Onyx 'Nyx' Andromeda - District 1 (Done)

Onyx 'Nyx' Andromeda - District 1 (Done) Feb 6, 2012 22:52:27 GMT -5

Post by Kheft on Feb 6, 2012 22:52:27 GMT -5

Onyx 'Nyx' Andromeda
Age 16
Female
District One

Evening light streamed in the tall diamond-paned window that dominated one wall in the spacious room. It cast tongues of gold and purple across the reclined form of a young girl. Her pale skin formed an ideal canvas for the sunset's delicate brush, setting a fire that painlessly consumed her frame from callused feet to muscled torso and up the bare span of her shoulders. She lay on the floor, braced on elbows with torso propped upwards, her gaze fixed narrowly on the spiral-bound notebook before her.

Long black hair slithered down her shoulders and caressed the curvatures of her back like trails of ink from a pen, but tucked back neatly from her face behind ears that each bore several piercings. Her features are tilted downward, shaded from the glare of evening light. Their formation isn't particularly elegant, but it does hold a queer fascination. Something about the cold way her lips press in on each other paired with a sharp nose and dark brows that wing out over eyes that contain a vivid energy. Eyes rimmed with sooty lashes and irises stained a brilliant dragonfly-green. It's a face of glittering interest, but little compassion. A face too old for the girl who possesses it.

One slender-fingered hand is poised over the blank pages, a pen gripped lightly and being twirled to and fro in dextrous movements of one accustomed to spinning small blades in similar fashion. A silver network of scars lace the knuckles, palms, and wrists, fresh bruises blooming in a purple hues that she pauses to admire.

If we could peel back the layers of her psyche and perform some sort of living autopsy, what do you think you'd find? The pristine brain of a teenage female, possibly the usual portions delegated to fashion, society, boys…but could we see the portions that control self-destructive tendencies? The dark corners hiding ugly secrets and saturated with guilt. Which gland produces the ferocity of will that drives her to throw every ounce of energy and grit into each battle until the sand is scarlet with the mingled blood of her opponent and her own own wounds weeping.

Onyx is a girl of combined complexity and simplicity. Her world boils down to the black and white elegance of fist and blade. Yet beyond that, there is a cyclone of gray that brews in the locked away portions where she stores all thoughts and memories that cannot be quickly dealt with. All of those undesirables get pressed away, piling up in the hazard zone of her head. Could you see all of that by inspecting the topography of her head? Could we dissect those secrets?

The girl deliberately sets pen to paper and begins to write...

* * * *

Release...

It's a sweet word. People talk about release in lots of different ways, sexual, emotional, physical…I even looked it up in the dictionary once (yeah, I read the dictionary). It's the process of enabling something to escape from confinement, to set it free. Wouldn't that be wonderful? to be free from any confinement. I think we all live with confinements, maybe self-imposed and maybe placed on us by others…but that desire to be free…it's what we can all identify with. It's an equalizer of sorts. Rich, poor, Mayor, prostitute, we all get it. I've been looking for release my whole life, it's pretty hard to find, I'd say. Some folks seem to find it by writing stuff down that they see or feel, the parts of them that beg for release. I guess it can't hurt to try, so that's what I'm doing. 'Diary' sounds like a teen sob book, so we'll go with 'journal'.

Let's take it from the top (that's what my music teacher says).

Onyx Andromeda, but we'll just use 'Nyx', I prefer that. I'm sixteen. I live in District One, always have. I was born here, but that's an interesting twist. See, it's something that most people don't know, only a few, and they don't talk about it except in whispers. My father is one of the richest ex-Careers in the district. He spends most of his time training the younger generations, ones who still have a chance to be in the Games, and wagering on the outcomes. He's built a small empire off the organization. He invests money in promising kids, ones with the stamina and motivation to train, he gives them weapons and classes, pays for their schooling and combat tutors. Then if they win, he gets payback in full from their Victory coffers. Smart? Shameless? Yeah, both, but it's made him rich. Ariston Andromeda… that's my dad.

My mom was a different story. Claire Kardiff wasn't well-known or particularly well off. She married young, and was widowed young. I don't know what happened to him, and frankly I never really cared to ask. I guess losing her husband tipped a delicate mental balance. She started using, not a lot at first, but it got worse. Always does. Even glassed out of her mind, my mom was still a beautiful woman. Maybe she was good at hiding the drugs. Money ran through her fingers like water, feeding that angry mouth in her vein. Eventually she took to selling the last commodity she had. Yeah, that's right, my mom was a whore. Don't worry, I don't have any diseases…that I know of.

No need to spell it out, right? Even rich men have urges. I think all that money makes them more prone to indulging. Unfortunately, whores aren't always reliable with birth control, especially ones that are high… not that they are reliable with a whole lot else. So I showed up, a big inconvenience for my dad, a big opportunity for my mom. Blackmail is an ugly word, but that's what I was, still am in a way. She handed me off to the Andromeda's and threatened to spread the story around town if they didn't pay her to keep quiet…oh and raise me as their daughter. Sixteen years later here I am. Don't get me wrong, this isn't a fucking Cinderella story (yeah, I read that book too - I'm not illiterate). The Andromedas were good to their word, raised me like their own sweet daughters. Beryl is twenty, Ashyr is fourteen, and the twins Kora and Khloe are ten.

I've always had the best. Teachers, trainers, musical tutors, clothes…anything I wanted. I'm not sure why that is. You would think my dad and especially my stepmom would despise me, but they don't. I'm just not one of them, my doing probably, not theirs. I'm something else entirely. It feels like I was born with a fire in my belly and left it their to simmer and swell until the heat nearly drives me insane. The pressure builds up and I feel like something inside might split wide open. It's what first drove me to the career pits. I'd visited them on occasion when I was younger. I'd go with my dad to watch some of the practice fights he'd set up. I couldn't get enough. The fists flying like viper strikes, swift and deadly - the taste of adrenaline sizzling in the air - release. There's that word again. It was pure release of everything that I'd been battling to contain. It was such a vicarious relief that I cried. My dad thought it was too much for a sensitive little girl and he sent me home. I dreamed about those fights for a week before I worked up the courage to ask him to take me back and let me train.

I was good at it. That fire in my belly lent speed to my lunges, and some soft strategist in my brain added cool logic to my moves. My dad was surprised at how ruthless I proved to be, I just don't have pity on people for weakness. It's enabling.

So now we've set the background for my life, you know it all. Well, maybe not all…everyone has their secrets. I'm not one to kiss and tell.

Codeword: Odair