☆Always Holding Onto Stars☆ {Goravich}

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florentine, d4b ❁
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☆Always Holding Onto Stars☆ {Goravich} Aug 26, 2012 1:33:28 GMT -5

Post by florentine, d4b ❁ on Aug 26, 2012 1:33:28 GMT -5

[presto]

klaus goravich
seventeen
district three

[/presto]

OH, FOR EVERY KING THAT DIED

My fingers shake as the train draws into the station. Every moment drags on longer than the last, every step I take toward the door infinite and filled with time. Heavy air lingers around me, making every inch a mile, every breath I take a thousand scars upon my lungs. Today, I am going home. Today I will see them again, my family, and their faces will lose their faded, empty presence in my mind. I will touch them, hold them. Today my world will be real again. The clocks will resume their ticking. The ocean of lies will surely fade away and all my worries and problems and guilt-filled dreams will sink to the bottom of the ocean. When I am with them, everything is okay. As my fingers brush against the handle, a thoughts bursts into my mind. Hopper. He will be real, and I will be whole again. Perhaps tonight we will sit by the fire and perhaps he will read to me and perhaps I will fall asleep by his side and Penelope and Fitz and Stark and Mahlah will be gone and forgotten, just another nightmare he can take away with a smile. Maybe. That first step onto the platform burns, because there is no crowd waiting to greet me. Just a small group of Peacekeepers, standing without emotion before me. I don't even smile, because although I want to be happy to be home, although I want to run and skip and cry with joy, I don't. Because what if home isn't the same anymore? What if I am not forgiven? What if the nightmares have become far too scary to be chased away? What if coming back to the same people is different altogether? What if they don't love me anymore?

The walk to the justice building goes too fast in contrary to the train ride. I wanted to fast-forward, and yet now all I can hope to wish for is another whole minute without knowing for sure. There is still a chance everything will be exactly how I left it, untouched and unforgotten. The moment I see their eyes, it will be unchangeable. I can't take back the children I killed, I can't retract those final swings of my sword. Those times are set in stone and no amount of trying to retrace my steps in my mind will change them. All the sins I committed, they watched. How will anybody ever look at me and believe my words again? So much blood has spilled at my hand that no amount of bloodshed will ever compensate for what I did not lose. My life, so valuable and rare and yet so scarred. The District is exactly the same as I left it. The sky is the same shade of blue, the pavements just as gruelling and grey. My tears, however, are still. They do not plant themselves in the dirt as they once would have done, because as much as I want to believe that my home is the same, I am not. I am not really Klaus anymore. Then, who am I? Just a boy, I guess. Just a murderous, sinful, good-for-nothing thief, taking the chances and the lives and the hearts that never belonged to him. Just a little boy with wide eyes and a heart of fear. Just a child who wants to go home.

And then it's over. The door is closed upon the people with the wide eyes and I am sitting alone in a room with myself and my thoughts and nothing to distract my wandering heart. I can't breathe, I can't think, I can only love. For a moment, this is enough. My mind drifts backwards as it often does, to the days I spent so happy in the arena. It was a place of horrors, and yet the beauty was undeniable, the friendships unbreakable. Only, they broke. Not just broke but shattered, splintered, split, with shards of trust and love digging into our very souls. That hurt, but it didn't hurt quite enough to end the pain altogether, and so I must keep walking while they lie at rest.Who really won the Games, if you look at it like that? Is living really the best prize, when winning prolongs the suffering until your dying day? Having to look into the eyes of your siblings and know what you did and the things you didn't stop. The morals you put aside just for them? Was it for them, though? Or was it for you, selfish, naive little child?

Just as I am beginning to let myself stop - (stop with the constant torture, never-ending circles of thoughts that make me want to cry and never stop) - the door swings open, just a crack, and a Peacekeeper leans in, looking at me. Is he afraid of me? Should he be? "Mr Goravich, your family is here to see you, sir." I want to yell, to scream, to demand that he let them in or send them away orsomething, anything, to end the pain, but I simply non, a tired nod. The kind of gesture that says 'you can, yes, but does it really change anything at all?' And then the door is wide and I am looking at Marina and Jamarion and Lyana and Tacara and where is Hopper, where is he, I need him now more than ever. Hopper Goravich is in the same room as me. He is breathing the same air as me and dare I say looking at me in exactly the same way I am looking at him. I don't smile because I don't have to. The careless lack of energy I felt just seconds - or hours or days or something - before is gone and I am on my feet, running towards him with everything I was and am and ever will be. My hands touch him first, holding him. Solid and real and my brother. And then I kiss him, because I love him. I love him. I love him.
"I missed you," I say, and I might be talking to everyone or Hopper or the part of me that I left behind.

THEY WOULD CROWN ANOTHER

Last Edit: Jan 17, 2014 4:48:46 GMT -5 by florentine, d4b ❁

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☆Always Holding Onto Stars☆ {Goravich} Aug 26, 2012 14:11:57 GMT -5

Post by semper on Aug 26, 2012 14:11:57 GMT -5

This is it.

I’ve waited for this moment for so long, even dreamed of it. The day I get to see my brother again. Up until now it’s just been surreal wishing – hoping and praying on a shooting star, though the chances of that happening were slim to none. I had just as much a chance of actually catching the star as I did of seeing him again. Would he make it back? Could he? I believed in him – that’s why it hurt so bad. That’s why I spent my nights devoid of sleep, why I couldn’t keep him out of my head. I always knew he had what it took inside of himself, just lying dormant beneath all those stories and facts. He’s not a weakling like Jamar had thought – like the majority of people had thought. I don’t know how the hell he pulled off such a good training score, but it made me proud of him. He proved many wrong by winning the Games and bringing home the crown and riches. But that’s not why I’m here, no. I don’t care about fame or fortune, all I care about is seeing him alive and well. Safe and sound.

But what if he finds out? That secret I told Jamar, it can destroy me completely. He’ll think of me differently and I won’t be able to take that. The close bond we have, it’ll be gone. Severed. I don’t think I could bear looking at him and knowing that I’m something else in his eyes now: a sick, twisted, incestuous person. He’ll avoid me, no doubt, and think that every innocent gesture I ever made had some ulterior meaning to it. All those nights I spent stumbling over words, the times I shared blankets with him, when we played around when we were younger. I don’t want those memories to be ruined by my stupidity and idiocy. All it took was one slip of the tongue and now my deepest, darkest secret is on the verge of being exposed to the whole world.

I’m sure he thinks that we see him differently now, too. The Games do horrible things to people and he is no exception to that rule, much to my dismay. If I could, I would have shielded him from all the blood and gore, protected him when it came down to slaying his own allies. I can only do so much, though. He grew in the arena, he changed drastically. He’s killed, he’s starved, he’s bled and made others bleed. With a flick of his sword he splattered sticky red droplets across that sand – mercilessly, relentlessly. He’s not a murderer, though. No, he only did what was necessary to make it back home to us, his family.

And he’s just behind a door.

My heart is pounding. That surreal wishing is now only moments away from becoming reality, but it drags by slowly. All I want is to see him, to hold him and reassure myself that he’s still alive. I need him, I want him, everything that is him – his scars, his hair, his eyes, his voice.

Then it opens.

I see him standing there, looking just the same as he had the day the Peacekeepers took him away from us. The only difference is that he’s sturdier, in a way; he isn’t the same fragile little boy who couldn’t stand up for himself. There’s a different kind of air around him, like it’s heavier and condensed with burden – that same burden that all the victors have. They’ve seen their friends die and have even killed them themselves, which I figure is quite excruciating to live with. But I don’t want him to have to deal with that. I want to make him feel better and take away all the darkness he has to live with now. For all I know, though, he won’t need me. I’ll be pushed aside and just left to watch as he moves on with his life. He won’t need me anymore.

He suddenly shifts and I see his limbs working as if he’s running, and then I realize that he really is. But not away from us, no – he’s running at us, more specifically at me. My arms spread open for him but he keeps getting closer, and closer, and closer—

Just as my arms encircle his small frame, I feel his soft lips press lightly against mine. I’m completely startled – terrified, even – thinking that he’s suddenly read me like an open book and knows how much I love him in that unnatural way. Has he known all this time? Does he know how badly I simply want him?

More than anything I just want to kiss him back. I felt something, though, in that split second of our connection: a small, tingling spark; a warmth, even, filling up my entire core. It chased away all the fear I had penned up, all the depression and all the nightmares. Everything is going to be okay now.

My arms wrap tightly around him, oh so tightly. I don’t want to let go for fear of losing him again. I bury my face into the crook of his neck, my eyes shut tightly and fighting off the tears that are threatening to fall. It’s nearly too wonderful to be true – his soft hair brushes against my skin, I feel his warmth seeping through my clothes, his ribs moving with each breath he takes. All I can really do is just hug him tighter, refusing to let go anytime soon.

”I missed you so much, Klaus,” I murmur to him, my cracking voice giving away the turmoil of emotion inside of me. ”I love you.”

[/justify][/color]

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☆Always Holding Onto Stars☆ {Goravich} Aug 28, 2012 7:37:12 GMT -5

Post by cass on Aug 28, 2012 7:37:12 GMT -5

MARINA GORAVICH.

I'm still alive but I'm barely breathing,
Just prayed to a god that I don't believe in
But no wise words gonna stop the bleeding
I'm falling to pieces, yeah
I'm falling to pieces .

When I look into an older person’s eyes, or the eyes of a starving child, the pain that shines so brightly in them seems to fill me and I in turn feel just the way they do. The aching in my stomach grows and as I peer down at my thin stick like limbs I realise I am the same as them, hollow and dying. Only a little while ago did I begin to understand the concept of death and dying. I use to believe that as soon as we are born we are dying. Are we not growing older and older until we die? Is that not what dying is? Coming of the age when you eventually pass away from this world and into the next? I have always believed each and every person in the world is dying; the definition of it seems so unclear to me that we all might as well be destined to die. One does not chose their death, the time in which they pass from the Earth and sink into the folds of an endless sleep, or how some believe you are born again as another thing, person, animal or monster.

It was not until just a little while ago did I begin to see the true meaning of dying, the all-encompassing reason why we die and what it means to die. I was sitting in the graveyard, the place I go to think and weave stories of the dead so that they can once more become the living and have a life that is filled with joy, but also carries the sorrows that are drowning this world. I never made any of them into heroes, none of them became anything other than an ordinary person, with ups and downs, joys that they would never imagine and terrors that they begged to never heard of, and their cries filled my mine at night asking me why I had created such a nightmare in their lives? Did they deserve it? What had they done? It was like a symphony of the most depressing type of music, pushing and shoving against my skull until I lay in bed, my eyes scrunched up tight, my hands glued to the sides of my heads, pulling at my hair to stop the pain that raged in me.

When the pain became too much I would begin to cry and run out into the cold night, to the graveyard where I would sob and scream and yell at them to understand, I screamed at them to see that they needed that pain, they needed that terror, and there was no good in the world when you did not suffer. I whispered to the spirits telling them that was one horror too much? Were they so ignorant and stupid that they could not see that one small incident that I had built into each of their individual lives was needed? When I asked them I received no answer to these questions and everything went quite.

It was on one of these nights that I found out that answer to the question of dying, when does one technically become dead? I pondered my reasons for a while and as the streaks of the morning light hit the sky, like the candle wax striking canvas and dripping down to form the bright orange glow that is our sun I smiled. The corners of my lips twisted ever so slightly, the curvature of my lips soft and delicate, saddened, but holding hope and the soft glow of a girl who had found the answer. Death does not simply begin from when you are born, it does not plague you all your life, I realised that you become the dying when in your mind you have ceased to see a new beginning and everything fresh and joyful has ended and all you can see his the end. Dying is when in there is more end in your mind than there is beginning.

Life is like a story it contains a middle beginning and end, and like any story it has good and bad, broken dreams and happy tales. Mine seems to be filled with sorrow and pain and the word joy, bliss that filled most others. Right now my life has hit a brick wall I don’t know what to do; my brother in my eyes is dead. He died the day his name was called out, but they all tell me that he is alive and that he is right on the other side of that door. He couldn’t be. He was dead, he was really and truly dead and yet as my brother opened the door and the boy stood there, I wasn’t so sure. My mind was racing, but I knew it wasn’t him… it couldn’t possibly be him. I stare numbly as he runs forward and hugs Hopper and kisses him. That wasn’t right, that wasn’t my Klaus. The capitol had done something to him, they had ruined, destroyed, killed the boy I loved and in front of me in his place was a mutt. A cold dead monster.

With a scream I run forward and shove myself into the mutt, my frail body collides with his and I’m sent flying onto the ground as I crash into him, him falling with me. I reach forward and with my tiny fists I start hitting him, my arms flailing madly. “You monster, you horrible, filthy, dirty monster, get away from my brother. What has the Capitol done to you, my brother’s dead, why are you alive? Why are you here? You’re a mutt. You aren’t real. You can’t be.”

They say bad things happen for a reason
But no wise words gonna stop the bleeding
'Coz she's moved on while I'm still grieving
And when a heart breaks
no it don't break even, even no.

Last Edit: Aug 28, 2012 7:38:08 GMT -5 by cass

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☆Always Holding Onto Stars☆ {Goravich} Aug 28, 2012 21:04:28 GMT -5

Post by ✨ zozo. on Aug 28, 2012 21:04:28 GMT -5

Sometimes they say this should
Feel something like fire
'Til it burns you and you can't
No, you can't remain the same
Stay the same, I can't change

"So tell us, Briana, wha-"

"It's Lyana" she replies sharply, feeling the thousands of eyes clawing at her through the camera lens, the bleep, bleep, bleep of a little red light signalling every word she spoke was to be heard by the entire country. If they were going to muster up the courage to ask for an interview, they could at least get her name right.

"Right, Lyana - what did you think of the Games this year?"

The question is straightforward. Simple. She could do simple. Complicated was where it started to get tricky. The brightly-coloured Capitolite shoves the microphone in her face, and in takes her a moment to think of a response. They want your opinion - but it has to be positive, no matter if you disagree. "Well," she begins, tilting her head to the side so the whole wide world could see her slightly-forced smile and praying that the camera could not spy her nervous fingers tap, tap, tapping away at her hands. "They were certainly incredible! I loved the sandcastle - that was probably my favourite part of the arena."

She hates that stupid sandcastle with all her heart. She hates the beaches, the trees, the seaweed and the sand. With every fibre of her being. In fact, the only thing she likes about that stupid, stupid arena is the fact that her brother's blood was hardly spilled onto it's sandy shores. It's impossible to sleep when you could wake up the next morning and find out one fifth of your circle, one fifth of your life, one fifth of your self, is dead. All she could do was sit, and watch, and grow into a zombie-like trance, eyes watering against the flickering screen as she watched each tribute fall, one by one. Waiting for her brother's name to flash onto the screen. Waiting for him to collapse, to be snatched up by an artificial crane, lifeless in it's metal fingertips. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

But Klaus did not fall. He rose to the top, the king of the castle, and all the rest were ~~dead, bleeding, mauled, spluttering~~ rascals. The sandcastle is her favourite because her brother conquered it, but they tell her that he'll never be the same. And all she wants is her nerdy, quiet, bookish brother to pester her, prod her, shove a camera into her personal space. Not the reporters with their fancy hair, fancy clothes and fancy equipment - her brother. Klaus. Klaus. She was going to see Klaus today. And it seems like such a long time since she had laid her eyes on her brother. So much so that it was if he were gone for good, dead - what she'd been expecting, bracing herself for. The worse type of absence is not knowing whether they'd return home or not. At least with death, you are sure that they have moved on. But every day was another struggle to hold her breath in and her head up high. Lyana had never cared for anyone but herself, but now, she realises - she cares for 5 other souls. Klaus. Hopper. Marina. Jamarion. Tacara. She cares for them all, for their lives, for their souls and for their existence far more than her learning hiccough. Far more than she cares for herself.

And then she's ripped from the thought of them again, for another question is fired at her.

"And how did you feel when you realised Klaus had won this years Hunger Games?"

The woman's voice is too excited, too passionate. It makes the red-head sad, to see how corrupting lies can twist a whole generation of people's mindsets into thinking so highly of children killing other children. It sounds so horrible to her, so disgusting, so foul - yet these people are convinced it sounds like they've just won a lottery. And she supposes that that was how she felt when ~~ziFt Replyi~~ ~~Ftiz plReyi~~ Fitz Ripley's canon echoed through the television speakers. She could finally breathe again, let the air swoop out of her system and inhale in a whole new substance altogether. Klaus was coming home.

Klaus was coming home.

"Happier than I've ever felt before in my life" she states simply, green eyes gliding towards the camera lens and hovers over them for a moment. My brother is coming home, and that was the first honest truth I let slip from my mouth this entire interview. The red bleeping stops, the world around her leaps into life again, and she is thanked and freed to go.

Klaus was coming home, and she would be there to greet him. It would be perfect, smiles and hugs and tears (not from her, of course - Lyana Goravich did not do tears - that was Marina's thing) and they'd be escorted into their new home in the Victors Village. The arena would be left behind on the train, and her brother would be his same old bookish self. They were lying, the people, of course they were. Klaus could not change. If Klaus changed, then they all would. Lyana would change. The red head does not like change.

"You monster!" her sister screams, flinging herself towards Hopper and Klaus - and before Lyana knew it, her life was crumbling like the letters on pages she tries oh-so-desperately to stay still. Her and Jar are the strongest, they're supposed to keep this family together, it's not supposed to play out like this. Everything is wrong, it's not like how she planned it out at all - and then Lyana is scrambling to heave her sister from her brother, tears threatening to spill over her rosy cheeks as her world falls apart.

"Stop it! Marina, stop!" she yells over the commotion, attempting to encompass her sister in a prison of arms. "Stop, stop!" she screams, head whipping around to look for the eldest quintuplet. "Jamar... Jamar, he-!" Her cries for help are interrupted by more of Marina's insults, as if the monster she depicts Klaus to be has infected her own body instead. Lyana's world is going up in flames, and she tries desperately to cool it before it reaches her brother. Because although she may deny it, she cannot loose Klaus again.

Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

You're losing your light
Everything that was yours
Just does not exist
So don't even try to say sorry for
The things in life you might have missed

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[/justify]

Last Edit: Sept 5, 2012 2:52:01 GMT -5 by ✨ zozo.

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☆Always Holding Onto Stars☆ {Goravich} Aug 29, 2012 20:58:53 GMT -5

Post by Python on Aug 29, 2012 20:58:53 GMT -5

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

For the Goravich family, the dreaded annual Hunger Games broadcast was merely about waiting and watching. Watching tributes fight and bleed into the earth, and waiting for those from their own district to perish. It had never once held anymore significance than that. Sure, children were being slaughtered - some innocent, some trained to be wicked killers - for the mere sake of punishment and entertainment, and yes, every observer had a personal favorite, but in the end it was just another Game with another winner to swoon over until the next year, when the process would start again and the previous victor’s popularity would diminish within the districts. To Jamarion, it was just another opoortunity to pass time. Something to watch when nothing else intriguing was happening in their miserable home.

This year, however, things had taken a devastating turn.

One of the quintuplets themselves had been reaped and plunged into the games like a little pawn on the chess board. Klaus Goravich - a boy nobody anticipated would survive past the first day, let alone to victory - was not the ideal tribute. His intelligence was be stunning, but in an arena full of desperate, terrified and determined children running with knives and swords, how useful would intelligence prove to be? No, it was never intelligence that guided a lone child to victory; it was the will to destroy. Those who fainted at the sight of blood or could not bear the guilt of harming another person for glory were the first to be plucked away by the ones who possessed the ability to perform what was necessary for survival. Intelligent or not, Klaus had managed to prove to everyone that they had been fools to believe he was weak. To everyone’s surprise, his sword had slain three bodies and claimed three souls. Thee cannons shot after a swish of his blade. This year, the Goravichs didn’t merely wait and watch their precious brother battle for his life. They had agonizingly walked everywhere with the burden of worry upon their shoulders - the worry that at any moment, as they inhaled a fresh breath of air, Klaus would be taking his last breath as another tribute sacrificed his blood for victory.

For Jamarion, chaos - both good and bad - had ensued the moment Klaus’ name was announced at the reaping. Fights had broken out, new relationships had been formed, and new experiences had enlightened him. One of those experiences included sitting in front of a camera on national television. Interviews were perhaps one of the biggest pains in the ass he had ever encountered. Obnoxious Capitolites dressed in rainbows had continuously pounded on their door demanding to bombard them with difficult and generic questions about their brother fighting in the Games - something that happened to every family related to a tribute surviving past the top nine. ”How do you feel about Klaus making it to the top eight? The top five? The finale?” “How do you feel now that he has been crowned victor?” He was sick of answering them and being blinded by their vibrant outfits. He responded with the same word every time: Good. Fucking good, how else would he feel? That answer never seemed to satisfy them, unfortunately, because they always pressed on with even more stupid questions. Jamarion had made sure to assume a bitter attitude each time just to piss them off. Not that he was fabricating it, of course - he really had been irritated throughout every interview.

Just recently had the interviews ceased, and it was for one valid reason: today was the day Klaus would finally be reunited with them, carrying with him the victor’s crown, inherited riches, and a new air of popularity and grace that normally stained those who survived the Games, or so it seemed. When Jamarion passed through the doorway into the justice building he did not expect to see the Klaus that had been swept from their home and cast into a deadly paradise. Not a sweet, innocent Klaus who couldn’t hurt a fly, but a Klaus that had killed. The arena always changed those who could leave it intact - everyone knew that, because everyone witnessed it. Klaus would not be the helpless butterfly he once was. He was forever changed, eternally scarred with the burden of victory. But no matter how much the experience had altered him, he would still be Klaus Goravich; their brother. And it was a about damn time the capitol gave him back.

The boy who sprinted to Hopper the instant they entered the room

(Don’t try any funny business, Hopper) - adorned in horribly colorful clothing most likely provided by capitol stylists - was indeed not same on the inside or outside, but Jamarion couldn’t say he was disappointed to see him. He watched Klaus wrap their eldest brother into a tight embrace, muttering something that was inaudible to him, and for a moment a smirk nearly graced his lips. Klaus was finally back. For once, he was prepared to greet his brother calmly and with civility rather than with his usual bitter attitude until a familiar, high-pitched screech of fury shattered theipeace. Jamarion was slow to react when the flash that was little Marina lunged toward Klaus and brought his form to the ground, her shouts poisoning the air with anger and what could only be madness in his eyes.

”Monster.” ”You’re a mutt.” ”You aren’t real.”

Marina was bat-shit fucking crazy. He’d always known there was something strange brewing in that psychotic brain of hers, but calling her own brother a mutt? Klaus, produced by the capitol? If the capitol wanted a mutt, surely they would create one more ferocious than the one that just kissed and embraced his older brother. Really, was the girl too caught up in her own madness to think? Everyone called Jamarion an idiot, but at least he could actually think logically. She was merely allowing her crazy side to guide her through life - a mistake she would soon learn had its consequences.

Jamarion didn’t need Lyana’s shouts to lead him; he acted as soon as he spotted Marina flailing her limbs at Klaus. She was hitting him, obviously, the damn maniac, and it was completely unnecessary. ”Move,” he sternly commanded, shoving Lyana out of his path to grasp Marina’s scrawny arms and yank her rather forcefully off of their brother. Lyana was a bit of a rough and tough herself, but not a sibling in their family could match his own physical strength. Once Marina was restrained properly he knew she would never be able to escape him. With an exasperated grunt he attempted to shove her against the nearest wall and hold her in place. ”Cut it out, Marina!” The broiling anger in his tone was too obvious to neglect. He was pissed off - pissed off that she was ruining something that was supposed to place him in a good mood. ”What the fuck is wrong with you?”[/justify][/blockquote]