blair conway [d3] - fin

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- APPEARANCE -[/font][/color]

Sometimes I’m described as a skyscraper. I reach to the clouds with hardly any effort, pulling out my fingers to brush against the painted sky at the top, my porcelain hands outstretched in one attempt to reach heaven. I will touch that veil of perfection; break through it with soft fingertips and perfect white teeth. I will stand there and accept the flowers around me, I will see each cloud in its place, its own and quite perfect puzzle-piece fit in the sky. Imperfection is a sin; it stains your lips with tainted words and blackens your heart with impure thoughts and sights. Each plate out of place at the dinner table, it all must be positioned carefully to enlighten the soul, to capture the heart with only pureness and calmness. To be messy can lead to a destructive attitude. At least that’s what mum has always told me.

As a child she always instructed me on how to keep my hair, tucked neatly around my narrow face and brushed so that no knots couldn’t work their way into the sunlit strands of gold. She would pull the bristled object through my twirling locks and instruct me in her firm tone on how to properly care for long hair, if I were going to be allowed to have it.

[/i]Mother has never liked things out of place either; she calls me a girl after her own damn heart. I’m still not sure to take it as a compliment yet. (I’m not sure I ever will).

I can’t say that I am perfect, mum has taught me that it’s not possible, to have one’s body be completely perfect. [/color]She tells me that it is the only thing that perfection cannot lay a finger on,[/i][/color] I wish that I could arrange the slight bulge of fat on my stomach to where I wanted it, I wish I could fatten out my skinny lips a little; I want it to be possible to change myself around, just like the porcelain dinner plates. I can put them wherever I want.

At least I can be proud of my eyes, orbs of blue that shine to the outside world in a stretch of light as my long eyelashes close over them. They are truly perfect.
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- PERSONALITY -[/font][/color]

Living in District three can be hard when one craves perfection, when one sees the puffs of black smoke in the sky and internally can feel her lungs blackening with the poisoned air.

[/i]The steel towers reign over my head at all times, metal rims producing trash into the air every moment of the day. On a bright day, sometimes you can even see the light layer of smoke that never leaves us; it has left a permanent cloud over the once beautiful district. Perfection has been lost in District three, at least, according to my standards.

Even to run out for groceries is a painful chore, running through the streets and avoiding the [/color]hooligans that reside there, them and their dirty faces covered with soot, cigarettes pursed between their lips. They disgust me; I hate looking into their empty eyes and praying for them, pitying them. Bad things happen all the time, many times because of these empty eyed strangers.

I hate going out on the street because of them, because of the smoke, because of the imperfection of the entire district.

So I just stay inside, sometimes it’s easier that way.

And yet, Cecelia makes fun of me for being ‘scared’ for not having the courage to walk out into the damp air and to take a deep breath, she taunts me for not being able to stand our home, where we in fact live. Sometimes I hate that sister of mine, you see, she was never taught the refined ways such as I was. Mum never invested her time into shaping up her first daughter, she let her run loose and do anything she wanted to do.

Poor Cecelia.

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- HISTORY -[/font][/color]

Each curtain strand must be perfect, arranged in just a way so that nothing looks upset nor mangled. Instead, it is all beautiful and refined, enriching to the eye. Every fold is in its place and compliments the rest of the piece with a grand finishing hue of burgundy. Even the little fringe of gold is perfect, the pattern repeating itself unceasingly an attempt to captivate the eye, it works, and I’d be a fool to say that it didn’t, the absolute preciseness of everything.

The rest of my sisters can’t even see it, the rising joy that one gets in knowing they did a good job. Cecelia looks at me like I’m crazed; she shakes me off with one flick of her hand as if to command me away, as if to call me off as a sister. “I can’t stand you Blair, everything is too perfect, how do you stand it, dear?”

Just because she’s older, Cecelia thinks she knows absolutely everything there is to know about everything, how wrong she is, my dear eldest sister.

And then I could get all into Marie, my twin. Unlike me she is messy and hardly eloquent in any way, shape, or form. Her room is cluttered and difficult to navigate, you always run into a shirt here or a lost doll under her bed, every day is like a treasure hunt in that room.

It’s the reason that I’ve been given my own room, decorated perfectly and kept neat down to the small trinkets I keep on my nightstand.

Sometimes I just can’t stand my sisters; they think that they know better than I. How wrong they both are.

The only one I don’t mind, little Claire, the sister that is just like I. She is the most adorable thing ever, hardly able to stand, small blonde curls cascading from her pale little head.

[/i][/color]Even as a small child, she knows how I think, every bit that clicks in my head to add to each piece a sense of “Blair” as mum calls it.

How interesting my family is.
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