{Khione Electra} ~District 3~ {WIP}
Oct 10, 2011 0:02:12 GMT -5
Post by Ally is tentatively back on Oct 10, 2011 0:02:12 GMT -5
M = E6ECF2
S = C1CBF4
O = C9DDED
T = A3B7D2
Even if I say, "It'll be alright." Still I hear you say, you want to end your life. Now and again we try, to just stay alive! Maybe we'll turn it all around...
'Cause it's not too late, it's never too late.
"Khione Aspen Electra.
Twenty-Two.
District Three.
Female."
Appearance.[/size][/font][/color]
The first things you see are the eyes. Brilliant grey-blue eyes, shaped like orange wedges -Dammit Khione, don't think of oranges, whatever you do!- And framed by thick black lashes that brush my cheeks like feathers when the eyes shut. They take you in and give nothing of their owner back. Mirrors, like I need them to be. Because if I give anything back, I'll get hurt. So people can say I'm snobby, think I'm too good for everyone else. Well I do what I need to do, and I survive. But you won't see that in my eyes. You'll only see your reflection.
The next thing you'll take in is the paleness. It doesn't do me any good to try and tan, I tried years ago, -Too close to dangerous memories!- And only ended up freckled for my efforts. I don't go outside much anyway. I stay in my room, listening to music, reading, tinkering... whatever I have to do to keep myself occupied. I've been a wraith my entire life... except when I was called "Ice princess Khi!" By someone who actually cared... No. I need to stop that.
And then you see the lips. Full and pink, sitting prominently on my face. They're usually chapped though, but I can never bring myself to care. My lower lip is a gentle dip, sort of pouty, but not really. The upper is vaguely shaped like a bow. I press them together when I think, because it somehow helps my thought processes I guess. Everything's muddled up nowadays.
After the lips, you would notice the rest of the face, thin and triangular in shape. You would notice the softly rounded nose, and the prominent cheekbones. If I opened my mouth, you would see the little white teeth. But you would have to recognize the hard, stubborn set to these features. The utter lack of cracks in the stone armor... And then you would see the worry lines on the forehead.
After that you would notice the hair. Smooth and shiny, as befits the daughter of rich geniuses in the employ of the president, as they always proudly tell me. They don't see that I'm smirking inside. You two are just so proud of being pawns, aren't you? So I just put up with the insistences that I keep up appearances of normalcy and wash my damn hair every once in a while so the chestnut color doesn't end up being a dark brown, because if it were up to me I'd never leave the chair by my desk, and I'd wither there. But no no no, I must keep going. So I stare at the ice princess in the mirror in front of me as I half-heartedly run a brush through the straight chestnut locks, and try not to remember why I became so cold.
After you took in all of these things, your eyes would invariably stray to my body. You would see excessive thinness, brought on by the common occurrence of forgetting to eat. You would see long, spindly arms and legs. And if you could see my lower chest, you would see the large red scar that stretches across it. But of course you wouldn't, because I never show it. Not as if anyone swims here, with all the pollution. You would see a small bust, but what do I care if I can't attract a man that way, as my mother always bemoans. If a man loves me, it won't be for my damn breasts. And then you would see small hips, though you wouldn't see the scars there, either. You would have to pick out the small details before absorbing the entirety of my five foot and seven and three sixteenths of an inch frame.
You would see my hands, the thin, sure hands of a painter. Every nail a perfect oval, each finger long and tapering as it curls to hold the paintbrush. The wrists bony but still sure in their movements. The callouses on my fingers are easily detectable if you look, indicating that I've been painting -holding the brush just so as it trails wonderful color across the blank canvas- for many years. The callouses are more pronounced on my left, dominant hand. I'm actually ambidextrous, but injured my right hand when I was a child, and have since come to depend on the left. You can see the scar on my right palm, faintly crescent shaped. And of course, you can see the slight hesitation in every movement of the right hand. It's an old scar, not nearly as scary as the new ones. My hand is the least of my problems.
I'm often red in the face and puffing if asked to perform physical tasks, which can be attributed to a somewhat tenuous hold on health, and a moderate case of asthma; which the pollution does nothing to remedy. It hasn't just been since the accident that my health has failed. I've never had a good immune system. Although, I sometimes wish that all of my problems could be contributed to the accident that shattered my life. But no, the only physical after effect of the accident is my slight limp, favoring my left leg.
I was the girl with no friends. I don't want friends, simple as that. I'm antisocial, and I like it in my little bubble. It's as if I knew, subconsciously, that having friends would later make my life hell. I hated people, always shied away or glared when they tried to approach. I was unreachable.
Until my grandparents died. That was when my cousin came to live with us. I remember that he annoyed me. But honestly, he's been like a brother to me... although, I haven't talked to him in four years. Another thing to blame the accident for. All my progress was washed down the drain.
I can only imagine how pissed he was. The guy spends months wrestling his cousin out of her reclusive existence... and then I got worse. Poor him.
RIGHT BRAIN. 161.
S = C1CBF4
O = C9DDED
T = A3B7D2
Even if I say, "It'll be alright." Still I hear you say, you want to end your life. Now and again we try, to just stay alive! Maybe we'll turn it all around...
'Cause it's not too late, it's never too late.
"Khione Aspen Electra.
Twenty-Two.
District Three.
Female."
Appearance.
The first things you see are the eyes. Brilliant grey-blue eyes, shaped like orange wedges -Dammit Khione, don't think of oranges, whatever you do!- And framed by thick black lashes that brush my cheeks like feathers when the eyes shut. They take you in and give nothing of their owner back. Mirrors, like I need them to be. Because if I give anything back, I'll get hurt. So people can say I'm snobby, think I'm too good for everyone else. Well I do what I need to do, and I survive. But you won't see that in my eyes. You'll only see your reflection.
The next thing you'll take in is the paleness. It doesn't do me any good to try and tan, I tried years ago, -Too close to dangerous memories!- And only ended up freckled for my efforts. I don't go outside much anyway. I stay in my room, listening to music, reading, tinkering... whatever I have to do to keep myself occupied. I've been a wraith my entire life... except when I was called "Ice princess Khi!" By someone who actually cared... No. I need to stop that.
And then you see the lips. Full and pink, sitting prominently on my face. They're usually chapped though, but I can never bring myself to care. My lower lip is a gentle dip, sort of pouty, but not really. The upper is vaguely shaped like a bow. I press them together when I think, because it somehow helps my thought processes I guess. Everything's muddled up nowadays.
After the lips, you would notice the rest of the face, thin and triangular in shape. You would notice the softly rounded nose, and the prominent cheekbones. If I opened my mouth, you would see the little white teeth. But you would have to recognize the hard, stubborn set to these features. The utter lack of cracks in the stone armor... And then you would see the worry lines on the forehead.
After that you would notice the hair. Smooth and shiny, as befits the daughter of rich geniuses in the employ of the president, as they always proudly tell me. They don't see that I'm smirking inside. You two are just so proud of being pawns, aren't you? So I just put up with the insistences that I keep up appearances of normalcy and wash my damn hair every once in a while so the chestnut color doesn't end up being a dark brown, because if it were up to me I'd never leave the chair by my desk, and I'd wither there. But no no no, I must keep going. So I stare at the ice princess in the mirror in front of me as I half-heartedly run a brush through the straight chestnut locks, and try not to remember why I became so cold.
After you took in all of these things, your eyes would invariably stray to my body. You would see excessive thinness, brought on by the common occurrence of forgetting to eat. You would see long, spindly arms and legs. And if you could see my lower chest, you would see the large red scar that stretches across it. But of course you wouldn't, because I never show it. Not as if anyone swims here, with all the pollution. You would see a small bust, but what do I care if I can't attract a man that way, as my mother always bemoans. If a man loves me, it won't be for my damn breasts. And then you would see small hips, though you wouldn't see the scars there, either. You would have to pick out the small details before absorbing the entirety of my five foot and seven and three sixteenths of an inch frame.
You would see my hands, the thin, sure hands of a painter. Every nail a perfect oval, each finger long and tapering as it curls to hold the paintbrush. The wrists bony but still sure in their movements. The callouses on my fingers are easily detectable if you look, indicating that I've been painting -holding the brush just so as it trails wonderful color across the blank canvas- for many years. The callouses are more pronounced on my left, dominant hand. I'm actually ambidextrous, but injured my right hand when I was a child, and have since come to depend on the left. You can see the scar on my right palm, faintly crescent shaped. And of course, you can see the slight hesitation in every movement of the right hand. It's an old scar, not nearly as scary as the new ones. My hand is the least of my problems.
I'm often red in the face and puffing if asked to perform physical tasks, which can be attributed to a somewhat tenuous hold on health, and a moderate case of asthma; which the pollution does nothing to remedy. It hasn't just been since the accident that my health has failed. I've never had a good immune system. Although, I sometimes wish that all of my problems could be contributed to the accident that shattered my life. But no, the only physical after effect of the accident is my slight limp, favoring my left leg.
Personality.
I was the girl with no friends. I don't want friends, simple as that. I'm antisocial, and I like it in my little bubble. It's as if I knew, subconsciously, that having friends would later make my life hell. I hated people, always shied away or glared when they tried to approach. I was unreachable.
Until my grandparents died. That was when my cousin came to live with us. I remember that he annoyed me. But honestly, he's been like a brother to me... although, I haven't talked to him in four years. Another thing to blame the accident for. All my progress was washed down the drain.
I can only imagine how pissed he was. The guy spends months wrestling his cousin out of her reclusive existence... and then I got worse. Poor him.
History.
RIGHT BRAIN. 161.
