♥ break ; libertines&ripleys

The little girl is waiting for me. She sits in the shadows, watching, long before my wandering eyes find her. And when they do, I cannot breathe. She is slight, almost frail, with hair as pure and crimson as the setting sun. Pale cheeks and an upturned nose scattered with freckles turn my way. This little girl looks like Penelope, somehow, despite their differences. She sits like her, with the same air of emptiness, holds the ocean in her eyes. Of course, she has not seen the sins dancing before her, inhaled them like ocean spray in the same way her sister did. But she knows. "Why are you here, Klaus?" She asks the question with such an air of knowing that I think for a moment that perhaps she knows the answer to this question better than I do. This child is as deep as the arena, as complicated and worn as the sand that adorned the shores. And yet so shallow. Her stare turns to an accusatory glare when I do not respond. I cannot look at her and smile. I let her sister die, I slaughtered the boy who would have been coming home to greet her. One more glance reveals that this girl is to much more than I will ever be. Nessie Libertine's fine features are a picture of amusement. One eyebrow raised, smirking. "You're scared of me." She says it simply. Not an accusation, a fact. I, the Victor of the Sixty-first annual Hunger Games, the boy who has killed three souls and conquered twenty-three - I am afraid of a tiny child sitting on the stairwell. For who she is, what she has seen. The things she knows that I do not. In truth, I am afraid of Nessie for all the wrong reasons. I take a step toward her, as if to prove to her that I am fearless, however she lets out a bitter laugh. It says: you don't know me, don't pretend.

"It-" I begin to argue, not entirely sure what is coming next. A stammered apology for what I did? A flurry of questions all at once? A plea for help from this tiny monster? It matters not that I do not know what I am about to say, because somebody else in the room does. Nessie finishes my sentence, her voice almost mocking, sarcastic, filled with all the biting, bitter humor of an old soldier. Penelope was the way she was, and her tiny sister is this way. What horrors have this shop entailed?"It wasn't supposed to be like this, I know." Behind the bold exterior, something else lurks. A scared child who has lost one of those closest to her, who wanted her home but instead found me at her doorstep. Nobody gets what they want. This person shelters behind the look in her eyes. She is like me, in a way. Like Klaus Goravich, only the pretenses she uses to hide herself are so much more effective than my own. She sees right through me, but doesn't everyone? She is a liar. "I want to know everything," I say, bracing myself for the harsh retaliation sure to follow. Nobody knows everything, Klaus. Or worse, her eyes upon me filled with pity. Do not pity me, for I do not regret.

Her bare feet are silent upon the floorboards as she descends the last few stairs toward me. For a moment, she avoids eye contact, but then as though a switch has been flicked in her head, she remembers to be brave. I wonder if she met Penelope's eye. Were they close, or did Nessie shy away from her? Was darling Pen too wrapped up in her own fantasies to notice the scarlet-haired warrior that resided between her very walls? If anybody can tell me who Penelope was without their minds having erased all her flaws it is Nessie. "Can you show me her, growing up? Photographs?" For that is the beauty of a camera. It doesn't snatch what it displays. It simply preserves memories in a way that humans never can. We forget, we change the truth into what we want to believe. A photo, however, stays the same every single time you look at it. A video can hold into the voice and manner and words of a person, forever. They don't fall away with age or die before their time.Camera's can capture what we leave to ruin. And in this way they are terrible. At my words, fear burns in her eyes. Her breathing quickens, just a fraction of a second too fast. Diluted eyes stare and fingers fumble to pull a book from a shelf. She brings it to me, steadying herself visibly. "You're scared of them," I say. Not an accusation, a fact. We are both afraid of Penelope Libertine.

Little-girl Libertine is the youngest sister of Penelope. Penelope Libertine is the second bravest person I ever had the pleasure of meeting. District Four is a place of beauty and darkness. It was their arena. The arena for the tributes of the ocean to thrive, and thrive they did. But surviving for a few days and surviving for a week and surviving the Hunger Games are entirely different things. I look at the pictures, faded photographs that tell brilliant stories. Children lying on the beach, hands shielding their eyes from the glare of the sun. Penelope and Jorge and assorted other children clasping hands, the backdrop blue from the sky to the sea. Penelope standing, barely reaching the tabletop, beside a boy who looks an awful lot like Fitz and yet isn't. I promised to be this boy's brother, whoever he is. Fitz grinning, splashing a group of other little boys, all mirrors of him, Penelope with her back turned to them. She is looking into the distance. I want to ask Nessie for the rest of the stories. The how and the when and the why and the who. I want to know if Penelope climbed trees, if she knew backstroke, how many boys she kissed. The sibling she was closest to. If she had the same friends all her life, if she liked school. But I don't. "Nessie, why aren't you in any of these photographs?" She looks at me without answering, for a long moment. It is only when somebody else answers when I realize that we are not alone.