, if you can call it that, is all that keeps me sane anymore. The songs the Capitol entertainers fabricate are usually soft and slow and just such bull-shit but what I have found is something much louder. And I guess that's all I need, something to block out the whispers of my soul in its attempt to cause me to break in half. It's easy to ignore when you only hear the beat of drums, the clash of symbols, the strumming of amped-up guitars, and the screams of others as they attempt to entertain those people out there like me. Although I find that that must be a very small majority considering I haven't found many people like me. Despite the blaring music around my room I can still hear the clang of weights as I push myself further and further in an attempt to feel something besides the burn my soul forces upon me. And as my muscles continue to spasm in attempts to lift more and more and more I think it may be working. I don't think I can feel my soul anymore. I don't think it's there. And then drop the bar and can't push it from my chest and have to resort to throwing it from my body and rolling of the bench. And then I can feel that burning again, and even as I turn up the music to a point where I am probably causing Ara to scream and cry, I can still hear the whispers.

Murderer. Your mother is dead because of you. Your father never loved you. Murderer, killer, devil ... Your sister hates you. You are nothing but weak. She deserves so much better ... Murderer!!

I want to lose myself. Just once ... why can't I just lose myself? I want to get away - just one time, just one free pass that says I never broke under pressure but instead just cracked a little in order to feel better, not because I am weak. The mirror in my room permits me to take a glance of the animal that everyone comes to see. Kinda like a petting zoo in my room or perhaps a humiliating act that everyone comes to point and laugh at. The thing that flashes back at me is something I don't like to see. It scares me. I can't stand to look too long, because I know that if I do I will see me. Underneath all the crap I create for myself, underneath the costumes and fake acts, there I am. Crying on the front porch, whimpering and crying out as a belt meets my back, terrified as I try to block out the screams of my sister, huddled in a corner on the streets trying to avoid going home. In pain, there I am, wishing for the mother that I never had and will always wish for. A tear balls up in my eye and I can feel the droplet roll down my cheek.

But then I turn away from the mirror, wipe away the visible weakness that rolls down my cheek, throw on a hoodie to cover my face, bash in my music player to shut it off, ignore Miss Aggie as she scolds me for the loud music, slam my bedroom door shut, hope to God that Edgar isn't around to punch me in the face, hope to god Lilith isn't around to try and talk to me, and walk down the hall - disgruntled and furious with myself - out the front door, sit on the front stoop, whistle as happy a tune as I can manage, smiling as big as I can to cover up all my anger, and wait for a miracle. Or perhaps death. But I guess death can count as a miracle in this world. But I am not the kind to believe in wishes coming true or miracles actually happening. It's all false hope. And those who believe that the world is a beautiful place filled with nothing but friendly dwarfs and magical unicorns and rainbows that lead to gold are just plain naive and completely blind. So if death is a miracle, then I guess I will be here, alive and in pain, forever.

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// Fire Burns Like Tears In My Heart // [Sycamore] Apr 2, 2012 20:18:38 GMT -5

Post by Python on Apr 2, 2012 20:18:38 GMT -5

-----------------------

The disheveled princess sat upon her throne in the ruined kingdom. The wallpaper was torn, aged, and speckled with dirt, and her window was sealed shut - suffocating her in her personal hell, and the only life she has ever known - leaving her quarters dry, hot, and tainted with the smell of must. The floorboards were surprisingly the only piece of her room that was still intact. Even her closet doors were barely hanging on their hinges; clinging desperately to life as Laila was to her sanity. A distorted reflection revealed her bird’s nest of dishwater blonde hair, but cracks rippled through her sapphire eyes - dead with only a small flickering flame that threatened to ignite and spread at any moment. The mirror had been starred long ago by one of her dolls - a useless thing that used to keep her occupied in the seclusion and silence of her room. In a fit of uncontrollable rage she had hurled the poor, formally dressed plastic doll that had once symbolized her childhood into the mirror, scarring it for eternity. Since then she saw nothing but a strange, disfigured girl when she stared into the mirror, and wondered if her sunken cheeks would ever fill, or if the bags under her eyes would ever vanish and leave her feeling beautiful.

So far, no such luck has blessed her. The doll that had once been a close companion now rested by the corner of her room smeared with mud and missing an eyeball that had rolled sluggishly across the floor like a marble after her head had smacked against the glass. The thing is just another piece of Laila’s memory - memories of a seemingly innocent childhood. Reality had struck her hard once she developed the ability to think. She realized that her childhood was crap and her family was a mess of people who were balancing on the edge of a cliff trying not to plummet into the black pit of insanity. She too felt like she was standing on the edge of this cliff watching as the rocks crumbled beneath. She was just as mentally unstable as every other member of the house - but they had unique and subtle ways of showing it. Laila, on the other hand, could not control the whirlwind of emotions that seemed to suck her in at unexpected moments. Sometimes she wished she could bottle them up like she knew other members of the house did, and believe her, she has tried, but with no such success. She was a time bomb ticking away at every waking moment, and there was only one person who could dissemble it. That person was Edgar.

Edgar was the father figure of the Sycamore house, and the only one who could empathize with her. The one who would ever truly understand. To understand what it was like to grow up without a family. No daddy or mommy to take care of you and baby you. Everybody else in the house knew who their parents were and had even lived with them before arriving at the Sycamore house. But Laila - she was alone. She had been abandoned like her doll on the doorstep of this ruined ghost-house. And the only other person who knew what that felt like was Edgar. Unfortunately, he was just as broken and unpredictable as she was. Not the ideal father figure, but the only one Laila has ever known.

She brushed her wild mane - a painstaking slow and irritating process - and sat before her reflection in her worn but stable throne. There was no motivation to dress out of her pajamas and walk out of her room. There were too many faces and too much chaos to bear. Lilith would certainly find something to bug her about. The boys would certainly brawl over something insignificant. No, no, no. There was no reason to leave her seclusion - not now. She would wait. Wait until the hunger -
everybody is hungry - was too much to endure. Wait until the isolation drove her outside into the tempting fresh air that never seemed to sooth her distress. Silently she moved out of her throne and flopped backwards onto her mattress. She stared at the patterns on the ceiling and listened to the faint sound of blaring music that came from somewhere in the house. Blaire. She scowled and rested her hands behind her head.

Let me out.

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Last Edit: Apr 2, 2012 20:24:11 GMT -5 by Python

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// Fire Burns Like Tears In My Heart // [Sycamore] Apr 2, 2012 21:01:53 GMT -5

Post by Stare on Apr 2, 2012 21:01:53 GMT -5

.:i'll:.:keep:.:trying:.:to:.:figure:.:this:.:life:.:out:.

I promise you,
You'll make it through.
<><><><><><><><><><><>

I think I screamed last night.

Wails are laced into the blurred memories of a tangle of blankets and darkness and stickyhot tears, distant and echoing in the voids of my mind but not nonexistent. I need only dip back into that feeling of terror and I find them again, just below the base of my throat, desperately attempting to expand and push their way out of the prison I keep them in when the sun still shines and the children roam throughout the household. It's hard to remember, sometimes, just what I am scared of or what I do in the inky quiet of my bedroom. I recall the feel of worn sheets gathering in the creases of my fists and the sound of my own muffled sobs. Sometimes, I can taste the words on my lips from long ago when we would huddle in my bed together, her arms wrapped protectively around me as I whimpered that Mama, please, don't make me, I don't want to, I'm so afraid and I don't know why and she would respond by brushing damp strands of hair away from my forehead and whispering lullabies from the depths of her own childhood. It never worked to fight the terror, but I miss her protection so much that sometimes I reach over to try and find her in the darkness. Of course, all I find are ice cold sheets and air filled with the absence of her voice.

My grip on the plate beneath murky water tightens slightly, and I gaze through the thin layer of grime on the window (I really should get to washing it, but I'm just so tired). I can't fix my problems by focusing on the solutions no longer available to me. Sure, there were once times when it was okay to be sad and it was okay to cry when I visited their graves, but I'm the eldest now. It's time to step up and be a big girl. I have kids of my own to take care of.

They aren't mine, of course. I'm only seventeen, and no man in his right mind would ever love me. One hand reaches up through the layer of soap drifting on the surface of the water to feel cheeks hollowed out by hunger, and then to brush against the place where I know dark circles hang beneath the eyes of someone who maybe once was beautiful but has long since lost her elegance. You promised me, Papa, that I'd always be your little princess. But what am I now that you are gone and I have been worn away to almost nothing? I don't like to look in the mirror much. It's only a painful reminder of who I once was, and what I have become. But being loved doesn't matter anymore. All that matters is that the kids never lose the feeling I once knew so well- the feeling that someone does care for them, even when the world has left them here to rot. And I do love them. Every single one of them.

I stack the final plate, spiderwebbed with dozens of little gray cracks, on the towel by the sink and dry my hands off on my jeans. I reach up to straighten a curtain on the window over the sink and grab the gray washcloth, going over to wash the crumbs and spills off the table, stretching aching bones to reach every inch, making small circles just like my mother taught me. After that I grab the broom, always nearby it seems, and begin to chase the remains of Ara's meal into the dustpan. The little thing is in her crib now, thank goodness, sleeping as quiet as you please. In fact, the whole house seems to be holding its breath, save for a slamming door that I consider investigating but think better of. There's too much to do as it is, and usually these kids need to be left alone for a little while before talking.

I know that while I try, I'm no mother to them. Except for maybe Ara, but I'm all she can remember, really, so that's not fair. Sometimes, Ara is the only one who keeps me sane in this house, when she awakens with her little face bright red and her wails piercing the air. I can hold her, then, whispering hush now, love, I promise it'll be okay, shhh, shhh, usually speaking more to myself than I am to the little one squirming in my arms. I give a mighty sweep, revealing a thin layer of dust underneath the over, and sigh tiredly, glancing up at the clock. I'll need to start on dinner soon- hungry stomachs must always be fed. Leaning the broom against the kitchen table, I move over to the pantry and glance inside. It'll be enough, if I don't eat anything and am careful on how much I give each child. Septimus won't eat green beans, so I'll just give some more to everyone else. Or was that Arwen that doesn't like green beans? I close the door with a silent click and take a few steps before slumping into one of the kitchen chair, head in my hands.

There's so much to do. The living room hasn't been dusted in a while, dinner still must be made, and the windows really do need to be washed soon. Too many things, and too little time. No breaks in work, no dinner for myself tonight... I sigh, pressing my palms into my eyes in exhaustion. Sometimes I wish that I could just escape it all, if only for a little bit. That something miraculous could happen that would save us all. With a groan too quiet for any of them to hear, I step back up onto sore feet and begin sweeping again, keeping my head bent low.

Because time keeps tolling on, and I'm getting tired of waiting for my miracle.

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// Fire Burns Like Tears In My Heart // [Sycamore] Apr 2, 2012 23:38:20 GMT -5

Post by Wonder on Apr 2, 2012 23:38:20 GMT -5

Septimus.

The flame danced along the wire ever so graciously. Controlling a flame was seemingly impossible, but yet, as it glided down a wire it remained in position. Watching as the bright flashes of red, almost white, and yellow racing down the tattered rope seeing who would reach the end first, as if it were always a race, a race to the finish. Seconds ticked and the unknowing racers continued down their path – leaving nothing but darkness and emptiness behind them.

[/i] How funny the whole ordeal was, when Septimus took the time to consider it. The flame was fate, and as Septimus had learned as of lately fate is inescapable. No matter how hard or fast you attempt to run, the ominous monster will catch up and eat you bit by bit until slowly, but surely until all that remains are crisp, burnt pieces of what you used to be. Fate makes you burn out as quickly as the line that you send your dancing flame down, slowly disappearing until all of a sudden, you explode.

The instantly recognizable smell of burning sifted up into his nostrils as he breathed in the fumes. The thick heavy smell of smoke was sickening yet somehow satisfying. Smoke meant fire, fire meant burning, and burning meant that moment by moment his dancing flames were reaching closer and closer to the explosive that he had been working on for days. This one would work for sure. Septimus had spent a few days stealthily ripping copper wiring piece by piece from the attic, not that anyone would notice. Sycamore was a junkyard in its own waiting for young builders and inventors to take its pieces and build something magnificent, something that’ll become greater than the poor house ever could have been.

Flames flickering down the wire, Septimus finally prepared himself, covering his overly large ears. Had he done it right this time, the explosion would come any second, though he doubted it. As all of his experiments had gone, this one would be a burnout, and so would the next one, and the one after that. Just like his life, flame would burn him down into ashes without any explosion. It was fate. And there it was again, fate is inescapable, it’s dark. An inescapable void in which you endlessly float around and think about your faults and sins until one day, you disappear. Septimus had seen the relentless power of fate time and time again, the back of a hand, the cold damp snow outside his old home, the warm welcome step of Sycamore.[/i]

Time and time again fate has come and shown Septimus the darkness in the world. Time and time again fate has shown the front door. The rough hand of the abusive woman swung back in a fashion it hadn’t before, the back of her hand had already swollen red from beating upon beating. If that was how red her hand was, Septimus couldn’t imagine his cheek. It felt ten times bigger, as if a melon had been shoved entirely up his right cheek without notice. You are nothing. You are nothing. You are nothing. Repeated, over and over in a somewhat melody of drunken sluts. Youarnothyouarenotouarenothi – blending together like the reds, the yellows, the whites of a flickering flame, the flickering flame the rested on his face waiting for the young boy to give in, collapse, fall prey to fate.

Burnout, you’re useless.

A surprising pain ripped through the young orphan boy as he gripped his ears too tightly. Had he screamed? A vicious feeling escaping from his pulled ears was nothing compared to raspy rumble that seemed to loom in the bottom of his throat. Worse things are yet to come, and you needn’t scream. Suddenly, Septimus found himself on the ground disoriented. Boom. The piercing cry was as shrill as a young girls scream and also as powerful as it rocked the basement. A chandelier lying about in the corner started shaking horrendously. Forgotten, yet still moving, still shaking, still alive. The ground beneath his hands was cold and unwelcoming, he didn’t belong down here. The fall came as a surprise even to the boy who intended for the blast. A small piece of shrapnel landed beside him, burned out, used, but powerful.

It wasn’t often than an explosive worked for Septimus, it wasn’t often anything worked for Septimus. The waft of smoke grew heavier and thicker as the muddled boy rose to his feet. A small fire illuminated the table, barely even a flame, but still there was a flicker. That was hope, Septimus decided. Hope that the world around the orphan boy wouldn’t come down to front door, by front door. A sense of conquering destiny overwhelmed him, he could beat the system if he just tried.

Explosion, you’re magic.

Collecting quickly any pieces that may remain useful from around the crowded, dusty basement, Septimus calculated what he needed to make it bigger, better. Copper Wire from the attic, rat poison that Miss Aggie kept in drawers for infestations, little bits and bobs from cabinets around everywhere. The list was long but not impossible. Fate may be inescapable, but if he had it his way, Septimus would go out with a bang.[/i][/blockquote][/size]

Last Edit: Apr 2, 2012 23:38:43 GMT -5 by Wonder

peri-snot styler

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// Fire Burns Like Tears In My Heart // [Sycamore] Apr 4, 2012 15:54:01 GMT -5

Post by chelsey on Apr 4, 2012 15:54:01 GMT -5

E D G A R

D I S T R I C T 5

[/size]

"She eyes me like a Pisces when I am weak.

I've been locked inside your heart shaped box for weeks.

I've been drawn into your magnet tar pit trap.

I wish I could eat your cancer

when you turn back."

[/i]

Did you know that there are more people alive today than there are of all the dead combined?

It’s true. And, it’s funny, too - in a kind of sick and twisted way. Poverty, disease, and famine usually finds it’s way to root itself into the centers of the oh so fortunate citizens of Panem and stays there for, well, ever. Wouldn’t you think that, by now, human kind would have just completely died off from it’s lack of nutrition? From it’s overwhelming amount of hunger? Hunger for money. Hunger for power. Hunger for freedom. Hunger for love. We rage with war, sometimes with others and sometimes with ourselves. A wild torrent sweeping the insides of our hearts, dictating the manic thoughts and actions of our brains. It kills the innocent, but it also kills the guilty. And, sometimes, it kills us too. Sometimes, we’re forced to silence the rage within us with a tight noose or a silver bullet, triggered by the inevitable wave of despair that washes over each and everyone of us during moments of desperation. And, other times, our insides are gnawed on by the constant reminder of something we did or something we can’t have, and this thought alone will plant itself in the shallow pits of our hearts and ebb away at our tired brains until we take our final breaths. It’ll yank us away from any slight opportunity or hope of happiness, a hope never to be achieved as long as the reminder still weighs us down - drowning us all into the abyss where our worst nightmares harbor.

It’s funny. Oh, so very funny.

I’m thinking of this tonight as I lay in my bed, rough materialized blankets scattered about me. I clutch at one of it’s corners, as if grasping the itchy fabric will chain me to reality and keep me from floating away into a world even worse than this. ~~Like that’s even possible.~~

The mere thought alone makes me scoff. A world worse than this? I doubt I’d live to see the day. Even my most horrid nightmares couldn’t dare to conjure up another world where there were more broken and heartless beings as the ones in this world. Involuntarily, I shudder, and bring the rough sheets closer to my chin.

No, Despair runs wild here. Like a wild beast set loose upon the world to feast on it’s inhabitants. The animal tears individuals limb by limb, relishing in their tortured cries for mercy. It’s bred for that specific job, like a mutt from The Capitol or whatever crazy shit they invent over there.

Despair has her eyes set on me, tonight, her hungry eyes gazing longingly at me even through the darkness that seeps through my bedroom. I see her now, hiding in the shadows of the corner of my room. A smile graces her otherwise horrific features, and she can pounce on me any time now - any moment.

[/i] But, no, she’s patient. She’s waiting for my guard to be put down, for me to be put at my most vulnerable.

I gaze out my bedroom window longingly, wondering what it’d feel like to be a star. Lonely, I’m sure. Another one of it’s kind lays billions of light years away. And, haven’t I already been alone my whole life? I’m a puzzle, the puzzle pieces build up my entire structure and existence. The jagged and complicated lines define my tired facial features, they outline my dirty and worn skin. But then, there are the holes that gape through random pieces of my body like weeds sprouting from the ground. Pieces that contain my past. Pieces that contain my future. Pieces that contain my identity, that can tell me who I am. That I am more than Edgar the orphan, that I am more than Edgar the doorstep baby. That I am destined for more.[/i][/color]

Oh, but isolation still beats the crap I have to face everyday. It beats Miss Aggie’s crazy rambles. It beats Lilith’s angered stares after I’ve gotten into a fight with one of the other kids. It beats witnessing another one of Arwen’s tantrums. It beats having to calm down Lalia when frustration gets the best of her, no matter how much I love her.

One by one, the stars begin to disappear, and the morning sun light floods into my room. But, I can still see Despair lurking in the corners, her lithe footsteps slowly creak my old wooden floors. I can still feel her breathing right next to me.

The sound of music vibrates through the fragile house, rocking the walls of my bedroom with an irritable force. It shakes my bed and pounds into my ear drums. I bring a pillow over my ear and plug the other one with my fist. “Fucking Blaire,” I half shout half whisper, because I want to pummel that kid to the ground but I also don’t want any of them to realize that I’m awake, yet. It takes so much will power and strength to not burst into his room and tear him apart.

Why do they all look up to me, anyway? At least, they look up to me as some sort of authority figure, right? Of course they do - I’m the bloody oldest. But, does age have anything to do with strength? Because, if not, I’m sure that I stand as the weakest among them all.

Because, after all, I’m still a kid just as much as they are. Just a kid playing dress up.

And no kid deserves to be oppressed with the heavy weight of having to take care of eight other children. No kid deserves to have that burden dropped onto his weak and feeble shoulders when he has yet learned to stand on his own. No kid deserves to deal with such bull shit at such a young and timid age.

But, I had to.

And, suddenly, Despair goes in for the kill. [/justify][/blockquote]

NORMAL // 927F7F

CHARACTER'S DIALOGUE //AA6655

OTHER DIALOGUE //BB8877

EMPHASIS // CC8866

[/size]

"Isn't this the point of being young?"

^ bless avalon's soul ^

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// Fire Burns Like Tears In My Heart // [Sycamore] Apr 8, 2012 5:25:44 GMT -5

Post by florentine, d4b ❁ on Apr 8, 2012 5:25:44 GMT -5

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: e5e5e5; border: 0; padding: 10 10 10 10 px; width: 350px;]

ARWEN

S YCAMORE

[/color]
the girl who wanted [/b][/size][/color][/font][/center]

There is a flame sauntering at the tips of my fingers, lighting up the world right before my eyes. It teases me, flickering about, proving that I am not the one in control. That I have no control. Not over life, not over others and not over myself. I never will, because there is always someone above me holding the cards and pulling the strings, fate or Snow or someone else who decides what my future holds. No control. Spinning into nothingness, with no direction and nothing to hold onto but the fire blazing between my fingers. Where is the line? When does that flickering flame become a blazing inferno, and what lies in between? Just the newspaper blackening inside the fire's cruel grasp, and my fingers clinging to it even though they are being burned. After all, I am Arwen. Maybe if I hurt myself enough the universe will stop punishing everyone around me. I stare at the flame growing, and a sense of pride builds inside of me. I am controlling this fire, right now, telling it when to burn and who to hurt. Letting it hurt me without hurting anyone else. That in itself is enough to make me smile. Maybe I can play with flames, because getting burned is worth the thrill that it gives me. Lilith would die if she saw me. All she wants is for us to be safe, and yet still I sit here forcing crimson blood from beneath my skin, playing with fire and being burned. Why must I always stop people from protecting me when I cannot protect myself?

There are so many questions burning in my head that I almost forget about the fire burning at my fingertips. And by the time my mind has spun away from Lilith and her power over me, from Silas and his calming words and from my sisters and their faces gripped by death, it is too late. People say the world stops when something terrible is happening. You freeze, unable to act until the event is over. Almost like god is making it happen and not letting you stop it, not allowing you to intervene. That's not what it's like, not at all. I would know, after all. I do sit there, stunned, seeing what is happening yet not knowing where to move, unable to react for a moment. But I know that it was not God who brought this upon me. No, because this time it was me who forced a terrible thing to happen. Is it wrong that this made me smile with some kind of hidden satisfaction. Because even though I don't have control, somewhere, deep down, I still have power.

The power to destroy and the power to burn and the power to cry. That is all. So when I see that the white net curtains that hide the attic from the outside world are alight with violent flames, I am unable to move. Frozen. Stunned. Smiling. And then I stand, all at once, smothering my own screams with shaking fingers. My eyes dart about the attic for something to smother the flames with. I know how to do this. Nobody has to know. I can keep my terrible secret just a little longer. There is a blanket, nylon, something from Eight, perhaps, lying by my side. Sometimes I use it to clear away the blood, incase somebody else comes up here one day. Now I use it to plunge into the growing flames with, desperate to cut off their oxygen supply. I do care. I cannot stop thinking this as I lunge toward them, blanket outstretched.

I know I have lost the battle with the fire when the blanket bursts into flames and the tiny flickering thing I created snakes it's way across the curtains and beings to devour the windowpane, the ceiling. It reaches out like fingers to take what it wants, and there is no way I can stop it. All I feel is the overwhelming desire to break. To fall into one of my infamous rages and cry and cry until somebody comes to save me. Or maybe this time resist saving. But I can't, because if I don't fix this right now I could kill somebody. The thought envelopes me for a second, before I realize that the window is open. Outside is oxygen. Oxygen fules flames.

So I plunge my hands right through those burning flames, and my fingers find the latch on the window and drag it shut. The attic floor has never felt so hard as when I fall back on it, panting, beads of sweat running down my forehead and my hands burning, still. I cry, then, and the black smoke spewing from the flames fills my lungs.

Somewhere in the distance, Blaire's music paints the steady beating of my heart.

. . .

thank you chelsey for the template

[/blockquote][/justify][/size][/td][/tr][/table][/center]

Last Edit: Jul 13, 2013 6:38:04 GMT -5 by florentine, d4b ❁

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// Fire Burns Like Tears In My Heart // [Sycamore] Apr 8, 2012 10:08:59 GMT -5

Post by arx!! on Apr 8, 2012 10:08:59 GMT -5

∫∫∫ - It's all just one big illusion. -

- ₪ - ₪ - ₪ - ₪ - ₪ -

Boom. The earth gives a small rumble and I watch as the dust near the basement windows gushes into the air and floats towards me, bringing with it a musty smell. Basement air. I breath in, satisfied with its familiarity. The cloud of dust floats by me, almost swallowing me whole in it's clutches. I wish it were strong enough to take me with it as it floats off into the sky, trying to catch the clouds. But I know I will never join the clouds - Not even when I disintegrate here on earth. Even when I am nothing more than a memory, even when I am no longer a memory, I know I will never join the ranks of the good citizens in the clouds. I will never get to see my mom. Only in old pictures can I see my mother's smile - and those are torn, ragged, and faded. And I only have one. Just one of her smiles that is eternally plastered on a piece of paper. I can't imagine what would make her want to smile for so long because the only she gets to see anymore is me - the one who forced her to leave this earth, her life, behind. Who would want to smile at me?

I wonder what she smells like. The way her hair would feel in my fingers. How steady her beating heart was. The sound of her laughter or even her scolding. I imagine her like my sister - soft spoken, beautiful and perfect in every way. Pure. Impossible to hate and never hateful. I love her, even having never met her, never having heard her voice, I still love her. I can see her smile, the one plastered on the picture, I right next to her I see him. My dad. He isn't crying or screaming or upset but instead, he is smiling too. I have never seen him happier than in this picture. Actually, I have never seen him smile - Not in the 9 years I lived with him did I ever see him smile. And that's my fault. I ruined his life too, not just my mom's. But that's just me, I seem to ruin everything.

The flowering trees around the house fill the air with sweet smells. I can't wait for the fruits to grow and fall to the ground, begging to be picked up and washed and eaten. I can just taste the apples now, there juice bursting through my teeth. I take a deep breath, waiting for the smell of the soft spring air to hit my mouth and tongue and fill my lungs but instead I smell something that stings the back of my throat. "Damn it, Septimus!!" is the curse that leaves my throat and I stand, anger rising within me. His stupid bomb finally decides to work when I wanted something other than despair to fill my lungs. Now all I can smell is the smell of something burning, smoke. Not apple blossoms, but his stupid bomb - thing. I walk over to the basement window and kick the glass in, hoping that maybe it decide to land on the kid and make him bleed. I plop down on my belly so that I can put my face to the broken glass and so that I can find the little rat. The basement is dirty, murky, and now smoky, the smell of burnt things everywhere. Septimus is collecting things - more bombs is all I can guess. "Hey!" I holler through the window, trying as hard as I can not to sound too mad. "You know you are ruining the quality of air with this shit?" I try to joke, but my voice doesn't really come off as being funny. I hate this kid. He is always doing things like this, but I know it's just cause he is messed up - like me. So with all my might I will a smile to my face, but that is all I can manage before rage overcomes again - I suppress it. "So fuck off with the bombs huh?" I'm so glad that it doesn't sound to horrible when it leaves my lips.

I stand, brushing the dust from my front and wanting so badly to smell something other than bomb - Except, I think it should've gone away by now. That smell ... I see smoke against the sky, it's blackness trying to mix in with the white clouds and blue sky. I glance into the sky, trying to find the source of such darkness. I back away from the house, finding that the black clouds are coming from the house itself. I wouldn't put it past the house of course. I'm sure it is capable of creating such darkness and evil and disgusting smells. It is hell after all. I can finally see it, high up near the very top of the house, a fire flicks through the window and smoke billows out bringing a stinging smell with it. I almost think it is despair, or possibly the scent of rage. And there I am, frozen to the spot as the black smoke twists into shapes - the devil, my dad, a black panther going in for the kill - everything that signifies danger spewing from the window. Then it hits me - the window shuts and then it hits me. Fire. There is a fire inside, in the attic ... Fire.

My feet pound as I sprint back to the house, through the door. I want to yell but I don't know what to say. Fear overwhelms me and I scream what comes first to my mind. "Lilith!!" I feel my heart beating, faster and faster, ready to burst. Where is she - Where the fuck is she?! "Lilith, Lilith! Fire! I burst through every door, searching and screaming, hoping that I can find someone before I can no longer breathe, before my heart bursts open and I bleed out on the floor.

"I run on the road, long before I dance under the lights."

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// Fire Burns Like Tears In My Heart // [Sycamore] Apr 8, 2012 23:28:34 GMT -5

Post by Python on Apr 8, 2012 23:28:34 GMT -5

-----------------------

A loud rumble shatters the silence - her silence. It always felt like as soon as a scowl vanished a new one squeezed its way in. She was never happy. Never at peace, never relaxed, never just a little content. No - misery dominated her life. She would never be that little angelic princess in a tutu that danced across the halls so elegantly it stole the breaths from her beloved parents. She would never be the smiling, innocent flower that crossed her legs when she sat down and adorned herself with fancy dresses and jewelry and matching shoes. She would never be dainty or cute. Laila was practically a messy boy trapped within a girl’s scrawny body - desperate to escape before he was suffocated into complete and utter death. She faintly wondered what death would feel like. Would there be a dancing white shadow that seduced her to the heavens? Would she tingle all over until her tunneled vision grew dark and silent, and a golden gate welcomed her into paradise? Would it burn like the fire that raged within her sapphire irises?

Or would it just feel like nothing? Cold, empty, nothingness. Just dirt being piled on top of her after she was lowered into her grave - if she would have one. Only the beloved and the missed deserved gravestones. It was their marking - the landmark that allowed family members to find them and visit. But who in their right mind would visit Laila? She wasn’t sure whether or not she wanted the grim reaper to take her now. Which was worse - here or after?

A combination of a sigh and a hiss escaped her chapped lips. Septimus was the culprit of the explosion - there was not a drop of doubt about that. One of these days he was going to blow up the entire house. Then what? Would she burn to a crisp in the flames like the ones she had just imagined? What about Edgar and the others?
No, Egdar cannot burn. Laila climbed out of her bed and stalked toward the bedroom door, tempted to storm into Septimus’ room and shout at him until he promised to stop making those damn bombs. With these thoughts in mind she opened her bedroom door and emerged into the ancient hallway of the Sycamore house - the ruins of a failed wonderland. She twirled on her heels and clenched her fists, prepared for a confrontation with the explosion-happy child, but stopped short when she heard a voice downstairs. She recognized the voice - it was Blaire. But he was not speaking in his usual tone or usual volume. No, he was screaming. Screaming was not an abnormal occurrence either, but it was the words that bounced off of the disheveled walls and slithered into her ears that made her react. She stood like a frozen icicle hanging from the edge of a rooftop, just waiting to plummet at any moment. ”Lilith! Lilith!” she had never heard him so panicked. It almost frightened her. ”Fire!

Laila swayed for a moment, wondering if she was in a dream. Had her wicked visions come true? The horrors of a fire - a real fire - had manifested in her one and only home. Her eyes darted around for a moment, searching for immediate danger. A gentle whiff of air revealed that her previous hypothesis had turned into a devastating reality; oxygen laced with a hint of smoke slipped into her nostrils and made her eyes moist from the stinging sensation. There was a fire. Septimus had caused a fire. After all this time he had finally done it - and where was he now? Dead? Would Lilith find him blown to chunks when she rushed into the basement like the worried ~~mother~~ girl she was? Laila could not imagine Septimus in pieces. She would always match a face with a name. Septimus the bomb boy.

Laila’s bare soles shuffled against the wooden floors as she hurried downstairs. She didn’t know where to go. If the house burned down it would be safest to retreat outside where the fresh air would protect her fragile lungs from becoming tainted by the shadows of Septimus’ past life. She ran until she spotted Lilith and Blaire. She wanted to ask them where Edgar was - was he risking his life to save Septimus? - and to usher them outside so they did not become trapped in a maze of flames. However, the first words that came out of her mouth slipped through the filter in her brain and escaped her lips before she could think twice about it.

”Is there really a fire?”

[/justify][/blockquote]

Last Edit: Apr 9, 2012 1:35:38 GMT -5 by Python

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and i will hold you tight / like the moon in the arms of the sky

// Fire Burns Like Tears In My Heart // [Sycamore] Apr 9, 2012 21:19:33 GMT -5

Post by Stare on Apr 9, 2012 21:19:33 GMT -5

.:i'll:.:keep:.:trying:.:to:.:figure:.:this:.:life:.:out:.

Walk through fire, through the dust and ashes,
While the building crashes, walk through the flame.
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Boom.

It's such a common sound in the household (almost as common as screeching voices, as children's sobs, as an old lady's senseless ravings) that I barely notice it as I bend down to pull the battered pan out from under the sink, though my malnourished limbs ache in protest. As usual, the pan gets caught on some invisible object, and comes out with a loud clang. As I set it up on the stove, I close my eyes for a moment, trying hard not to picture the mess Septimus has no doubt left for me to clean up. Just one more thing to do. I lean against the counter with support, running a hand across my face tiredly. No one helps me, and even if they asked to, I wouldn't let them. I'll ensure that these kids live out their childhoods, even if it means giving up my own. I remember when they younger, and I would brush their hair and hold them when they cried and tell bedtime stories. That was before, though. Before they realized that the world really isn't as beautiful as I made it out to be, before they realized that I can't fix everything, before they stopped ~~loving~~ trusting me. Now, they only come to me when their needs are beyond great.

Just then, I begin to detect the faint smell of smoke, and groan quietly. That boy's going to kill himself with those explosives someday. I yank open a stubborn wooden drawer and grab on of the many towels, going over to the smoke detector in the kitchen and waving the air away as best as I can to keep it from going off. At that moment, I catch my distorted reflection in the pan. Wide eyes, hollowed cheeks, thin lips that haven't really smiled in ~~days~~ ~~weeks~~ ~~months~~ ~~years~~ who knows how long. It's a miracle that none of the kids have realized it yet. Surely, if they hadn't noticed the fact that I skip most of my meals, they should recognize the starvation clear in my eyes. I consider eating at least a little tonight, just to clear any suspicion from the air, but remembering how little food there is in the pantry, I wave the thought away. The smoke gets a bit thicker, and I frown. While Septimus' explosions do require fire, the smell usually fades within a few minutes. I should go down and check on him. And then, when I've finished, I can get started on dinner or maybe-

"Lilith!" My eyes widen at the cry, instantly recognizing the voice. Blaire. And the tone... it is laced thick with fear and alarm. The towel slips from my fingers, and I turn toward the door, straining my ears just in case I was perhaps only hearing things, a call from the past, when they were all younger and cried for me whenever they fell and scraped their knees. But no, there it is again. "Lilith!" I run, then, and throw open the creaky door to reveal a room distorted by a thin veil of smoke. Behind me, the smoke alarm begins to shriek, high pitched and painful to my ears, but not quite matching the alarm that Blaire's shouts cause within me. "Lilith! Fire!"

Oh no.

I sprint down clouded hallways, desperately searching for one of them, any of them, needing to know that at least one is okay. I spot Blaire and then Lalia, the latter looking confused and disbelieving. "Is there really a fire?" Such an innocent question. I look down at her, and my mind suddenly flashes back to the earlier explosion. Instead of answering, I flee past her, toward the door to the basement. "Septimus!" I call out. "Septimus!" Reaching the steps, I yank open the door, only to be greeted by the greatest surprise (and relief) of my life. Instead of thick black smoke, fresh, almost clean air flows out through the doorway. Septimus didn't start the fire. I could just melt out of relief, but that relief is quickly overcome by dread. I've only accounted for three of my kids. Where are the others? Edgar, Ruth, Arwen, Silas... where are they? Surely, Edgar is safe. He can't be dead. He just can't. He's too smart and strong to be beaten by some fire. But the others?

I can't lose them. Any of them. They're the only reason I'm still here, still sane. Ripred, I need them.

Where are they? I should have kept a closer eye on them- I should know where to find them! I scold myself angrily, and begin running down the hall, throwing open doors and searching for them. The more empty rooms I find, the more terrified I become. What was once a thin layer of smoke in the air becomes thicker and more painful to breathe. What are we going to do? This house is all any of us have. We can't lose it. Not now. Tears are streaming down my face now, and finally giving up, I stumble away from hollow rooms and beds without children. Tripping over my own feet, I land hard on the ground, head bent and back trembling as I sob. I can feel Blaire and Lalia's eyes on me, and I hate myself for being so weak in front of them. But how can any of us be strong in a time like this? We're all so fragile, so easy to break... except one. There is one left that might save us yet. Lifting my head, my lips part to release my final cry for help, the one call I give when all else has failed that I know will be answered.

"Edgar!"

[/size][/blockquote][/justify]

Last Edit: Apr 9, 2012 21:46:28 GMT -5 by Stare

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// Fire Burns Like Tears In My Heart // [Sycamore] Apr 9, 2012 21:52:38 GMT -5

Post by ✨ zozo. on Apr 9, 2012 21:52:38 GMT -5

{ s i l a s }

between two lungs
it was released
the breath that carried me
the sigh that blew me forward
'cause it was trapped

I don't recognise the chaos in the household until I hear Lilith yelling. It's not her usual, stern, trying-to-get-everyone-under-control yelling, something of a frustrated mothers, - there's panic in her tones that accompany the loud thudding of running feet above and below and all around my tiny room. When you live with Septimus the explosive-fanatic and Blaire who drowns in his loud music, hectic behaviour becomes almost normal. But something about the odd, out-of-order frantic that creaks through the wooden planks unnerves me. Tearing myself away from my almost permanent perch against the large window in my room that lets the view of Five stretch across my eyesight - my limbs creak to life like the old hinges in the windows I so frequently visit and I'm up, walking outside of my room.

It's odd. Opening up my bedroom door. I hardly ever venture out of my room. It's easier, to sit here, cooped up in suffocating thoughts of the past than face them outside. I find shelter behind glass panes and watch others - strangers - struggle along instead. But when I do peer my head around the old, peeling piece of wood, it's obvious something is wrong. Something is always wrong here - but wrong is strangely normal. We're all wrong. But even now, when we all accept 'wrong' as conventional, Lilith is curled up on the floor and people are yelling 'Fire! FIRE!' and there's shouting, tears, frightened faces and smoke and alarms and wherethehellisArwen.

Perhaps I should have twigged when I found myself choking against the fogged air - billows of smoke curling down the halls. But I didn't. My immediate thoughts were Septimus and his bloody explosives. We're so used to warning signs that we don't register them as dangerous. So when it does come down to it - when we've brushed them off time and time again - I'm at a loss. Fire. Fire. Fire destroys and fire kills and I am both of those. Yet I'm still scared, watching Lilith break down and scream for Edgar and then my mind clicks again.

Arwen.

I freeze. Time stops. It exists in the smoke that rises through the hall and the desperate faces of my house mates and the smell of singing fabric and burning planks of wood. And then it's spilling out of control, whirring and blurring and Ineedtogettoherwhereisshe"whereisArwenwhere is she? Arwen? Has anyone seen Arwen?!" I don't think my words have ever sounded so unsure of myself since I came to this house.

But no-one replies. Because they haven't seen her. Of course they haven't seen her. They don't know if she's alive or dead or upstairs or downstairs, inside or out. And I'm confused as to why they don't. Why their faces are so blank. And I'm angry. I'm so angry. They should know. They should care. I'm the only one in this goddamn ~~world~~ house that cares about her.

And I don't care if they call for me. Because I'm diving into the depths of the crackling house and choking smoke and screaming her name over and over again. Death won't take her away from me. Not her. Not today.

and my running feet could fly
each breath screaming
we are all too young to die
trapped between two lungs
the breath that passed
from you to me

“and men said that the blood of the stars flowed in her veins.”

Wonder
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everything is zoe's tbh.

// Fire Burns Like Tears In My Heart // [Sycamore] Apr 9, 2012 23:59:43 GMT -5

Post by Wonder on Apr 9, 2012 23:59:43 GMT -5

( S E P T I M U S A S C A S Y C A M O R E )

Fragile bones run swiftly across narrow wires, the slightest wrong touch could send them flying away. The small white fingers fidgeting carefully along smaller knobs and bits. That was the thing about the creations that found themselves being built under the hands of the small only just teenage boy,

everything had a place. Each little widget, each little bob screwed in to a piece of copper wire, attached to a nail, everything had its place in the worlds that found themselves created under the small broken hands of the weak abandoned child. Not that that could be said for the world that surrounded him. Things had their place, sure, socks belonged in the drawers (though Septimus seldom listened to Lilith on that front), food in the kitchen, roofs over people’s heads, a smile to a face, stars shining brightly, plastered against their blank canvas of a sky Septimus had spent many a night with sprawled limbs across the dying green grass of the Sycamore lawn grasping at the stars. The bright lights breached the blackened sky and illuminated his white skin that hid itself underneath soot patches. Never had he shone so bright but under the friendly shine of the nighttime. Even under then sun he never illuminated, the soot guarded his skin as if it had no friends left. Even the soot belonged. Everything belonged. I do not belong.

The thought that haunted even the smallest of children enveloped the small useless frame of the boy. Never had there been a time where his utter lack of belongingness hadn't scrawled words of reminder over his tired bones and skin. Every piece of black ash was a reminder of the damp front door from which he was kicked out. Every smiling child that walked down the cobblestone roads of District 5 was a punch in the gut to the happiness he’d never achieve. And yet the smile he kept poised on his face was one of happiness. Under his fragile skin was a force so strong, so powerful, that could create worlds of its own, and never would he ever give up this ability. Soon enough Septimus would illuminate under the sunlight. An explosion. Soon enough he’d make an explosion so big, so strong, so delicately built with useless skin and bones that everyone would take notice of the smile that built a thousand worlds.

The smoky room drifted Septimus in to a state of calm. The grey smoke still lingered, minutes after the first explosion had filled the room. Tears stung his dull brown eyes which fixed themselves solely on the work in front of them. An air of concentration swept over him. If one bomb had worked, surely something was going right and things never went right. Never in Sycamore. His fingers danced along the thin copper wires connecting A to B and B to A, ever so slightly not to create another rupture. Not enough to send his small hands flying. No hands would fly away without him attached. Septimus often wished that he could fly away. His small sack of nothingness, all but skin and bones would be swept away ever so easily if the right gush of wind would come along and maybe then he’d never return. No more pain, no more waiting on the inevitability of his younger sister’s brown curls to land on the doorstep of the hell house he called home, just the big vast sky and the boy who could explode like the sun.

To sleep amongst the stars would be a life worth living, not like the one spent in the tattered house filled with the screw-ups, the wrong-doers, and the abandoned. Crash. Stars turned in to shards of glass and the sky came tumbling down to the basement again. The basement again. Pain spread across his tired limbs as the loose wiring slashed the back of his hands. The echoing of the glass hitting the cement flooring pierced his large ears, only to be interrupted by Blaire, whose music blared louder than the explosion he’d created earlier. The calming haze burst out the broken window as frustration poured in. The air became tense and rigid, not good working conditions. How was he ruining the air when the venomous words of the fakest boy Septimus had ever laid eyes on struggled a grin on to his tired face? They were all always so tired. The darkened eyes of the eight children sank into every ounce of the house, leaving it as dead as the eyes of its residence. “So fuck off with the bombs huh?"

The slashes on the back of hands stung more and more with each step that Blaire took away from the window. The air was rigid and his tools were bloodied, there was no point on building anymore. Today. Instead the stars waited to grasp him in their light and take him away to the peaceful canvas – the sky. Blame. The word tore through his dreams and filled his soul with nightmares. That’s all he ever felt in this household. Blaire, Lilith, Edgar, Lalia, Arwen – blame. It was always the one who tried to bring smiles to their faces who they tore to shreds and left for dead in the colorless, cobweb-filled basement. Blame for the smoke that soothed his soul, blame for the sounds that shook the house, blame for existing.[/i] Throughout his life blame had cast a shadow so big that he could never escape through the darkness that wrapped around him. Why couldn’t they be happy? Why couldn’t he be happy?

A rush of wind blew through the basement as Lilith tore open the creaking door. Relief filled her broken figure, she was happy to see him. And he was happy to see her? The question broke the shadow that filled his daynightmares. Running up the stairs as quickly as she’d come down, Septimus could do nothing but follow her desperate movements up into the house. Screams and helpless pleas filled every inch more than the deadness that usually consumed it. Fire. The blame, was it his? Had the explosion sent ash through the house and lit dry blankets? Septimus could feel the piercing glares as soon as he’d cleared the staircase. This is your fault. Piercing his body, piece by piece as Lilith’s shrill screams for Edgar filled his ears. This smoke was not soothing. He watched as a worried Silas poured out of his room and ran towards the fire above. Silas, Lalia, Lilith, Blaire, Septimus, that was five. There were supposed to be eight.

Run. Septimus found himself tripping over the weakened steps following Silas. There were eight, downstairs were four, Silas ran upstairs. The world, his world, was turning at a thousand beats per minutes, fire, kids, screams, run. Finding Lilith weak on the ground screaming for Edgar, Septimus found himself stopping at her head. A rage, so new and bizarre filled his body, an unfamiliar feeling. What was she doing lying on the ground? “You’re useless.” The words barely came out as a mumble compared to the screams, but still the usually optimistic Septimus felt the harshness in his tone. Lilith was the mom. Why couldn’t she do anything to stop this? This was her job. Keep them safe. Keep him safe. “What kind of person are you to not have stopped this Lilith? You are useless.” His hushed voice turned in to an overpowering scream, and as the last word seethed out his chapped lips, his legs started running again. Towards the stairs, towards Silas, towards the fire.

Septimus’ hands still bled and stung him, but fire was something he knew how to handle. After a year of handling explosives, if he couldn’t fix it, no one could. And if Lilith was to do nothing, he would. If he couldn’t, the stars may see him sooner rather than later.[/i]

He’d welcome that with open arms.[/blockquote][/size]

Last Edit: Apr 10, 2012 7:26:13 GMT -5 by Wonder

peri-snot styler

chelsey
District Mayor

[M:-650]

728 POSTS
Pronouns: she/her
last seen Jul 2, 2016 17:22:46 GMT -5

queen of inactivity

// Fire Burns Like Tears In My Heart // [Sycamore] Apr 11, 2012 0:34:17 GMT -5

Post by chelsey on Apr 11, 2012 0:34:17 GMT -5

E D G A R

D I S T R I C T 5

[/size]

"She eyes me like a Pisces when I am weak.

I've been locked inside your heart shaped box for weeks.

I've been drawn into your magnet tar pit trap.

I wish I could eat your cancer

when you turn back."

[/i]

They say drowning is the most painful way to die.

Death is scary enough, but to be greeted with it by cold waters while rocked in between violent waves? Swirling in black ribbons of never ending darkness, screams transforming into bubbles as your weight drags you down into the depths of the murky water, liquid filling your lungs until you can feel the flesh stretch and eventually burst, desperately grasping for oxygen that you pray will miraculously appear but never does.

Drowning is worse than death - it’s hell.

Despair drowns me.

I faintly hear her merry laughs rippling through the dark liquid barrier that separates us, sending rocky waves over it’s black surface. I’m clawing desperately at her hands, which grasp my neck in a tight clutch. The air in me dwindles away until there’s finally nothing left.

[/i] I’m screaming, and screaming, or, at least, trying to scream because not the slightest of sounds escape my lips. My wide eyes meet her yellow ones, despite the liquid movement between us. They glow with mirth.[/i] I can’t break away from this gaze, no matter how much I want to. It sucks all hope of surviving this chaos right out of me, striking me with a deep pain that only she can give me. Only Despair can make me feel this way. I’m stuck, stuck under her fatal grasp, my agonized fear paralyzing me for the rest of my worthless life.

Blaire’s cries snap me out of my trance. I rub my eyes drowsily, my sockets sinking against my tired fists. He’s losing his shit over something, but I’m more than sure that whatever the hell it is, Lilith can deal with it. So, I roll over onto the side of my bed until I feel my eyelids slowly drag over my pupils, again. My vision’s gone foggy, and for a second, it really does feel like I’m sinking beneath the weight of the sea. The light from above is growing smaller and smaller until I’m all left with is darkness and a haunting silence. I’m drowning. And nobody cares enough to notice.[/i]

It’s Lilith’s screams that yanks me out of the water, and onto dry land. ~~Show’s over boys, back to reality.~~[/s]

For a second, I pull another pillow over my head and groan at the sound. I open my mouth to yell out something between shut-the-fuck-up and be-considerate-because-some-of-us-might-still-be-sleeping, until I suddenly hear her scream again. And it's not that scream she gives when the kids have done something to piss her off, which is still a rare occasion. No, this one is different. There's a cry of distress, a cry of urgency, [/color]a cry for help. My blood grows cold at the shrill sound, and I'm sitting up in my bed - ready to run out of my room if I have to. This is not right, this is not good, something is wrong here.[/i] I hear feet shuffling across the floor behind my bedroom door, but other than that, silence settles throughout the house, once more. I'm still sitting upright in my bed, my heart pounding so hard underneath my thin chest that I really do think that the whole house can hear it pulse. Thump, thump, thump.

"Edgar!"

In an instant, I'm out of my bed, bounding down the hallway barefoot, slamming into the walls at the sharp turns, and running so fast until I feel my lungs about to burst. But I can't stop now to assess the damage. Something is wrong.[/i] Smoke fills the air, but it doesn't stop me from hurdling through the black clouds. My feet are quick as they scrape against the hardwood floors, fleeing from Despair, and heading towards refuge. [/i][/color]

And I'm there in a second, a whir of smoke and rushed voices hang in the air. Blaire and Lalia are helplessly staring at Lilith's writhing form on the ground, and it tears me with anguish when her sobs reach my ears. Despair has found a new victim. Silas is desperately asking where Arwen is, to no avail. He rushes past me without a glance, when Septimus enters the room. It isn't until Septimus mutters, "You're useless." to Lilith's crying form do I finally realize what's happening.

Blaire screaming for Lilith, Lilith screaming for me, the fire detector beeping nonstop, the smoke hanging heavily in the air. The wheels in my head begin to turn as all the clues come together. They click into place, just like a puzzle - click!click!click![/I][/color] - and the image it creates is horrifying.

Fire in Sycamore.[/i][/color]

Septimus rushes past me again - back into the clutches of the flames. "Goddammit, Septimus, don't you dare-" But he doesn't hear or listen to me, doesn't even notice me. He's out of my reach before I can yank him back to safety. With Septimus out of my sight, I turn back to what’s left of us. I quickly count the heads under my breath. Blaire, one, Lalia, two, Lilith, three. Three.

There’s eight of us.

”Fucking hell.”

I’m moving before I even realize that I am. I force the sobbing Lilith onto her feet, grabbing her arms forcefully. Before she has a chance to speak - if she was even going to speak at all - I’m pushing all three of them out of the house, ushering them out the door hastily. Once outside, I crane my neck up to find the source of the flames - and there they are. Licking at the sky with vivid oranges and reds, black smoke billowing out the attic window. Something inside of me shatters at the sight. But I can’t break. Not now, when our home is on the verge of destruction. Not now, in front of Blaire, who only knows me as the emotionless bastard. Not now, in front of Lalia, who I have always been strong for. Not now, in front of Lilith, who needs me more than ever.

I have to get back inside, I have to fix this, but not until Lilith is with me. She isn’t with me - Despair has strangled her away into nothing but an empty shell of her former being. I have to snap her out of it, I have to get the old Lilith back. Where is the responsible mother figure I once recognized? Where is the woman who knew what to do in every situation? Where is the only other person in this house that I trust to set things right?

And why the hell is she not here now?

She’s abandoned me, just like everyone else important in my life. She left me when I needed her the most. She walked out the door without a single goodbye, without a single explanation. But I’m not about to let her go without a fight.

”I can’t do this on my own, Lilith,” I tell her with my hands grasping the side of her arms so tight that I think I might’ve cut off the circulation for a brief moment. I stare into her eyes, allowing the words to sink in. Her eyes are still distant, still faraway, still not with me. I don't want to do it, but I have to - I have to do this to bring her back down to reality. I cradle her face in between my hands, making sure she can hear every ~~fucking~~ syllable of what I'm about to say next.

"You're not useless, Lilith."

This is the most intimate I've allowed myself to be with anyone other than Lalia - but every word I say is true. If anything at all, Lilith is the most useful out of all of us. The super glue that keeps us all from falling apart. But, here she is, not able to keep herself from falling apart.[/i][/s] I hold my gaze until my skin begin to tingle at the feeling of my rough hands against her tear stained cheeks. Even though it's necessary, right now, I still fucking hate touching people.

I drop my hands to the side, and turn away from Lilith. Instead, I face Lalia, feeling my insides twist knowing I don't have enough time to envelop her in a hug and tell her that everything will be alright. ~~The fact that I don't know whether or not it actually will be alright doesn't help the cause.~~ More than anything right now, I want to shield her away from the cruel fire that swallowed our home. But, there’s just not enough hours in the day anymore for that to happen. I swallow the lump that’s grown in my throat, nodding towards her direction, and I hope that she sees the glimpse of a smile I’m trying to force onto my face. But, there’s no more time for me to just stand here and wait to find out. ~~I've been waiting all my goddamn life, already, and for what?~~

With clenched hands, I turn away and march back into our blazing house - or, rather, what was left of it.[/I] Right before I enter it, I look over my shoulder, locking eyes with Lilith for one last time. I jut my chin towards Blaire and Lalia, "Keep them safe."

After that, I'm tripping over the stairs and running into walls - but I don't for a second allow myself to stop. I feel the heat of the fire begin to surround me, and I'm coughing heavily as the smoke grows thicker and thicker. But I won't stop, I can't fucking stop, because they all need me right now.

Even if I can’t save this house, I’m at least going to save them. Every last one of these bloody bastards I can’t help but hate, but won’t stop loving. I won’t stop loving them, no matter how much they all annoy the shit out of me on a daily basis, and I sure as hell won’t stop protecting them. ~~Even if that means I can’t protect myself.~~[/s] Because, as much as I detest it, I’m still the one they all look up to the most in their times of need. I’m still the one who they expect to stand strong despite all of the obstacles thrown at me. I’m still the one - [/color]the only one[/i][/color] - who can fix this mess.

And I’m not about to let them down.

I burst through the door and am instantly greeted with hot flames and a bloody Arwen. The curtains, walls, and ceiling are all drowning in flames. The tips of the fire quickly stretch throughout the room - the damn thing has no boundaries - and, in a few mere minutes, the whole thing can devour this house whole. The sight steals the breath out of my lungs, and I stumble two steps back, tripping over my own feet ~~and fear~~. The wind slices through my ears as I fall back and feel the impact of my bottom meeting the floor, I land with a shocking thump.

Suddenly, I'm paralyzed in my fear all over again - I can't move as I watch the rest of the flames continue to engulf the house little by little. My jaw hangs from my mouth, and my eyes are burning from the intensity of the heat. Despair dances across the walls of my home, smiling as she catches sight of my struck expression. Are you still as strong as you make yourself to be, Edgar?

Arwen's sharp cries force me to scramble to my feet, and start moving. I have no idea how to put out a fire - I already have my own fire raging within me - but my feet instantly carry me to the window, my hands mechanically yanking the curtains to the floor. I feel the fire meet my abdomen area before I see it - the flames jumping off the curtains and landing on my shirt, traveling from the fabric to my pale skin, a searing heat cutting through my stomach. An inhuman sound escapes my lips, and I'm suddenly screaming in pain, writhing as the fire makes me their next victim. ~~Somewhere in the distance, Despair laughs.~~ I pull the shirt over my head, throwing it with the pile of curtains that blaze on the floor. Now, I wish I had worn shoes before I sprinted out of my room, because I have no choice but to stomp over the fire with my bare feet. The pain doesn't stop me from trying to diminish the fire, though - if anything, it gives me the motivation to carry on. I'm stamping out the dying flames, now, with a bloody pair of feet and a burnt stomach. I'm stamping anger, I'm stamping hatred, I'm stamping famine, I'm stamping disease, I'm stamping Despair out of this house.[/i][/s] And, even as the flames on the curtains and my shirt wither away into nothing but black ash, it all still isn't enough.

But I can’t allow my vulnerability to show itself now - not here where I am the pillar that keeps us all still standing. I can't allow myself to sink beneath this heavy black smoke, to become engulfed in this blazing fire, to drown in this sea of flames.

Because, if I drown, [/color]they all drown with me. [/justify][/blockquote]

NORMAL // 927F7F

CHARACTER'S DIALOGUE //AA6655

OTHER DIALOGUE //BB8877

EMPHASIS // CC8866

[/size]

Last Edit: Apr 11, 2012 21:14:31 GMT -5 by chelsey

"Isn't this the point of being young?"

^ bless avalon's soul ^

florentine, d4b ❁
Moderator

1,728 POSTS
Pronouns: she/her
last seen Nov 22, 2024 22:50:48 GMT -5

// Fire Burns Like Tears In My Heart // [Sycamore] Apr 12, 2012 1:42:04 GMT -5

Post by florentine, d4b ❁ on Apr 12, 2012 1:42:04 GMT -5

{ s i l a s }

I cannot remember the last time I cried.

You think the oddest of thoughts when you’re scrambling desperately for your life. So odd that you almost want to laugh. But I haven’t laughed, genuinely laughed, in so long. In a way I yearn for it, and perhaps I would laugh right now. If I wasn’t straining my throat against my cries and pleas and the suffocating smoulder that scratched at my insides and stifled my breathing. If anyone bothered to attempt to stop me, their exclamations would sink under the roaring of fire and crashing of collapsing walls. Heat that flumes at my face leaves my palms sweaty, damp, slipping against the remains of the hallways as I desperately attempt to navigate my way through the house, deeper and deeper into the asphyxiation of fumes that clogs my mouth and stings my eyes. I’m blinded and screaming for oxygen - but I’m screaming for Arwen, too.

For a moment, I hope that Lilith, or Edgar, or whoever managed to take charge – got everyone else out safely. Then I catch on to the memory that death plucks out the people from my life and that perhaps he is striking again. Perhaps I am the reason for this fire. Innocent members of ~~my family~~ this house are hurting because of me. Silas, whom instead of dying has to watch others die in his place. Over and over again. Perhaps I am cursed with immortality; forcing death upon everyone else who crosses my path. I should run away from humanity and never look back.

And I rip myself away from my thoughts – because I am selfish for wasting this time thinking about myself. I might be dreaming but I swear that I crash into Septimus, wondering why on Earth he's still here, and my voice is creaking to life and I'm yelling for him to "GET OUT! GET ARA AND GET OUT!" I can't say any more to him, the idiot, except scream at him to leave - because I need to find Arwen before ~~she is stolen from me~~ she gets hurt. I cannot bear to even imagine her being gone. The idea is unthinkable.

A stifled cry catches my ears when my anger begins to rise – in a crazed thrashing against the constricting walls that have held me prisoner for so long – and I almost cease to hear it. I could be imagining, for all I know. The smoke may have sent me unconscious and the burning in my lungs caused them to clog, expand, explode, and I’m lying against the floors and flames are licking my skin, welcoming my body to a finale of slow, unconscious passing. But it doesn’t matter, for I am racing through the halls again and fighting with everything I have. I know that scream. I know that voice. I know that cry for help. She is alive and hurting and I have to, I need to save her. It’s the only think I’ve ever done right in my life. Save her, time and time again.

[/blockquote][/blockquote][/blockquote]

Ooc: Posting for Zoe here. To clarify, she wrote this amazing, beautiful post. Go on with posting, we have no order now. So don't wait for Arwen because she has nothing to say. Thanks.
So, to clear it up, we're still posting in 'rounds', meaning that you cannot post again until everyone has posted. This round, only Silas has posted, so everyone else can go ahead.

[/blockquote][/justify]

Last Edit: Apr 12, 2012 6:09:08 GMT -5 by florentine, d4b ❁

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// Fire Burns Like Tears In My Heart // [Sycamore]

Post by florentine, d4b ❁ on Apr 1, 2012 5:27:21 GMT -5

Post by ✨ zozo. on Apr 1, 2012 6:41:59 GMT -5

Post by arx!! on Apr 1, 2012 16:06:08 GMT -5

Post by Python on Apr 2, 2012 20:18:38 GMT -5

Post by Stare on Apr 2, 2012 21:01:53 GMT -5

Post by Wonder on Apr 2, 2012 23:38:20 GMT -5

Post by chelsey on Apr 4, 2012 15:54:01 GMT -5

Post by florentine, d4b ❁ on Apr 8, 2012 5:25:44 GMT -5

Post by arx!! on Apr 8, 2012 10:08:59 GMT -5

Post by Python on Apr 8, 2012 23:28:34 GMT -5

Post by Stare on Apr 9, 2012 21:19:33 GMT -5

Post by ✨ zozo. on Apr 9, 2012 21:52:38 GMT -5

Post by Wonder on Apr 9, 2012 23:59:43 GMT -5

Post by chelsey on Apr 11, 2012 0:34:17 GMT -5

Post by florentine, d4b ❁ on Apr 12, 2012 1:42:04 GMT -5