I'd {Lie} | Dars

.// savannah diamanté de avila


© the lovely zoë @ hgrpg

Oh if I’m row to row
Back to back
Lover to lover
And black to red

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With each tentative breath passing through her pouted lips (purposefully done because this certainly hasn't been the first time Mr. Teacher-Someone-Someone fell for the Savannah's trademark deceit ― and the de Avila charm, of course)[/color], now pink with all the nibbling business done from the banal minutes that has passed, self-concoted anxiety slowly build up inside her gut. It was making a ladder, she thought with pure, utter distaste for something that was her own. Slowly building the passageway to my own heart ― frozen and tangled in the web of lies of my own doing but something that beats nevertheless ― in order to taint it with the reverse kind of desire that I have long since thawed on to live. But how can I possibly live when everything's closing in ―

Claustrophobia has never been a problem, never a burden to carry (or to have)[/color], and never did perched its preposterous wings on her mind. Minutes spent under the sacred safety of closed doors and lips pressing in together with the raging kind of fading passion burning underneath their skin, the tight space offered by the school's numerous storage closets. None whispered secrets of withholding personal space to one's self, especially with the awry kind of gluttony that we sink ourselves in, desperate with the touch and feel of skin on skin. But then there's something different ― a sick kind of gloriousness, even, something that I never thought would be my own except for the spotlight that came with being a de Avila ― about my arms pressed in to my sides, acting as armed soldiers to protect, as what Mother would say: 'the essence of what makes a saint, my dear.'

An absent-minded smirk raises the corner of her lip, and it serene in a way that it was beyond wrong. But that was beside the point; Savannah had been dancing the waltz of the wrong symphony the whole time that no definition was needed, and the now-stark outlines of her family's shady exchanges behind such a beautiful facade was already a definition enough to stand on its own. She could care less ― in fact, she[/color] was as incoherent and implausible, plucked straight from the hurricane. I'm a saint, alright, the one tainted beyond refuge. Any minute now, and I would no longer be only teetering over this cliff that I had willingly run into. I would fall. No matter how much I try and dig my fingernails into my palm, how much I try and crumple my fingers into fists with my knuckles kissing my thigh, there was no denying that there was a part of me that craved for the fall, for finally feeling the wind pass through my fingers.

But to be completely honest, she didn't know whether she was already falling or just clinging to a simple branch of what might be right in this beyond messed-up world they were born into.

Whether on the final flight heading for her long-awaited demise in this path of delipidation she had thurst herself into, or simply a futile act of hanging by a thread, one thing was certain: the bell for dismissal has rung ― thank Ripred ― and she was on her feet, slinging her bag and guitar case in the other. The hallways didn't matter to her as much as it would to the next person, not when the crowd moved as though Moses had parted the Red Sea once again. Savannah found an oddly-placed source of comfort that way she remained respectable and right in their eyes, a balance kept by how she treated them with the polar opposite of how she would when a boy comes across. They don't need to know that this was cause-and-effect taking life, and how one heart breaks and the rest will pay.

As soon as she exited the building and was once again in the front steps of the District's school, her movements fell into the same routine over and over again ― bending down to place her bag on the pavement, sitting on the same spot for all these years. These were the moments that she cherished, where she had all her time for herself and simply playing a few songs to ease her mind and her quickening conscience. The rest of her friends understood that although Savannah can play anytime she wanted, something constant was what she wanted, a lifeline to hang on to when everything else seemed to be a blur of 'love' thrown and a halting stop when fingers slightly brushed underneath the fabric here, and a precious heart shattered there.

Unzipping the case, her eyes fell on the glossy finish on the wood of her treasured instrument. Her eyes twinkled with anticipation, something that never seems to disappear nor, although repetitive, gets old over time. No, she thought as she carefully situated it, gripping the neck with gentleness (that certainly was never there when she left another profession of affection drowning in a pool of rejection)[/color] and strummed its copper strings. Music would never grow old, not like how the once burning passion between two lovers would die out sooner or later, or perhaps all of a sudden and someone would proclaim that it was all a figment of your imagination and there was never ―

She smiled, showing absolutely no hint of the bitter thought that had crossed her mind earlier, as it produced a sweet-sounding note, and then with one hand, blindingly searched for the lone piece of paper where she had hastily written down the chords for a new song that she had composed. The de Avilas were special on their own, with their own artistry to be proud of once you got past the name, the wealth, and the looks. Mara had her piano compositions, and Savannah was sure Anastasia still peeked in between the dusty pages of her violin songbook. She, on the other hand, needed no book to follow. All of the songs she had played was all of her own work, and it was definitely something that she had taken pride in.

Plucking a few strings and gradually strumming, Savannah started singing, keeping eyes on her handiwork. There was no need to pay attention to the people around her, years and years of the same thing had taught her that it was always the same. Some glanced, but went on their way, because staring is rude and with a sickly-sweet smile, Savannah would show you that and make sure that you learn it. Some milled around in a safe distance and pretended to be doing their own business, but we all now the ulterior motive underneath that indifferent surface, completely obvious with the way their ears perked and they discreetly inched their bodies nearer. The ever-so-bad-arsed Careers, however, gave a quick unacknowledged nod towards her, and headed straight for their respective Training Areas. They all knew that messing with a de Avila never did you any good, and knew that Savannah, despite how much affection she showed for her beloved guitar, would never hesitate to hurl it over your head, reminiscent of the precision Anastasia shows when she swings her axe. Just like how I would never hesitate to crush your sad, little heart underneath my foot once you touch my sisters.

Savannah was lost in her own craft, content to float mindlessly in her own music. It was going softly, and the union of the guitar's song and her own voice was lovely, she had to admit.

And then, of course, the union cracked with a simple "― his eye color's green―" an unexpected swerve off the road. She continued strumming, but it eventually stopped, with her light eyebrows crinkled in confusion. "That's not right..." she muttered.

There’s no salvation for me now
No space among the clouds
And I’ve seen that I’m heading down
But that’s alright
That’s alright

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