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{grace} and |choice| :: dempseys Sept 25, 2012 21:57:55 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Sept 25, 2012 21:57:55 GMT -5

KAELEN ARTHUR DEMPSEY

like the city that nursed my greed and my pride
i stretch my arms into the sky
i cry babel, babel, look at me now
the walls of my town
they come crumbling down
I long for the days when I didn't have to feel. Emotional agony is a tricky thing; it flays your soul alive and commends you to the world like a victim of baptism by fire, lets you begin to heal and lays dormant until it tears you wide open again without warning. The smallest things, a familiar laugh, a blue sweater, the smell of coffee and laundry soap, that's all it takes to set off an atom-bomb of heartbreak and send me spiraling into the depths of a misery I can't cope with. Kiera was everywhere and the guilt seared at the very center of me until I was lost and faltering and so dreadfully undone. I run from the things I can't fight, and I couldn't fight her presence.

So I ran. Again.

It seemed like aimless wandering for those lonely days, roaming the forests, drifting like a lingering spirit in an effort to forget my transgressions and the pain that seared beneath my skin like blackened flame. I couldn't though. I can't. My mind has a way of forcing me to face things realistically, and realistically I understand now. This is my fault. I told her she could win, filled her mind with delusions of grandeur and a divinity that none of us ever really had. My cousin has marched to her death, and it is all my fault. That's why I can't remember how to stand in a world that turns on a crippled axis.

When I see the lights dancing through the trees in the middle of the night I don't think much of it other than the slight thought that I could do with a rest in a District, some sleep in something resembling a real bed and some food that I don't have to kill and skin myself. I wonder briefly if I've accidentally looped back on my own path in the last few days and have stumbled back upon the borders of Six, but the night is cool and the trees are coniferous, meaning I'm too far north for it to be so. Squinting, I shove my way through the foliage until I'm face-to-face with the humming electricity of a fence and a sight I thought I'd never see again on the other side.

Fences are easy. They always have gaps, and I'm more than skinny enough to shimmy under them. Breaking into a District is easy, but being back on the streets of One is not. I feel even more like a ghost, haunting the places I frequented in my old life - my house, the park, and finally a creaky but still homey-looking dwelling not too far from the others.

My insides ache at the memories there.

There was a time when I would have regarded myself as a creature of utter heartlessness, but a frank sort of honesty that I almost never have with myself is enough to tell me that's not quite so. While I ripped out the vast majority of my humanity years ago and sepulchered it deep within the recesses of my own reflection, invisible to all save for my own self-examining gaze, I could never quite tear away the part of myself that held a hidden affection for the only true family I've ever had. My mother doesn't count, choosing her death over her only son, and my father and sister certainly don't, the hate that sears in my veins at the thought of them not the emotion one would reserve for family. I don't know too much about emotions; they're fragile, superfluous things that cloud judgment and that a god has no need of, but icy wrath is something with which I've become well acquainted. Fondness, however, is different, tricky and hard to grasp, and yet it is something I've always associated with the idea of my cousins.

In flashes of memory-ghosts I can see myself, younger, as close to carefree as I ever was, my hands on a dark-haired little girl’s shoulders as she shakily pedaled a rusty bike over the cracked pavement of the driveway. She tumbles to the ground and scrapes her knee and begins to cry; I crouch down beside her and brush the hair back from her tearstained face and whisper Don’t cry, Ki. Never cry, don’t let the world see you break. She nods with a sniffle and then hops back up with the wind in her hair and an expression of defiance on her face, hopping back on the creaky old bike and setting off like she’s been doing it her whole life. Hours pass in seconds until Aunt Laurna comes out on the porch and calls us in for dinner, fussing over our dirty hands and scuffed skin.

I blink. The fantasy shatters. The defiant little girl is a young woman fighting for her life in the Arena, and the young-faced Aunt has probably aged decades in a matter of days. This was the only place until Colt that ever felt like home to me. Uncle Ambrose and Aunt Laurna were far more my father and mother than my biological parents; I know the creaky halls and worn carpet as well as I know the silvery veins on the back of my own hand. Within these walls is my family, and my own righteously-intentioned folly has destroyed them.

I count up the days in my head, running a mental tally. A week and a half since I left Thirteen, a week and a half of wandering the wilderness, alternating between ripping myself apart over Kiera, over leaving Colt (I had no idea how hard it would be to sleep without him beside me), sewing myself back up with the promise of glorious retribution, and starting the cycle over again. A week and a half since my cousin dug the first shovelful of her own grave. A week and a half… which means the Games have just started. Suddenly, a compulsion to get to a television, any television is so strong that my conflicting ideals nearly knock me off my feet. I could run to the giant screens in the square, but being a wanted criminal that stands nearly six-foot-six and is fairly easy to recognize makes going anywhere public a disastrous idea. There is one place I could go that is sure to have a functioning television, and yet the idea of allowing my toxic touch into their lives more than I already have is so utterly loathsome that it tastes bitter along the backs of my teeth. But Kiera. Kiera could be fighting, Kiera could be wounded, Kiera could be dead…

I take off running across the dead, patchy grass, feel the old porch steps creak under my feet, fling the door open with all the force I remember it takes to overcome the rusty hinges.

“Is she okay?!” I burst out in lieu of a greeting, shouldering past the huddled forms on the couch and kneeling in front of the TV, my fingers brushing over the image of my cousin – unbalanced, noticeably wounded, but alive. Something that has been sitting tightly in my chest for the past days relaxes. “What happened in the Bloodbath, is she with a good alliance, is she okay?!”

The silence behind me is deafening, slowly I turn, let the faces of my family fall into my vision for the first time in nearly a year. I have never seen so much sadness in one place. Unsure of what to do, how to ever possibly apologize for the destruction I’ve wrought, I can only stay there numbly, trying to remember a world where these were the only people I ever allowed myself to love. “Hi… I’m home.”

The words have never felt like more of a lie.
you ask where will we stand in the winds that will howl
as though the sea will slip into the cloud
so come down from your mountain and stand
where we've been, you know our breath
is weak and our bodies thin

[/blockquote][/justify]

wimdy
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(While On a Horse) I Met a Hot Girl Who Reminded Me of a Plant

{grace} and |choice| :: dempseys Sept 27, 2012 8:47:09 GMT -5

Post by wimdy on Sept 27, 2012 8:47:09 GMT -5

The Games have always been difficult to watch. The forced screenings of these rituals of destruction have never been an easy thing to sit through. Year after year, we watch children from around our nation battle each other like savages. Each of them holds the meager hope that maybe, just maybe, they'll be the one out of twenty-four sorry sob stories to come home to their families and continue to live out what is left of their pathetic lives as a Victor of a game that had gone all wrong. No one child should go home. They should all still be alive. One thousand four hundred and eighty-eight victims have walked into Arenas as of now, as of the Games of my sister. Only sixty-one have walked out of there less than alive and without purpose. One thousand four hundred and eight have now died in this pageant of horrors. My sister was almost one of them.

My sister. My baby sister is fighting for her life, hanging only by a string, and protected only by two gods in togas. Her third protector did a bit of a lousy job, getting himself killed so early on. Now, my sister stands beyond the screen upon an Arena made out of hell itself. I'm pretty sure the god of death couldn't construct a more vile place to have twenty-four unfortunate souls battle for their lives. Nineteen now, actually. Already, the numbers are beginning to fall. Already, the chances are more likely that my sister will win. Already, she is in more danger. She looks so broken in body. She's bleeding from every inch of herself, crimson staining her toga and turning it into a relic of a goddess. Her sheep's wool in stained by her malice and hunger for power. She is desperate for life, but she is already tearing her soul to pieces. I've torn my soul enough times with my games that I'm sure I'm no longer considered a human being, at least not truly.

She's killed a child, a person who is supposed to be safe and at home with his family. I don't even know his name, not as I focus on my sister's transformation to a fierce creature of brute strength and force. I never wanted this for her or any of my sisters. None of them deserve for these Games that have so wrecked my family. My father looks like he's going to be sick at the table, staring down the bottle in his hand and murmuring to himself. I'm pretty sure he's talking to the bottle as if it's my Uncle Todd. Cora and Blair and Aurora are all sitting on the couch and I'm sitting in my normal corner with my chess board, clutching the white king with the kohl smudges tight in my fist as I watch Kiera storm into battle. An alliance thought they could get the better of a defenseless boy and his sister, but it seems the rest of the tributes think otherwise. I watch in awe as my sister and her gods rush into the fray with others, hacking away at a girl until finally she is nothing more than a corpse on the ground, my sister her victor and villain. I barely hold back the sob that has lodged in my throat as my sister, the lioness in sheep's stained wool barking out her warnings and commands. Kiera has always been fierce, but I have never seen her so much in control. She really is a goddess, if not a heartless, cut-throat bitch.

For a moment, there is quiet as Kiera and her gods fall back, only a red cloak left in their wake. Kiera is marred in red clothing enough as it is. There is a calm spreading over the Arena now, it seems, a lull that will last only a short time. For now, Kiera is safe. Bang! My heart nearly leaps out of my chest as the door slams open and a dark figure rushes in. I'm standing out of my seat, my hands clenched to my chest and throat in utter shock as I try to calm my breathing and reel in the scream that had welled up underneath my skin. I can't even speak for fear of letting out all of the pent up emotions of this life, between Kiera's transformation into a wretched beast and father's descent into madness and now this, Kaelen sliding into our home as if he'd never left. He looks as if he hasn't slept nor eaten in years. I would be concerned if it weren't for the way he was suddenly wired to the TV, staring and it and demanding to know all that has happened. "Is she okay?! What happened in the Bloodbath, is she with a good alliance, is she okay?" I hardly even blink before letting my hands fall to my side and brushing past him.

I don't even realize where I'm going until I've gotten there, the steps creaking under my bare feet as I travel up the stairs and finally manage to make my way into my room. It's bare and quiet now, the window letting in the cold breeze that has started to arrive these days. It's almost winter. It's almost the time when my sisters should be bundled up in bed, curled against each other when it gets too cold and giggling over cold toes. We've all grown up so fast. That hasn't happened for years. Blair hardly even sleeps at all nowadays. There's an odd sense of longing coiling in my stomach, making me sick with remembrance and want for change. I would give anything to spare my sisters the heartache of growing up, especially in a world so cruel and warped. I can hardly keep in my bitter tears as I let myself fall to the rough, wooden floor, scratching my hands upon tough spots and staring at the dresser before me. I yank at the bottom drawer, grunting with the effort of trying to open something that's been so long closed. It hadn't been opened in many months, about a year. It hadn't been opened since last Kae was here. He'd always kept a pair of clothes stashed in the bottom drawer for if he ever came over. I'm thankful for that now as I pry the stubborn thing open, falling back and hitting my head on the edge of my bed. Sitting up with a hiss, I pull angrily at the drawer again to open it wider, snatching the bundle of clothes from the back. With a forceful shove, the drawer is back in place. I pick up the clothes again, dusting myself off and trotting back down the stairs.

Kae is rooted where I last saw him, looking more awkward than I've ever seen him. Father is drinking now, the first of many drinks, I'm sure. I don't think I've ever seen him like this, so worn out and down as he stares down a reminder of his life. Kae's father had always been the drunk, not mine. Father had always been angry about that, a spiteful rage that tried to keep us safe by keeping us separate. Kae wormed his way in to our family and hearts anyway. He was practically a brother. Looking at him now, though, I know he's changed. He looks like a dead man walking, scraggly beard and all. His clothes are a wreck and he's dirtier than a wildman even though he practically is one. I toss the clothes at him, grimacing as father takes another drink. I pace over to him, grabbing the bottle and tugging at it, pulling it out of weak hands and feeble control. I don't care about the grumbles father flings at me as I walk away with his crutch into the kitchen and pour it down the drain. My father doesn't need that, doesn't need to become everything he isn't. He doesn't need to become another failure like his brother.

It's probably horrible of me that the first thing I find myself saying as I walk back in is, "You look like hell, Dempsey. Been traipsing about in the forest too long?" There's the slightest hint of shock on his face. My voice doesn't hold the normal playful tone it used to, but a shard of sharp malice. It holds more venom than it ever has before, biting to the quick. I don't know how he can expect to disappear for so long and be welcome back in our home so quickly, not after all he's done to tear us apart. Cora was destroyed when he left us, when he left her. She had idolized him so much. We all had. He had been my closest confidant and most dangerous opponent. I'd never expected him to leave so suddenly and tear everything I knew apart. He'd been the only thing that had kept me grounded. I had been tossed up in the air and thrown into the wind following his departure and it killed every one of us.

I blink for a moment before turning my attention to the goddess in bloodcloth on the screen, taking in her marred body and sighing. My body falls into the chair by the window, fingers curling around the white king again and holding it to my body. Everything seems so slow now, watching the girl on screen talk to her allies in that wretched Arena. Everything is dark and cold. I let my eyes linger on her for just a moment longer before letting them fall to Kae. "She's alive. That's what's important, isn't it?" I drawl, letting my eyes fall shut at the quiet that envelopes the room. It smells. It's not the smell of the alcohol on father's breath or the dusty smell of old things. It's just... bad. I take one glance up at the mess that is Kaelen and grimace again.

"Jesus, Kae, you reek."

"It's a rugged, manly aroma, Moira."

"It is nothing of the sort. You smell homeless. You smell like that man who lives in the dumpster behind the old shoe shop. You smell homeless."

He doesn't reply this time, choosing to stand up straighter and puff out his chest just a little. He doesn't look nearly as intimidating as he is trying to seem. He looks like a mountain man covered in mossy beard and smelly stagnant pond water. I want to shove him out of the house, out of our lives, out of Kiera's death. She doesn't deserve this. "Her alliance isn't bad. They're the Career pack. One of them died in the Bloodbath though. Lucky blow. They just finished off someone else, saved a girl and her cripple brother. Kiera's... Kiera's got two," I breathe out, clenching the king in my fist even tighter, hoping it will affect the boy it represents. I am drowning in the River Styx, slowing feeling myself grown heavier underneath the currents. My head falls into my hands as my arms rest against my legs, my entire body letting go of all the tension it holds. The king falls to the floor.

"Welcome home, Kae." It's barely more than a whisper, but it's all that needs to be said.

Last Edit: Sept 27, 2012 17:46:46 GMT -5 by wimdy

charade
Retired Staff

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last seen May 1, 2024 12:08:12 GMT -5

Thinking

{grace} and |choice| :: dempseys Sept 28, 2012 4:27:43 GMT -5

Post by charade on Sept 28, 2012 4:27:43 GMT -5

"It's really hitting the fan now isn't it Ambrose old chap. The countdown hasn't even finished and you are already talking to yourself. Get a grip old boy! Forget that your middle daughter volunteered for a flipping Moreno and is now about to step off of a pedestal and in all likelihood, die horribly. It's your own fault you know. You thought that keeping them away from career training would ensure a pacifist lifestyle, but children are wont to be contrary. And not only that, but you've robbed Kiera of the only edge anyone in district one has against the other twenty-two; namely that blasted training that the district is so well known for. What have you done man? What have you done? Here's another question. What are you going to do about it? Well I can't say I know exactly what I'm going going to do monsieur conscience, but I'm fairly certain it involves this bottle of scotch."The father of the Dempsey girls had barely slept since the reaping; in fact, he had not slept for the past three days at all, and it showed on his face from the prickly stubble that had begun to coat his chin and mouth from lack of shaving, to the dark circles underneath his eyes that seemed to drag his whole demeanor down.

Guilt and self-loathing were battling with fear for his daughters life for the right to be the foremost emotion to wrack his sleep-deprived brain. The loathing was for what he currently clutched in one hand, which was a bottle of whiskey that someone had given him as a present the past week. He still wasn't sure if the had merely meant it as something to calm his nerves, or if it was a jab at his sensibilities. Surely most people knew about how Todd had drank himself into an early grave. Figuratively speaking of course, but his drinking surely hadn't helped mold Kae into the most stable of young men. And now Ambrose himself was faced with a dilemma of sorts. He had always spoken about how alcohol was a vile drink that turned even the most respectable of men into mere shadows of themselves. Todd had always tried to get him to go out drinking with him and his friends when they were young men. Ambrose had always refused, calling his brother a lush. It was only now, when faced his his daughters imminent demise, that he thought perhaps Todd had drank to drown his woes; perhaps to forget what had happened to their youngest brother when they were teens.

Cracking the bottle open, he examined the contents with a skeptical eye. How could something that looked like apple juice smell so awful? Though it pained him to do it, he poured the viscous liquid into a shot glass and gripped it tightly. The countdown had nearly reached zero, and if Kiera didn't make it out of the bloodbath alive; and if the stories held true, he would need the whiskey to settle his nerves and avoid breaking down in front of the entire family. He was supposed to be their rock in a time like this, and he couldn't afford to lose it. The buzzer rang, and he snapped towards the television that all the females of his house were gathered around. The screen was already split into multiple camera angles to show as many views of the action as possible. The fighting began in earnest, with several tributes losing limbs right off of the bat. Cannons began to fire, and Ambrose involuntarily flinched every time they went off.

Claudius Templesmith began his rundown of the kills, as the faces began to flash across the board. Atlas Cornell was the first to die that day, something that was sure to give the angry Morphloid heads in district two something to complain about. The career was take apart swiftly, but the death blow was struck by the girl from nine. The boy from three put up a good fight for a couple minutes but his counterpart from nine stabbed him in the face. Nine was putting on a real good effort in this bloodbath, something that had been rather uncommon in recent years. This was also the fight that heralded the arrival of Kiera on the the television screen. She stood close by to the boy from nine as well as her district partner in Peridot Myler. A fair-headed young lad that Ambrose has never heard anything about. The Mylers must not have been among the elite.

And then, it happened.

Kiera danced around the other tributes with a grace Ambrose was reluctant to admit he had never really noticed she had. Her blade sung through the air, and a well-timed jab pierced through the throat of one Theseus Rhodium, showering her face in a spray of arterial blood as the boy falls to the ground. The sight of his daughters visage covered in blood that was not her own and yet curling her lips in a cruel smile was far too unnerving for him, and he stared briefly at the glass he clutched before throwing back his head and downing the contents in a single gulp; an act he immediately regretted as the liquid fire seared his esophagus and brought tears to his heavy eyes."Is this what Kaelen was teaching you on those sunny afternoons? Not just how to defend yourself, but how to kill? To relish it? This must be the punishment I so richly deserve for trying to keep my family away from the insanity of self destruction that has claimed the ones closest to me. It found a way. Oh how it has found a way."

Peridot proves his status as a son of the first district within a few minutes after Kiera, splitting the skull of an unfortunate tribute that had wandered too close. A girl from somewhere lower lands a lucky strike on the boy from eleven, killing him right before the remaining tributes at the gilded cornucopia take to their heels and, having scooped up a good number of things or suffered too much abuse. Multiple camera angles follow several different tributes, but it is the one holding the siblings from eight that warrants the commentators attention. They are being set upon by several other kids; something Ambrose found to be distasteful. Was it not enough for the brother and sister to know that only one of them could come home, and that the brother was unable to even run away?

All seemed loss, until Kiera ran in with her alliance, to, as unlikely as it sounded, rescue the Wolfe cubs. She killed another tribute, this time a girl, but again with a strike to the neck. She shouted that the eights owed her before vanishing down the river with the rest of her ilk. Ambrose felt a small surge of pride at that; that she was willing to help those who could not help themselves. Of course, that did not prevent him from taking another shot to deal with his daughter's second murder. Whatever happened next in the arena would be relegated to the replays, as Ambrose nearly jumped out of his chair when the door flew open with a bang. Had he not locked it this night? A tall dark form makes for the television, giving him the impression of a peacekeeper before he noted the haggard appearance. Having half a mind to tell the homeless and probably inebriated vagrant that this was not the place to be, he stopped short when the man spoke. "Is she okay?! What happened in the Bloodbath, is she with a good alliance, is she okay?"

That voice is... familiar. The face is too, if a bit worn. Of course, the obvious answer here is that I am hallucinating from a mix of seventy-two hours devoid of sleep and two shots of whiskey that are currently wreaking havoc on the interior of my stomach and my delicate constitution. Why, I bet if I stare at him long enough he'll morph into Todd. Or the president. It's not like anyone else can see him. Soon he'll start mocking me or something equally banal."

[/i]It came as a surprise to Ambrose's fleeting senses when Moira flounced past him, yanking the bottle out of his hand without so much as a second glance. He put up no fight as she did this, the phantom in the room convincing him that two shots was clearly two shots too many. Staring at the ghost was a pleasant distraction from the games, until Moira cam back and tossed clothes at, even engaging in conversation with it.

"I..It. No. It is? Well. I suppose this day can't get any worse now. Really. It's not enough that my darling girl is fighting for her life and enjoying it, but my criminal nephew decides its the perfect time to come back from the dead. Splendid. Eyeing Kaelen with obvious confused suspicion, he slowly clapped his hands together in mock appreciation. "The prodigal son returns. And here I thought you were too busy pushing up the proverbial daisies to give a rattus norvegivus's posterior about your family. Kiera is doing fine for herself, as Moira told you. Do they not have television in whatever gutter you crawled out of?"The sound of a cannon erupted out of the screen, and Ambrose turned his attention to the screen just in time to see Kiera arranging the body of the district twelve male in a respectable manner. Suddenly sad that the whiskey had been disposed of, he pushed the shot class away and put his head in his hands.

"Make yourself at home Kae, I trust if you've managed to elude the authorities this long you won't bring them down on our doorstep. Never mind the other calamities you've brought upon us.""How many people have died at his hand by now? This... this monster that my brother's wife birthed and I... I failed to show love to. This is just too much to bear. Or is this just what the alcohol has done? Poisoning my mind and deadening my senses, enhancing the emotions I am currently feeling, whether negative or not. Is that why you drank Todd? Could you not handle whatever it was that assailed you? Never again. My head is throbbing so much right now. Train of thought derailing and crashing into a fiery ruin. The conductor lost control of the wheel and the passengers are paying the painful price. No survivors says the next day's headline.

Templesmith talked about how eight tributes have perished this day, but all Ambrose could think about was the three that died by his daughters hand. Three more families that had the Dempsey name to thank for their misfortunes and heartache."Three divided by twenty-four is equal to .125, which can easily be converted into the fraction of one-eighth. Congratulations old boy, your seed has killed a full one eighth of the tributes in the arena. At this rate, she might go for a whole one fourth. Aren't you proud? You should have known by now that anything the Dempseys touch will wither and die if they don't burn themselves out first. First your brothers, and then Kae. And now Kiera. If it wasn't for the poison coursing through your veins right now, you'd probably have started a fistfight with your scoundrel of a nephew. Where is your grip Regrettably, not really on anything at the moment other than my chair."

Peering through his fingers, he could see Kae, as well as his four remaining daughters idling by. That was always how it went. Never mind what anyone might be guilty of, as soon as he chose to open his mouth with a reprimand, he was immediately the bad guy. Call it youthful exuberance or a flair for the dramatic, but it was hard to discipline children when they had a slew of allies ready to back them at the slightest of provocations. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was certain that at least one, if not all of the girls would have something to say to him about his words, though in that moment, he couldn't find it in himself to care. Oh how that vilest of drinks loosened the tongue!

"Stop mewling like a tomcat and sit...son. It's been a trying week."

[/size]
[/blockquote][/blockquote]
[/justify]

Last Edit: Sept 28, 2012 4:54:09 GMT -5 by charade

16 Jul 12, 23:43
GB: I bet you just sit at your computer with a tea cup and a monocle

Jimmeh!
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{grace} and |choice| :: dempseys Sept 29, 2012 19:49:11 GMT -5

Post by Jimmeh! on Sept 29, 2012 19:49:11 GMT -5

Decend into hysteria
Chaos of mankind
But who is listening
To the voice of hatred

Everything hurts her these days. Every word, spoken or unsaid, each one cuts deep, tearing fresh, bloody furrows through her. The images on the screen that she cannot bear to watch, nor cannot contemplate failing to witness rip her heart, soul and mind to shreds. Cora, so fragile for so long, more pressure placed on the straining glass that contains the surging roil within her, strains to keep the deluge of tears within herself. To be strong, for herself. For Moira, for Aurora, for Blair. Even for her father, Ambrose. Who even now drowns his sorrows in that foul-smelling and even more disgusting tasting liquid, which serves to only compound her misery.

’Be strong for them Cora. Be strong for me.’ She doesn’t even know if those words echoing through her head in Kiera’s voice were even spoken by her. The past week has been soul-rending, ripping into her with each torturous agonising moment, new ways of her being pulled apart by little more than the power of her own emotions, and those she loves being yanked away from her, still clutching at her heartstrings, stretching them to breaking point. Even now, as she sits, watching the coverage of the Bloodbath, silently urging her on, wincing visibly as every strike lands on her as much as her sister. She sobs every time fresh blood is drawn from Kiera, oblivious to the death and destruction that surrounds her. Everything else is meaningless, everyone else is nothing compared to her sister. She is all that matters now. ’Kiera…’ It’s all wrong. She shouldn’t be there. She should be at home. Cheering on Ella. Or that purple-haired psycho that mauled her the night after the Reaping.

No-one could miss her surely. Not even her perfect mother. She has far too many children to even care now. Besides, she’s a Moreno. What do the Moreno’s know about family? So wrapped up in their own twisted sense of reality, purpose and nobility, Cora knew she wouldn’t be surprised if none of them had a heart any more. And they didn’t even get their precious true-blood daughter in this year. More’s the loss to the world, to be forced to suffer the existence of someone as hellishly warped as she is, who would kill, kill again, and seem to enjoy it. It made her heart sink to think that people like that existed, people who wanted to go into the Hunger Games, to kill, for what? Glory? Fame? Worse, to indulge your own passion for blood, fear and suffering? Cora knew all about suffering. And about fear. And blood too.

Tortured souls lost
So completely lost
Weakened in the concept of decline
Deception

Cora sat in her self-made clothes, better kept than the rest, made in her art classes from any material she could get her hands on, knees clutched to her chest, eyes fixated on the ancient screen that flickered images of the death and destruction happening in a nightmarish hellscape. Modelled after the Underworld of some ancient civilisation. She hadn’t paid attention. What difference did it make what setting the gamemakers placed the twenty-four? What difference did it make who the other twenty-three were, when her sister was one of them? ’Why did you do this to yourself Kiera… Why did you do this to us…’ Her voice is the faintest of whispers, part to herself, part to that sizable chunk of soul that would always belong to Kiera. Dark bruises under her eyes revealed many nights of little sleep. How could any of them sleep with her in there?

She had sniffled as Kiera had risen, all clad in white, up onto the podium, like some wild-haired statue that belonged in a temple, with life breathed into it. How could Kiera be there… Kiera belonged here… She always belonged here… Kiera, with her delusions of grandeur, her artistic displays of that god-complex, her cool, calm demeanour, that she had maintained for so long, even in the face of her family. It made her sob to think of that day, even now, faced with the slow roll of the countdown, deep, throbbing bass marking each passing second, in time with the thump of her heart, ticking down to the beginning of the madness. The Bloodbath. So aptly named. It terrified her then to think that she would almost certainly see Kiera’s blood today. Not just her grazes that set Cora fussing over how she should be more careful, or even the time she’d had her arms clawed at by one of her victims. Blood from far more serious wounds. Wounds inflicted not by nails, or the ground. From swords, spears, arrows, anything they could get their hands on. Wounds meant to maim. To kill.

All Cora could be grateful for is the presence of the river. Kiera loved the water. She always did. It gave her comfort, solace. She said it brought redemption to the souls of the lost. All Cora knew, is that water is beautiful, invigorating, and with Kiera anywhere near it, very deadly. She knows what she’s capable of. She’d seen her do it. All so very simple. She made it look so serene, even laying the body out neatly, reverently. So much care put in to the presentation of the dead. So very different to how Cora operates. Her flamboyance, the meticulous planning, the unrelenting fury that she brings down upon those who scorn her. Nothing so noble as redemption. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned they said. She didn’t know who said it. But they were right.

Are we alive
Or just breathing
Don't close your eyes
See the images

Everything had blurred into a maelstrom of sobs, whimpers, flinching and the occasional, impassioned cry of ’No! Kiera, no!’ whenever another tribute dared to attack her sister. By the end, tears dripped from her chin, her bound in a tight vice around her shins, as though holding herself together forcefully, rocking back and forth, whimpering softly as Kiera’s bloodsoaked form kneels down over the boy from Two’s corpse, as always, treating the dead with such reverence. More than she gave those who she slew, maimed, or otherwise attacked. She was always so sure of her higher purpose before. Now? It is a certainty to her. Cora was both relieved and horrified at Kiera. If, no, when she got back, she would never be the same again. You can’t walk into hell and come back unscathed, body and soul.

On screen, Mr Templesmith is rolling over the dead tributes. She pays no heed, burying her face into her thighs, weeping openly, ignoring Moira as she took the liquid from her father, images of Kiera, fighting for her life repeating over and over in her head, a broken record, skipping and jumping incoherently, the screams of the dying, the shouting of the living, amidst all the chaos, one voice sounding clearly above them all. Saying words she is certain she never said in there. ’Be strong for me Cora.’ Over and over, they repeat in her head. Her hands released their death-grip on her knees, clamping them over her ears, as though trying to shut out the phantom voice of her beloved sister, shaking her head, silently mouthing no, tears beginning to stem.

She didn’t even notice the slam of the door. She didn’t notice that familiar, tall, lanky figure, her eyes screwed shut, ears covered, desperately trying to tune out everything her mind screams at her, seeking any solution. She remained like this for a few moments, not hearing that voice that used to fill her heart with joy, and yet once shattered her so effortlessly
she almost forgot how to live, clinging to her miserable, pathetic existence, her cycle of endless torment through her undying rage, hate, mixed with love unrequited. The object of that love now stood, being berated by Moira, then father. And only then, subconsciously, she realises he is standing there. Unkempt. Worn. Run down. Just like she was. Once more, Kiera’s voice tears through her, as her hands drop down from her ears, her eyes open, and her head turns, slowly to look at Kaelen with disbelieving eyes. ’Be strong for me Cora.’

The sky weeps tonight
Our bodies washed away
I am waiting for you
Deliverance

Her eyes, reddened by tears, drank in the sight of him, her lips turned down in that frown that had taken up permanent residence on her near-flawless features, those plump lips that had condemned her to her sorrow, through her own need for Kaelen, what she had once thought was love reciprocated. That one delectably, sinfully, blissfully sweet moment where she thought he was returning her love still etched upon her mind, a reminder of what might have been. What would have been so perfect… She stood, moving gracefully, carried upon limbs that felt detached, not her own, as though lifted by some unseen force, carried to him. For she never truly had her own will when it came to Kaelen Dempsey.

She ignores her father. Her elder sister. Her younger sisters. Pulled inexorably toward her one true love, and the one person she could ever truly hate. But her hate fell away from her. Her grief smothered it, her love the only thing strong enough to pierce the fog that clouded all else. Latching onto him once again, as it always had. Her heart belonged to Kaelen, as it always had, as it always would. Gently, she shoved Moira aside, ignoring the fact he looks and smells as though he hasn’t seen any sort of civilisation for a month. He’s clearly been living rough. And not particularly well. Her breath is shallow, barely sucking in enough air to stop her from passing out, feeling faint, and yet more alive than she has in the past week. Kiera’s voice falls silent in her mind, a silent approval? She knows not, all she knows is she is here. And Kaelen is there.

Her hand tentatively rises from her side, slowly moving to his face, her features paralysed in disbelief. Surely he must be a tormented vision of her mind? That when she tries to touch him, he’ll simply vanish, leaving her more ruined than she was before? She steps closer, slowly, breath catching in her throat, fingers trembling, her other hand clenching around the fabric of her blouse, finding something solid, anything to latch on to. She stops scant millimetres from his jaw, too terrified to try and close the distance, lest he vanish once again. Her eyes are unblinking, locked upon his, before she takes the plunge. Her hand gently touches his jaw.

The sun
Falls
Through the clouds
Hear my cry

Her hand recoiled slightly from the shock of him not disintegrating like so many images of him that haunt her dreams, that plague her thoughts and torment her every waking moment. He truly was there. Now of all times, he was there. Tears welled up in her eyes, as she stepped backward, beginning to sob, somewhere between happiness and sadness. Her hands fly up to her mouth, unable to articulate her feelings, so conflicted, so confused, having been so sure he was gone forever, and yet here he stood, bedraggled albeit, but present nonetheless. A tear rolled down her face to join the legion of others. Her eyes descend to the floor, screwing shut again, barely able to comprehend him being right in front of her.

Without warning or preamble, she darted forward, her arms repeating the crushing vice she had embraced her shins with earlier, wrapping around his torso, weepingly openly into him, her relief and hurt washing out of her unchecked. Her cheek pressed up against his midriff, chest heaving with her sobs, lookingly almost comically short next to him. ’K-Kaelen…’ Just the name brings a new wave of tears to her eyes, partially of joy, partially of the hurt that has plagued her for so long, releasing her grip upon him somewhat, becoming more gentle, reassured that he wasn’t going to vanish again. Thoughts rolled through her head. Did that mean he loved her back? That he only ran to protect her? Or was it just Kiera who brought her back? Confusion rolled beneath the surface of her emotions, unvoiced, but gnawing at her nonetheless.

’You c-came back…’ She pulled away, looking up at him with the same doe-eyed expression that she always had when she beheld Kaelen’s features. Unrelenting adoration, that only Kaelen could know the full extent of. And yet even that was tempered by the grief that still tore her asunder. She stood there, looking at him, unable to articulate her feelings properly. ’I… She looked frustrated, as she struggled to find how to explain herself. ’I… Missed you… We all missed you… When you left…’ She sobbed once more, before hanging her head, still frowning, hair falling to one side of her face, uncaring of her family being there to witness her emotional see-saw. What did it matter any more? She was almost too broken to repair anyway…

I
Am
Waiting
For you

Word Count: 2170

Speech: C02B2B
Other Speech: D55228
Main: F5A145
Emphasis: FDD86B

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Last Edit: Oct 2, 2012 17:18:56 GMT -5 by Jimmeh!

sadniss everdeen
Retired Staff

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nyte: date fossils? is that some kind of fetish?

{grace} and |choice| :: dempseys Sept 30, 2012 20:13:48 GMT -5

Post by sadniss everdeen on Sept 30, 2012 20:13:48 GMT -5

.{self-destruction is such a lonely road}.

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i’m a ghost haunting these halls
climbing up walls that I
never knew were there

24 hours awake [/size][/font]

It was quiet in the Dempsey household. Perhaps that was your first indication that things were about to be invariably led astray - it should never be quiet. Whether it be the moan of the old house as it creaks on its rafters, the quiet bustle of your sisters moving about its floors, the click of the dishes your mother cleans in the kitchen, there will always be sound. Now, however, there is nothing but the muted tick of the ancient clock on the wall and the quiet drone of the announcers on your tiny television, praising your sister's killer instincts and mourning the loss of the living.

(You're not surprised. They've never seen her in action before, the gleam of her eyes and the precision of her hands. Sometimes you think it's godly, too.)

She left a ghost of all of you when she left. You barely recognize your own reflection, let alone those of your sisters. The traces of her are evident in the dwindling sanity Cora holds, the anger Aurora shows, the hopelessness Moira knows. Sometimes, despite your wants, you find yourself worrying for them and how the world is collapsing down around this tiny little house, where so many good memories were made that now sit and fester with a future corpse of an idol and a lingering regret hanging heavy upon those left behind.

She left you, your bitter conscience says inside your head. And for what? Fulfilling a manic wish to please a cousin that left when they needed him most, to save a girl that would never truly know the bonds of family? Doesn't she see that you needed her more than anybody else, more than Kaelen or Ella or the Capitol that wants another victim to revere until the next soul comes along and she is left to the dust? You remember the times where you were too tired to sleep; her arms would circle you in her tiny bed and she'd smile into your hair, promising in that sleepy drawl of hers that she would never let the world tear you away. She was your saviour and your sister and your soul all at once - ripped away from you, something inside wonders what you have left. A shell of a body and the empty hatred that consumes you from the inside out.

Somehow you know that sleep will evade you until she expels her final breath or the world claims her as its champion. In the mirror you find somebody all too familiar - red ringed eyes, ashy skin, limp hair. Without Kiera to chase the demons away they come and play in your head (your hand tightens around itself as the urge strikes again - not again please it's too soon, too soon for the blood and the stitching and the tiny fingers swollen with needles), whispering softly to provide a background for the suffocating silence that has since claimed the house. You know they watch you carefully when your hand misses your glass for the third time, but you ignore their concern and gulp down the water to mask the burning in your throat.

(No, you can't cry. Not again. Never again.)

The door flies open and a voice you hoped you'd never hear again enters the room. It's ironic how panicked he sounds, like he actually cares about her well-being, like magically re-appearing will make it all okay again. (Nothing is ever going to be okay.) As the rest of the family greets him with varying degrees of enthusiasm (it's sickening how readily Cora welcomes him back into the room, like he's the solution to all their problems), you calmly place the glass down and ignore the minute trembling in the depths of your fingers.

Time swirls around your unmoving form. People come and go - Moira runs upstairs and returns, Ambrose offers backwards words of welcome, Cora touches him like he's the nicest thing she's ever seen. But you sit next to Aurora's stunned body on the couch and burn holes into the table in front of you - so still you've turned to stone until somebody lays a cautious touch on your shoulder and you rouse back to life.

Reality returns to you, colour leeching once again into a world of grey. Your eyes scan briefly around the room. They all sit, complacent and accepting, while you are the only one that sees through the facade and what it all appears to be. Kaelen clutches his old clothes and looks so out of place in somewhere that used to be his (first) second home but you have no capability for pity. Not anymore. You stand silently on tired legs and leave the room, bare feet making nary a sound until you reach the stairs. It is then you turn back to him, one hand gripping the banister, your hair falling scattered around your shoulders in thin and messy curls, black with disorder. "I would say welcome home, but this isn't a home anymore." Your eyes study him with unconcealed scorn, narrowing in on the hand Cora has laid against his face as your eyes burn in a way that reflects the dull light of the room. "It's your fault she's gone. Some of us might forget that, but I never will."

As quietly as the ghost you've become, you make your way up to the attic and shut the door behind you.

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Last Edit: Sept 30, 2012 20:15:15 GMT -5 by sadniss everdeen

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{grace} and |choice| :: dempseys Oct 2, 2012 13:15:35 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Oct 2, 2012 13:15:35 GMT -5

KAELEN ARTHUR DEMPSEY

well i am just a poor boy, though my story's seldom told
i squandered my resistance
for a pocket full of mumbles, such are promises
all lies and jest, still a man hears
what he wants to hear and disregards the rest
"You look like hell, Dempsey." Moira is the first to break the silence (of course she is, in Kiera's absence it falls to her to be the sarcastic one who makes her stance known), and I want to smile, I really do, want to laugh and tell her that she should try finding a shaving mirror in the middle of the woods, but at the sight of the malice behind her eyes everything within me stutters to a halt, suspended in space and time even as my lips wrap automatically around a snarky retort and she responds in kind. Things have changed in my absence; I was a hopeful fool to think that they wouldn't - the bottle Moira pulled from my uncle's hand was evidence enough of that, and despite my old delusions of divinity still clinging to me I can't quite bring myself to hate him for stooping to such depths. Pursing my lips into a thin line to quell the sermon that should surely leave them if I allowed it, I turn back to the screen, nodding slightly along with Moira's recap. "Kiera... Kiera's got two."

"Three," I correct her, nodding at the screen as another cannon fires and Kiera looms over the lifeless body of a dark-haired boy built like he's from one of the lower districts. My hands tighten around the bundle of clothing in my hands, a hopeful inner spark in me wanting to cheer her on aloud but knowing this is not the place to do it. Instead I merely nod again, watching her progress back to her alliance - two big, Career-looking boys that look to her as if she's their leader. A grim sort of smile quirks at my lips. "Good. She's playing this right. Taking the weaker ones out with no mercy, making the others too afraid of her to attack her. And with those two boys for meat shields, no one in their right mind is going to try. She's employing incredibly complex psychological strategy in the middle of the Arena. Astounding."

"The prodigal son returns. And here I thought you were too busy pushing up the proverbial daisies to give a rattus norvegivus's posterior about your family. Kiera is doing fine for herself, as Moira told you. Do they not have television in whatever gutter you crawled out of? Make yourself at home, Kae, I trust if you've managed to elude the authorities this long you won't bring them down on our doorstep. Never mind the other calamities you've brought upon us."

I'm more than used to Uncle Ambrose's acerbic eloquence. It is, after all, where my own speech pattern developed, a child's earnest effort to emulate the closest thing he had to a father figure who was actually worth the air he breathed. What I'm not used to is that sort of deadpanned disdain being directed at me. Everything he could possibly say to me would be warranted and well deserved, the white-hot guilt in my chest whispers this as an irrefutable fact, and yet it still stings despite the fact that I meet his monochrome expression with one of my own, impassive and full of a quiet, icy challenge. He has yet to learn that the student surpassed the teacher in this aspect a long time ago. But then he seems to deflate, slumping into his chair and sighing like a broken idol of former glory. "Stop mewling like a tomcat and sit, son. It's been a trying week."

Son. Son.

The sentimental part of me, the one that feels such dangerous things as attachment and affection, the part I locked up safe and sound years ago, seems to swell and glow at the word. Aunt Laurna told me once that family was the strongest bond to ever be created, unbreakable by any force of God or Man. And although I am standing in the wake of devastation wrought by my own hands, looking out over the fallout of my own selfish foolishness, there is at least a bit of comfort in the fact that in spite of everything, there was a time when I was his son and he was the father I'd always wanted. And neither of us will forget that.

(although Aurora, the girl who once called me brother, gets up and storms out of the front door at the sight, anger in her eyes and murder under her skin)

"K-Kaelen..." Cora's hand settles tentatively along the line of my jaw before recoiling as if my mere presence has burned her (it has, I remind myself. Out of all the destruction I left in my wake, hers was the only heart I had to witness shattering with my own eyes). She had always been one of my exceptions in a world where I wouldn't let myself be anything to anyone. Cora was everything I couldn't have elsewhere - my best friend, my confidante, the person I could talk to for hours who would hang on every word and always be ready with a comforting hand and soothing words - and her destruction at the end was almost enough to undo me. She had wanted something I couldn't give her, something I didn't think I could give anyone until I met Colt, and I know now how that sort of longing can weigh on a soul. And so when she flings her arms around me in a surprising grip for such a tiny body, something in me breaks. Kiera is fighting for her life and my family looks at me like a stranger and my dearest friend ~~and almost-lover~~ is sobbing into my chest, and in that moment it's all too much. Exhaling shakily, I cling to her just as tightly and bury my face in the hollow of her neck to hide the few drops of salty weakness that fall mutinously into her hair.

All right, Kae. You can have five seconds of weakness, and then you have to come back to yourself. One, two, three, four...

The sob I try to choke back is all too audible.

Five.

"I would say welcome home, but this isn't a home anymore. It's your fault she's gone. Some of us might forget that, but I never will." Blair looks at me with the sort of malice that chills the room before turning on her heel and silently ascending the stairs. I know, I want to say to her retreating form, I know it's my fault and I know you hate me and you should hate me because I guarantee you I hate myself more than you ever could, but my moment of weakness is over. Any faults I may have are simmering like toxic waste beneath my skin but I will never speak them aloud, because if I don't say it then it isn't real and a verbal affirmation of my transgressions might be the final blow to shatter my walls of mile-thick ice that have melted into nothing more than fragile spun glass. So instead, I breathe deeply and try to quell the sobbing-screaming-wailing breakdown that's pressing insistently at the lining of my throat, clinging to the clothes Moira gave me and mumbling something noncommittal before retreating to the bathroom down the hall.

Once the shower's running, I can press a fist against my mouth and sob without anyone but my reflection in the mirror over the sink to hear it.

Ten minutes later, clean-shaven and clothed in the baggy old sweatshirt and jeans Moira gave me, I walk back into the living room toweling off my damp hair and attempting to blink away the redness in my eyes. On the screen, Kiera and her alliance are making camp, safe for the night save for any possible intervention from the Gamemakers. Sighing, I turn back to my family, a million things I want to say licking along the backs of my teeth but unsure of how to say them. I will never admit my fault in this to anyone but myself, but I will look all of them in the eye and say this much. "I'm sorry."

Even that short utterance sticks in my chest like a knife. Choking on my breath, I settle into the sunken cushions of the couch, reflexively slinging an arm around Cora's shoulders like this is another boring Saturday and we're watching grainy Capitol cartoons instead of our loved one steeped in blood. Normalcy, normalcy, my entire being screams plaintively for everything to just be as it once was, and with a forced smile that comes out as more of a grimace, I rake a hand nervously through my wet hair. "So, erm... any chance of a guy getting a cigarette and a sandwich around here?"
when i left my home and my family, i was no more than a boy
in the company of strangers
in the quiet of the railway stations running scared
laying low, seeking out the poor quarters where the ragged people go
looking for the places only they will know

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wimdy
Capitol Resident

1,014 POSTS
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(While On a Horse) I Met a Hot Girl Who Reminded Me of a Plant

{grace} and |choice| :: dempseys Oct 2, 2012 19:19:53 GMT -5

Post by wimdy on Oct 2, 2012 19:19:53 GMT -5

I can barely hold back the real acid that seethes behind my teeth as he corrects me, my eyes falling to the screen and locking onto the body of a dead boy, fallen and disgraced upon the grounds of a filthy pit. "Good. She's playing this right." The edges of the earth had caved in on themselves to create this hole black night, the banks of the river growing darker by the second. Three. Three people have died by my sister's hands. I want to take her back, hold her in my arms and never let her touch a weapon again in her life. She doesn't realize how fragile she is, how it easy it will be for someone to steal her little ball of light just as she has stolen that of three others. Their lights rest in her hands, glowing faintly in the darkness and giving her a little bit more strength, but so much more of a burden to carry. They better have been worth it, the slaying of innocents rippling across the battlefield as fights break out one by one. Each moment, she is that much closer to falling. Into the darkness right after them.

I let my eyes fall upon the homeless wonder once more, raising my head from my hands and letting the disbelief shine clearly in my eyes. How could he be so heartless, so cold and callous and without feeling? My sister's hands are stained with the sins I've tried to keep her safe from. I have never wanted this life for her, nor the others. "Playing? Playing? This isn't a fucking game, Kaelen. It never has been," I hiss, eyes narrowed into slits as the words slither from my mouth. I want to say so much more, but I cannot. There are no words I could say to change him, nor would I want to. As much as I despise his very existence at the moment, I could never change him. Who would he be if not malicious, ruthless Kaelen Dempsey? No one, a name on a grave of a Game long since been played and forgotten. That's how all the forgettable souls have passed, in whispers of past lives and screams of tormented souls. What I have said is enough. The Queen of games is tired of her play. No games could truly hold appeal after one so deadly is plucking at the strings of my heart with sharpened nails.

I tune out the rest of the conversation, just barely listening as Blair and Aurora both leave, as father welcomes Kaelen home like a son, as Cora welcomes him into her arms like a lover. I feel sick. Everything is wrong. As much as I love him, Kae shouldn't be here, not anymore. He has not belonged in this house ever since he left it abandoned in his wake all those lives ago. We have since changed, from grief to sorrow to anger to hatred to acceptance, but now we find ourselves with the opposite problem. The King of our games have returned, ready to take up his rule and cheer on his real Queen and successor in her fight during magnificent splendor, the most glorified of battles. It was never meant to be me. He told me to make my rules and play my games, but I was never to be his regent. It was always her, always the fierce girl with the minx's smirk and leopard's eyes. I was just a mere servant of his cause. I don't know why I'm surprised. He's always been better at these mind-games than I. I watch with lifeless eyes as he retreats from the room, genuine sorrow etched on his face for the first time I can remember. There's an odd twinge of satisfaction in my gut for a moment before feelings fizzle out altogether.

Kiera is upon the screen, cold and wet and colorless, one of her gods helping her along the river as another disappears to hunt. I hardly register their words of delusional sacrilege, their beliefs that they are gods among ants, lawmakers with judicial and military power. It is their bodies that turn my body cold. It is Kiera's face, emotionless unless it is vengeful and sinister, the hard lines of her body rigid with tension and the thrill of murder. It is her god's wild eyes, sparkling with deranged hope as he and my sister make a connection beyond that of murder, but ideology. It is then that I see the sheep for what it is. My sister is no sheep waiting in line for the slaughter. She is a wolf in a coat of white, taking advantage of her position to bring justice to the world as she sees fit. The sword looks so comfortable in her hands, the blood so fitting on her skin, the sadistic smirk so at ease upon her lips. My heart is clawing at my chest as I try not to think the worst of the devious girl on screen, turning my head away as she kisses her protector and savior with a hunger I have never seen. I don't even turn back as I hear their other god intervene.

My eyes study Kaelen carefully as he walks back in, nonchalance masking the sadness in his soul, the redness of his eyes peeking out from behind his false face. This is still not his home. It never has been. His home is in this district, a beat down shack of a house that only served as a leaky umbrella over a broken family of poverty. His home had been ripped apart years ago, but that gave him no right to tear at ours in return, begging to claw his way inside and burrow into our hearts until we couldn't hate him, not really. His apologies fall upon my deaf ears, pounding upon the doldrums and crying for attention. I just blink in response. His shoulders are tense, but he covers his weakness quickly as he slings his arm around Cora, acting as if he had never even left in the first place. It's still obvious he is out of his element.

""So, erm... any chance of a guy getting a cigarette and a sandwich around here?""

My eyes blink passively again, taking in his slender frame and gaunt face and for a moment, taking pity on him. My heart is still hard and sinking in my chest, but I cannot deny him, my family, my flesh and blood. Without words- he doesn't warrant them- I rise out of my chair again, leaving behind the three battlefields of my life. The first is the chess board, meticulously cared for and cleaned. Its pieces are lined perfect along the checked field, some out of place as the fight had commenced moments before Kaelen had entered, a distraction from the second battlefield in my life. The second is Kiera's land of war, a mixture of dark mythology and light hope for future. Every slash and cut and swing brings the world crumbling down a little more, making less and less sense of what little logic there is, there and in my third battlefield. The third is my home, this house and the district and the country within I live. It is alive with cruelty and misfortune, every hour dragging more darkness into the world and sewing it into the hearts of its inhabitants. For a moment, I forget them all.

Our kitchen is worse for wear, as is the rest of the house. The fridge hums lightly as I open it, pulling out jars of preserves and a loaf of bread. I slice at the bread easily, cutting off two pieces and laying them upon a plate. I slather raspberry jelly over one of them, screwing the lid shut before shoving it back in the fridge and turning to the sandwich again. . There's an itching in the back of my mind, a tingling I can't get rid of no matter how hard I try. My hand slips into the pocket of my dress, pulling a small, clear vial from its depths. It is cool in my hands, pure and perfect, the liquid sloshing a little as I hold it up to the light and stare at it. It would be so easy, oh so easy... I could rid our family of a curse born into our midst many years before that wormed its way into our ranks and destroyed us from the inside out. I could give the people of my district closure. I could play a marvelous trick against the game master, prove that I am the sovereign and not he. My life has been spinning and spinning for so long. I could end the ride right now, end the games, end the chances that fate would defy us once again.

But I can't. I cannot do it, even as the stopper is pulled and my hand hovers, tilted, over the smear of ripe red fruit. It quivers for just a moment before I pull it back, shoving the stopper back into the tube roughly and letting it disappear back into my pocket. My hands quickly piece the two halves of the sandwich together before I lean forward on my hands, fingers threading through my hair as I try to hold in the sobs that are building in my throat. I pull away from his food as the tears spill down my face, my body sinking across the opposite wall as I bury my face in my hands. My sobs as muffled as I bite into the heel of my hand, whimpering at the sharp stab of pain in my hand but ignoring it for the next few minutes. I stay there until I can no more, the time ticking away as I wipe away my tears and try to forget everything that I am. Am I really so horrid that I had contemplated the murder of my own cousin? My heart is aching in my chest as I stand, walking quickly to the sink to clean my bleeding hand and toweling it off quickly before grabbing Kae's plate. I take one quick breath on the threshold before crossing into the room, dropping the plate on the low coffee table and sliding it over carelessly.

I know my eyes must betray my emotions, but my face is a sullen mask. I am unfeeling and unchanging on the outside, my stoic face a clear signal to not ask. One should never ask, not when the gravest of faces enters the room. I am a grave, dead to the world as I sink into my corner and hide there in the shadows, trying to block out everything around me with my arms wrapped around my body and my legs pulled up onto the chair against my chest. I want nothing more than to be in the grave I am.

charade
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Thinking

{grace} and |choice| :: dempseys Oct 10, 2012 2:30:42 GMT -5

Post by charade on Oct 10, 2012 2:30:42 GMT -5

Still woozy from the liquid he had imbibed, Ambrose nevertheless managed to keep enough frame of mind to stay aware of everything that transpired since he had welcomed his nephew back into the house. In truth some part of him was furious; though the alcohol screwed with his ability to fully project his emotions, his words were not a product of the whiskey; rather, they were a result of years of carefully cultured conversation. Simply being cordial under every situation was the mark of any true gentleman, and he was not about to let a little thing like family issues detract from his demeanor. Even with his head in his hands, his ears were quite capable of picking up snatches of what each of his daughters had to say to Kaelen about his untimely and severely unwanted return. His dear wife had yet to say anything, though he knew that she wouldn't, she was far too nice to be curt, even to Kae; the boy never really had parents other than when he was in this house.

Ever the overly emotional of his brood, Cora burst into tears and sobbed out her joy at seeing her favorite and only cousin among the living, albeit looking a bit worse for the wear. She had always been close to him, perhaps finding in him the the older brother she had never really had; and for him, just another little sister that showered with more love and attention that his parents ever had. Little quiet Blair voiced the opinion that Ambrose wished he could say if he wasn't so keen on being courteous. How did the saying go? Something about children picking up on their parents likes and dislikes, even if the opinion is never voiced in public. I would say welcome home, but this isn't a home anymore." From the mouths of babes came the pure unadulterated truth. This was no longer his home, and never would again, not after his reign of terror on the district. But despite that, Ambrose wasn't about to turn him over to the authorities. The bonds of family were far stronger than that; especially as he knew his daughters would never forgive him for doing so, not when the wound Kiera had left was still profusely bleeding.

"It's your fault she's gone. Some of us might forget that, but I never will." And here the father had been sure his daughters would all be blaming him for Kiera's decision. The poor innocent little girl was so distraught with the days events that she withdrew, her tiny footsteps making little noise as they went for the stairs, the attic door at the top clicking shut like the latch on a coffin being closed. Throughout all of this, Kae did not utter a single comment, which only lent credence to the truth of everything he had done to the family that had tried so hard to love him; and had ultimately failed to do so. Finally, he excused himself to take a shower, though it wasn't as if the water could truly purify the grime on his soul, nor wash away the dark deeds he kept under lock and key. Scrub as hard as you can nephew. Your heart will remain as black as obsidian. and likely just as hard. My dear boy, I'm so sorry for failing you and Kiera as a father. Poison must run in the Dempsey blood, for everything we touch withers and dies.

There was a roiling in his gut as he thought this, and he rose from his chair rather quickly, an incredulous look on his face, before he paced into the kitchen at top speed.My insides are on fire! I daresay I'm going t-As his body was not used to such hard drink, it complained quite loudly at his treatment of it for a further tense minute, before he spectacularly spewed the contents of his stomach all over the sink. Mercy, but I don't see how my brother was able to continually drink a foul potion such as this.Finding the counter with his hands, he leaned there impassively for a few minutes, eyes closed and attempting to breathe deeply and evenly as his composure returned. Dabbing at his mouth with a washcloth, he set it aside and retreated back to his seat in the viewing room.

Nothing was happening on-screen as he continued to watch it, the cameras panning to several different groups of tributes setting up makeshift camps for the night. Weary of the whole ordeal, he once again closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable need to continue keeping up appearances with his nephew. The wait was not a long one; signaled by the sound of water in the bathroom ceasing to reach his ears. Footsteps. Followed by a request for a cigarette and and a sandwich. As Ambrose opened his eyes to watch, Moira departed to acquiesce to his request with a look on her face."If you've really picked up that most dreadful of happens, I would ask that you would inhale your death sticks on the back porch. Don't worry, few are the people out and about at this time. Barring the ones that are... up to something."

A marvelous effect that alcohol had on the tongue was the loosing on inhibitions; the societal faux pas that most people took great pains to avoid. Though true personality always re-surfaced in the end. "Forgive my...demeanor. You've come at a stressful time."With one daughter absent from the room, one staring like a lovesick puppy and one simply glaring in disappointment, he knew it fell to him to ask the hard questions. Or perhaps there was really only one. True, he could be snide and sick, ask him about his latest crimes, or his trysts. Who knew one kind of hedonistic lifestyle a self confessed mass murderer could be living? Judging by the state in which he arrived, whatever he was doing didn't pay well. Rubbing at his temples for what seemed that the thousandth time that week, Ambrose sighed deeply and stared at his nephew as Moira handed him the food.

"So. Tell us Kae. Where have you been lately hm?"

Last Edit: Oct 10, 2012 2:31:37 GMT -5 by charade

16 Jul 12, 23:43
GB: I bet you just sit at your computer with a tea cup and a monocle

Jimmeh!
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{grace} and |choice| :: dempseys Oct 19, 2012 18:37:16 GMT -5

Post by Jimmeh! on Oct 19, 2012 18:37:16 GMT -5

Decend into hysteria
Chaos of mankind
But who is listening
To the voice of hatred

His touch is both salve and salt upon her bleeding heart. Her existence shrinks to the space the two occupy. Her eyes close, a smile, rare and beautiful, slides upon her features, lighting up her eyes, brightening her near-constantly bleak mood, refreshing her, bringing new life to her demeanour. Inside, however, a roil of heartbreak, hatred and fury surges through, her joy casting off the shackles of the cloying misery that drowned everything else, allowing her to truly feel once again. Her voice, in harmony with Kaelen’s, repeats that edict that she held so dearly. ’Anyone who doesn’t love you as much as you deserve, doesn’t deserve to live.’ Behind hooded eyes, rage boils, seethes, thrashing at the tightly locked cage she keeps her most bitter emotions locked behind.

The conflict within her never surfaces, a tear rolling down her cheek as Kaelen sobs. She doesn’t just hear it. She feels it. From within his chest, ripping at the veneer of composure he shrouds himself in. Her heart flutters at the thought that his sob is caused by her, and equally, the malicious thought that he deserves so much worse pierces through the more benign feelings she clings to. It’s been this way since he left. Every day, an internal war raged in her thoughts, her heart and her soul. ’I love him. I love him not. I love him… Petals pulled from the mental flower in her mind, a childish game, playing for the most valuable of prizes. Life and death.

Tortured souls lost
So completely lost
Weakened in the concept of decline
Deception

As he released her, to go and clean himself, her gaze turned, baleful, upon first Blair, and then Aurora. Venom coursed through her irises, biting down on her tongue to stop herself from shrieking in frustration. ’What do you know of pain inflicted by Kaelen? This most beautiful of tormentors… Nothing. You know nothing…’ She bit so hard she almost bled, before her resolve waned somewhat, her expression turning sour. ’Stop it Blair! Y-you’re spoiling everything! You all are!’ An annoyed sound forced itself past her lips, not noticing the passing of Kaelen, who, having been given washing gear, had gone to clean himself up. She glared after Blair, before whipping her head round, looking at each one of her family in turn.

’Is this how we should act when family comes home? When Kiera comes home?’ Her expression was animated, almost alien on her expression which recently had been so frozen in grief. Stricken by misery. No longer. Her hands went to her hips, her gaze falling upon Moira most heavily. Her vigour fell away soon after, as she turned her eye upon the screen. Kiera… Bloodstained, murderous Kiera, with her alliance of cruel gods, ruling over life and death. Her meek, almost timid self coming to the fore again. She was utterly incapable of staying angry at any of them. All of them, except Kaelen. Who tore her heart from her chest, afflicted her thoughts with the most virulent of plagues. Love, and loss.

Are we alive
Or just breathing
Don't close your eyes
See the images

The images on the screen consumed her once again, blood, death, destruction. These were the constant companions of Kiera now. A small sob tore at her, the fragile shell that contained her emotions splintering with every fresh nudge. So much hurt. So much pain. She shut everything out, ignoring the silence of Aurora, the uncoordinated motions of her father, Moira’s cold demeanour. Beautiful in her misery, a weeping angel. Again, a tear rolled down her cheek to watch her beloved sister in such a horrific place. Where life and death literally hung on a knife edge. Balanced on a sword point. The prospect of ever seeing her again dwindling with each passing moment, even as the field thinned out. None were safe, not even the self-assured Goddess that Kiera thought herself to be.

She looked up to see Ambrose, looking decidedly worse for wear. She shook her head, but said nothing, silent disapproval of his fledgling alcoholism. While the daughter fights for her life in an arena designed purely for the entertainment of the Capitol, the father shuts out the world in a deluge of whiskey and vomit. Anger flares in her eyes again, before settling once more, as Kaelen enters the room again, turning her torso to face him from the sofa. Resplendent once bereft of the grime that covered him. So beautiful… A faint smile crosses her lips as she watches him, hands folded across each other, leaning against the back of the sofa. ’Better?

The sky weeps tonight
Our bodies washed away
I am waiting for you
Deliverance

She gets no verbal response, only Kaelen sliding easily beside her, arm across her shoulders, sparks of joy buzzing through her nerves at his touch, so casual, so easily done. As though nothing had happened at all. The sparks threaten to ignite the flames of rage, but so broken as she is, she can do nothing but lay her head on his shoulder, snuggling up to him like she used to, when things were simpler. ’Before he left… The faint smile remained, even as ice gripped her heart. Ice amidst the flames. Coldness. Frozen. Harsh. As though all the joy Kaelen once brought her had simply vanished. No. Not vanished. Changed. From something warm, something you could envelop yourself in, that cradled you and comforted you, to something brittle, that fractured at the hint of a touch. Something beautiful on the face, but destructive by nature. That was what they shared now. A fragile echo of once was. A frozen edifice commemorating what they once had, created by the hand of Kaelen’s rejection, crafted by months of despair from Cora.

’He destroyed me. Took all I gave him, rose me up on a plinth, only to burn it out from under my feet.’ All this surges through her thoughts as she continues to snuggle up against Kaelen. ’I’m glad you’re back.’ She lifted her feet up onto the sofa, tucking them under a cushion to keep warm, reclining further into his shoulder, her tiny frame nestled against him. A jigsaw, once a perfect fit, now distorted by time and circumstance. Pain tearing fresh new cut-outs into her, ripred only knew what new pieces came with Kaelen. And yet still, they fit so well. Better than she fit with any other. It pained her as much as it comforted her. ’We were meant to be. You and I. You toyed with the strands of what is meant. What is right… You can’t run from that Kaelen…

The sun
Falls
Through the clouds
Hear my cry

Her father, despite his drunken state, was as well mannered as always. Apologetic even. Something her siblings failed to share. Kaelen had picked up on his eloquence. Cora on his correctness of conduct. To the Dempsey’s, family and friends were all they had. ’Thanks to Kaelen, our friends are few and far between. Those that remain are street rats, the unwanted and unloved. Just like us…’ She looked at her father as he continued, before looking up at Kaelen, into his eyes. She had no idea where he had been, but it was clearly not particularly pleasant. Hence no shower. And he’d started smoking. Her nose turned up at the thought, before casting a condescending look at him. ’I hope you aren’t smoking too often. It’s not good for you, you know.’ She poked him in the ribs lightly, smiling a little, before nestling back into his shoulder. Her insides seethed the same fire he inhaled every time he indulged his foul habit. She’d not even realised quite how much she hated him until tonight. ’As much as I love him…’

The sandwich landed on the table in front of the two with a clatter, Moira returning to her corner without a word, Cora’s gaze following her, perplexed, and a touch annoyed. An unspoken question, ’why are you so erratic today?’ Her family was frozen, suspended in an awkward silence at the unexpected arrival of Kaelen. Aurora remained silent. Blair was upstairs. Only Kiera was truly animated, hundreds of miles away. Fighting for her life. Her personal war. Fighting for her ascent to godhood. That same godhood Kaelen was so convinced of. In her heart, she knew Blair was right, Kaelen had given Kiera the reason she needed to volunteer, but at the same time, she couldn’t help but be thankful of all the training she had received from him. ’When… When did you start teaching Kiera…?’

I
Am
Waiting
For you

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Other Speech: D55228
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Emphasis: FDD86B

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