hurricane heartbeat // sycamore

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florentine, d4b ❁
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hurricane heartbeat // sycamore Sept 3, 2012 5:57:28 GMT -5

Post by florentine, d4b ❁ on Sept 3, 2012 5:57:28 GMT -5

[presto]

klaus goravich
seventeen
district three

[/presto]

OH, FOR EVERY KING THAT DIED

London bridge is falling down. Footsteps fall, a constant heartbeat breaking the silence of the morning. Klaus Goravich is racing the sunrise. A million child-like voices ring in his ears, a haunting melody. The children from the low-income houses of the District, all together, calling out in a song they do not understand. None of them ask 'what is London?' they simply sing. London bridge is falling down. Naivety concealed within the words they blindly call. They are defiant, honestly, carelessly opposing the life they have known. Forever isn't so long when you're small. Tiny hands grasp at straws, the stomachs of the young going hungry night after night. Little boys and little girls falling asleep cold, the tears freezing on their rosy cheeks. Lies, all them. Nobody is listening to their church-bells ringing, their hollow hearts crying out for help. They are far beyond the help of their desperate parents, struggling to breathe in a world where nothing is certain. My fair lady. The clothes that adorn the boy no longer hang awkwardly from his body - patchwork has been replaced with fine threads and splendour. No longer one of the children that cry out at night with hunger, he is almighty. The hill holds little challenge, the raindrops lacing their way through his boots irrelevant. He is one with the slope of the land. Wandering eyes set themselves upon the house ahead - blackened and falling down, a part of the landscape barely noticeable. And yet Klaus notices it, because he is not the oblivious boy he once was. Sycamore House, says the sign, and the boy approaching looks upon it with such great interest that the sun rights itself in the sky and daylight flourishes. The bare, lifeless district is a place of conformity and rules, District Three a land of regulation. Here, near the fence, there is an orphanage where stories win over the harsh realities of life and replace them with far more terrible things. Here, finally, Klaus is normal.

The blackened edges of the roof turn out to stretch their fingers far below - reaching almost to the ground and devouring the entire lefthand side of the building. The closer his footsteps carry him, the more the child begins to wonder if there has been a mistake and the walls contain nothing at all but more abandonment and lies. How could anybody live here, in this shell of falling down rubble, a grand building from before memory that has become less than a home? Curiosity overrides doubt and Klaus Goravich finds himself on the doorstep, alone, lost in a world he is still exploring. He hesitates, breathing in the hollow smell of smoke that still lingers, although the fire must have passed through many weeks ago. Careless fingers, or a deliberate attempt to end what was already so broken? Perhaps it is simply the ash in the air, but the world holds a magical quality to it, suggesting that anybody who may be looking will never see the whole story at all. Sycamore House is, after all, a place of secrets. The door poses no hinderance to the brave little boy who stands before it, and, with shaking hands and the whispers of hauntings in his unstable mind, he enters. There is something about knocking that changes things. Preparation for a visitor, much less one they have just witnessed murdering for the sake of his own worthless life. Carefully, with little grace and much effort, the boy crossed the hallway. Echoes of what used to be clash with the deafening beating of his heart.

The ghost of a smile lingers on his lips as Klaus Goravich ventures further inside and the door slams shut behind him. He aches to call out, but there is something about the blackened corridor, thespiderwebs that decorate every surface, the atmosphere that dares the intruder to utter a word. And so he doesn't, he simply waits for the dust to finish settling on his useless, expensive clothing. Fingers are drawn to the stitching, beginning to pick at it in an attempt to busy fearful hands. He can hear the children singing, somewhere in his mind. They still call out for help through these walls. Screams echo without melody through the silence. Klaus cannot save them. A pocket full of pennies and a lifetime of wealth will never be enough to mend the wounds in the fabric of the children's lives. And yet Klaus Goravich will try. A shout, somewhere above him. Footsteps, breathing. Suddenly the house is no longer dead, but filled with life. "Hello?" There is comfort in knowing that somebody else broke the deadly silence before he did. At that moment, a baby begins to cry. The sound is hollow, heatbreaking, and for a moment Klaus cannot help but let the smile drift from his face. "Can somebody help me, please?" There are times in ones life when the feeling of being watched overrides logic. Eye bore into your back, and yet when you turn around, the room is empty. The shadows whisper their pity. There is something about being in the arena that reminded Klaus that you are never alone. "Please, tell me your story." The words come out as little more than a whisper, a plea for help. The shadows are watching.

THEY WOULD CROWN ANOTHER

Last Edit: Jan 17, 2014 4:40:15 GMT -5 by florentine, d4b ❁

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and i will hold you tight / like the moon in the arms of the sky

hurricane heartbeat // sycamore Sept 13, 2012 21:10:21 GMT -5

Post by Stare on Sept 13, 2012 21:10:21 GMT -5

You can't even stop yourself
Before the words have been spoken
And you've already said
You would give everything

Welcome to Sycamore house. This is the place where children cry.

I blink my eyes against the silver dust cloud that erupts from the clogged pores of old fabric. I found the cardboard box, so old it was practically decaying, tucked away neatly on the top shelf of our coat closet, hidden behind piles of outdated newspapers and stiffly knitted mittens. Whoever had donated the sweaters all those years ago hadn't even bothered to fold them, so I was simply met with a random palette of faded maroons, greens, and navy blues when I looked inside. I finger the worn cloth doubtfully, fibers so deteriorated that it glides with ease over my fingertips. And yet the chill of autumn has set into Sycamore house, turning the floorboards icy under bare feet, and these ~~horrid~~ precious garments could be the only things keeping the frostbite at bay when winter comes and the proper repairs to the house still haven't been made. (We won't be able to come up with the money in time. I haven't told any of them yet, but somehow they all know. They always know.)

But worse than the cold is the sickness. I cringe every time one of the kids so much as sneeze, terrified that it might just be the beginning of something far more terrible then any of us could have ever imagined. Should one of us get sick, then all of us gets sick, and then... I don't want to even think beyond that point. It seems like I can't really look that far into the future anymore. It hurts too much. (I seem to recall, however, that you asked for this job, dear. They're here because they have to be. But the reason you're here... well, it's all your fault, isn't it?) Some days it seems like it would be so much easier just to slip into the ever waiting fingers of numbness, losing myself and leaving the kids to fend for themselves. It would certainly be easier, to just become one more mouth to feed and let them fall apart without being crushed beneath them. But that's not how I work - that's not how we work - and I know that stepping out of the game now is not an option. It's not easy getting out of bed these days, but it's possible. And that's why I keep doing it.

Welcome to Sycamore House. This is the place where hopes turn to lies.

It takes me a good half hour to sort through the sweaters and fold them, but once I've finished I settle back on my heels in satisfaction and give a huff of relief. There's at least one for all of us, although I'm sure that each and every one of them will complain about the state they're in, or the color, or the texture. My eyes close briefly and I sigh inwardly, flashing back to times when I've practically starved myself just to get out of hearing them complain about how they don't have enough food. Gathering up the pile in my arms, I tuck a smile onto my tired face and rise up, preparing to deliver the first of my "gifts" to my ~~kids~~ ~~siblings~~ fellow orphans. I've just taken my first step when a voice from the entrance hallway cuts sharply through the air, startling me. The sweaters spill over onto the floor in a mess of dull hues, wrinkling against the hard floor. I only have a moment to despair, however, before I realize that the voice must have had a source, meaning that we have a visitor.

Tucking a stray tendril of dark hair back into my already messy bun and trying to look only half as tired as I feel, I rush down the stairs and am almost at the turn when Ara's cries ring out, high pitched and crystal clear as ever. The corner of my smile twitches slightly in irritation (whoever this visitor is should at least know to keep his voice down) as I turn and head in the other direction, bursting into the child's room and sweeping her out of her cradle. The voice sounded young, so certainly it isn't a potential foster parent. But who, then? Probably some teenager thinking they're all high and mighty, playing a prank on the helpless orphans and their senile caretaker. What an unpleasant surprise it will be, then, when they realize we are far from defenseless ~~though I'd never go as far as to say that we are not broken~~.

Welcome to Sycamore house. This is the place where kids forget how to fly.

Calming Ara with whispered lies of how everything is okay, everything is alright, I march back toward the entrance hall, a look of fury replacing my smile. "Please, tell me your story." I just barely catch it, a whisper on the air, and my eyes narrow even furhter. Like they care. Like they ever cared. Yes, we'll pour out our hearts to you, stranger, and then you can turn around and laugh with all your friends about the weaklings of Sycamore. Why do they think it's such a big accomplishment, waking up the baby and then making fun of the kids? What on Earth do they find amusing in listening to the ravings of a crazy old lady? Whipping around the corner, I nearly collide with the culprit, the prankster, the rude, cruel, mean -

Victor of the 61st Hunger Games.

I give a startled yelp, pulling Ara away at the last second so her delicate features don't get crushed against his chest. There is a moment where I stare at him from just inches away, eyes round and face pale, before pulling back and furrowing my brow in confusion. Klaus Goravich is standing in Sycamore House. "Edgar?" I say with the same pleasant uncertainty in my tone that a mother would have calling out to the father whenever confused. Then, slightly louder and with a bit more confidence, "Kids? Come down here, please." Turning back to Klaus, I offer him something similar to a smile. "Our story, Mr. Goravich? What could someone like you possibly want with that?" A moment of silence. And then, realizing how rude I must have seemed, I quickly continue. "There are nine of us living here. We're orphans. Oh, and there's Miss Aggie, too. She's our caretaker. And, um... there was a fire. We don't - um, I can't - that is, we aren't really able to make the repairs quite yet." All the while, that stupid smile remains on my face. I guess the alternative is breaking down and sobbing out our story to him instead, because it's not a very pleasant one, and there are no happy endings.

Welcome to Sycamore House. This is the place where dreams come to die.

Your life is never what you wanted
Not even halfway normal
Just tarnished and soiled
Lost, so lost

((OOC: Will color later ^^))

Last Edit: Sept 14, 2012 17:23:38 GMT -5 by Stare

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if looks could kill

hurricane heartbeat // sycamore Sept 15, 2012 1:33:20 GMT -5

Post by Cait on Sept 15, 2012 1:33:20 GMT -5

Oh, every night is like looking at a dark screen
You're never too young or too old to dream
You can make a fantasy into a reality

[/color]

I never thought I would see the day a shooting star fell to the earth to grant my wishes. I only dreamt of such silly desires. But this was never how I imagined it would happen.

The blank canvas holds the promise of a fresh start. To be able to appreciate true beauty, you must be able to find beauty in the smallest of things, no matter how miniscule they may seem in comparison to the struggle that is called life. A single dab of red paint on the finest bristles of the brush is much more than a mere smear of paint. The glistening liquid can create marvellous wonderpieces of beauty, a lake of blood, a setting sunset with the fierce orange flames of a marigold. A blank canvas is a new beginning, a new opportunity to change your own fate. It is a place – a safe place – that you can escape to at any time, without having to wait around for a silly wish upon a star to come true. Because that’s all they really are, after all.

Lying there on the ground, everything is frozen. Everything around me has been touched by glittering crystal shards that penetrate the ability to move, and so we lay there paralysed. I am one with the surroundings. I close my eyes momentarily only to open them again and be met with the looming darkness that billows all around me, a sea of magic. Although there is no darkness. There is light. Light that streams into the tiny little room, the curtain at the window doing little to filter the bright sunlight. But the darkness is there, hanging over the place like a dark cloud. But we all learn to not fear the darkness, but fear the light at the end of that tunnel, for having known nothing but hell for our lives, we are constantly met with the confusion of that light. Is it a trick? Another mirage? Surely there is no hope for us, and so we retreat into the darkness, back to our only friend, like the pathetic little children we are.

I don’t remember how long I lay there on the ground, welcoming the darkness and the freezing chills that ran through me with each new thought. Accepting the darkness was the only option left for me, and accepting the fact that nobody cared. Though I had accepted that a long, long time ago. Only then I held onto the slightest glimmer of hope that I was wrong. But holding onto dreams and wishing upon stars is child’s play, and I am no longer a child. 13, yes. But I am far too mature to believe in such miserable games. We’re all dead, we’re all mad. We’re all a little choked up inside, and one day there’s a bucket that is just going to tip after holding too many tears. And when it falls, we plummet with it. A voice comes from the corridor, a broken, lifeless voice belonging to a broken, lifeless boy. The boy who would be stupid enough to even glance at the house, let alone enter it, was surely dead inside, for no sane person would even bother to do such a thing. But the voice fades, lost in the loneliness of the broken house where the broken play, before being snatched up by the calming voice of ~~our mother~~ Lilith.

And only then did I break out of the silenced, frozen state of my mind.

The crystalline remnants of my imagination melt with the blistering heat wave that pulses through my body as I slowly ease myself up into a sitting position. The floor suddenly becomes hard, splinters from the rotting wooden floorboard crawling along my skin. The messy bed that stands next to me lies vacant, unoccupied, and only then do I really register in my mind that half of the house must already be awake. It’s a beautiful day, yet all I can see is darkness. Never-ending, swirling darkness. And it follows me as I make my slow descent down the corridor, out of the sanctuary of my room.

The few steps I take are all I manage before coming to a halt. Through the hazy mist that only exists in my muddled mind, I see my reflection in the pool of murky water at my feet. The roof needed fixing. All it ever did these days was leak and make everything left of any value saturated. But we simply could not afford it. I guess there are worse things to live without after all. Yet as I looked down and took in the sight of the wide, anxious, searching eyes against the hollow face and frail body covered with sweat and dirt, I couldn’t help but let my mind drift to those material desires. The scrawny limbs, the blemished, bruised skin, the teased jet black hair that once upon a time sat so straight, now resembling a rat’s nest. What had we done – any of us done – to deserve this? Pointless questions with no answers. But as I stepped over the puddle of water and continued walking – tiny steps, moving forward each time – I couldn’t escape the reality behind the fact that we were never, ever going to be saved.

That was until the shooting star crash landed at the entrance of Sycamore.

Lilith never gave anything away. She never panicked, she never lost her cool. She was the perfect role model for us all. So maybe that was why I hadn’t feared the sight I would be met with when I left my room. She had given me the false hope that what was waiting at the entrance of our hopeless little house was nothing important. But the boy that stood before me could change our lives in an instant. Just like his own world had been turned upside down. He was so young, yet so mature. So confident, yet so broken and insecure inside his own mind. He was standing there, alive, breathing, the flesh on his skin glistening with the faint film of sweat covering his agile body. Yet he was dead.

I didn’t know how to act. I could never be as calm as Lilith, as fierce as Arwen, as strong as Edgar. I was the silly little girl who drew, the foolish child who disliked company, who hated being disturbed. The broken girl who was trapped inside of a place, deep inside of herself.

“I know you. No, I did know you. Not anymore.” Why, oh why, Ruth? Silly little girl, to upset the Murderer of the 61st Hunger Games. “You were a shadow, a nobody. Just like us. But I guess killing a few people makes everything alright?” I didn’t know why I wanted to hurt him so badly. But there comes a time that you need to be angry, a time where no amount of painting and erasing and drawing and writing and scribbling and crossing out the dreams that will never come true can even begin to release that bottled anger. I didn’t know why I felt so angry at a boy I had never met before, but the man before me

[/i] – the stranger standing before me – he knew why. Even if I didn’t know why myself.[/color] “You don’t belong here. You were one of us. You were just like us. But you’re not anymore.”[/i][/color]

But those thoughts could never escape my mind. My instincts screamed at me, urged me to let the anger detach itself from my sagging shoulders, the strain of this life becoming more and more evident with each day. But the words could never be uttered, not even in a single shuddering breath, silent as the whispering wind, that raises the hairs on the back of your neck.

“Hello, Mr Goravich. It’s nice to meet you.” What else could I say?

I was never the disrespectful, rude little girl that dad always said I was. Still aren’t. But it didn’t hide the fear that I felt as I gazed into the eyes of our saviour.

Why, oh why, Ruth? Silly little girl. Dreams don’t come true. Wishes don’t exist. Shooting stars don’t fall to the ground. They remain in the sky and mock those silly enough to believe that one day, everything will be okay.[/justify]

'Cause you're creating your own masterpiece
Close your eyes and dream it
Seeing is believing

[/i][/size][/color][/blockquote]

i always used to be into writing sort of modern abstract
lyricism stuff (that were like) slight vague indications of a feeling.

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bloomtodeath

hurricane heartbeat // sycamore Sept 16, 2012 5:52:01 GMT -5

Post by ✨ zozo. on Sept 16, 2012 5:52:01 GMT -5

I've fallen out of favour
And I've fallen from grace
Fallen out of trees
And I've fallen
On my face

Sycamore house is falling down, falling down, falling down.

The decision to come here at all is a tough one in itself. But not as tough as the one you have to make before you even decide to depart to this run-down, firebox home. Bring a child into your life, or leave one behind. I hardly remember coming here now, it's all filed into my mind as before ~~death~~ ~~Arwen~~ ~~the fire~~ Arwen again

[/i] and after ~~death~~ ~~Arwen~~ ~~the fire~~ Arwen again[/i]. Peacekeepers found me a few days after her passing. I just wandered, with the clothes on my back and the locket around my neck. It rained. At least, I think it did. Then they took me here, where the other kids with no-where to go came. Lost. Unwanted. [/color]Falling down.

Build it up with wood and clay, wood and clay, wood and clay.

It's morning. Yet another sleepless night has come and gone. I sit at my window once again, frustrated. This fire was supposed to have changed us, changed me. I don't know if 'us' means Arwen and I or if 'us' means the entire house, but nevertheless, I am trapped in my bitter thoughts. In a way, I have changed, grown, built myself up a few bricks at a time. But in so many, too many, ways, have I stayed the same. Perched by the window I told myself I'd spend less time looking through. Quiet as ever, only speaking when spoken to. Still as guarded and distant, even from Arwen, who drives me closer and closer to the brink with every blow she causes. She is so stubborn, and I am such a hypocrite. Maybe that will be us, forever sliding back and forth. The hypocrite and the stubborn girl. Never intertwining - so close, blending over the edges for just a moment every so often, so quickly that if you blink, you'll miss it altogether. Forever chasing her. I can't keep running forever. And maybe we'll stay in this house forever and ever, never daring to cross our paths, because every single soul in Sycamore knows that you don't know what you've got 'till it's ~~crumbling, charring, licked up by scorching tongues and billowing clouds of ash~~ gone.

Wood and clay will wash away, wash away, wash away.

I see him walking towards us minutes before Lilith starts to call for us. And my mind doesn't even think to register that he's coming here. Just another passer-by, too naive to think of avoiding the poor, washed-away orphanage. Maybe if we ignore it for a while, it will simply go away. Out of sight, out of mind - like a pencil mark too dark to rub away completely. Not quite erased from the surface, but still subtle enough to hide from a glancing eye. Nobody wants to deal with orphans, so they glance right back where they were first looking. But as the figure got closer and closer, and clearer and clearer, my eyes began to winden ever so slowly.

Build it up with bricks and mortar, bricks and mortar, bricks and mortar.

[/color]It's not-

Yet it was. Fresh off the train, with no boistroud Capitolites to accompany him. Just plain, simple, Klaus Goravich (not just Klaus, because it seemed almost customary to call victors by their full names to highlight their endless glory), happening to be wandering through the meadows and streets of Five. Probably lost, I assume - looking for a way back to his fancy train. Though the bitterness in my head causes an instant distrust or likening towards Panem's newest Victor, something in my head ticked. He likes books, too, a memory whispers. Quiet, bookish Klaus. Didn't want to hurt anyone. Who does that remind you of?

Bricks and mortar will not stay, will not stay, will not stay.

No. I refused to relate myself to this boy. He may have had Death sneak around him and steal his frieds from him, have him cheat the darkness time after time again, have it looming around him in dreams and subtle shifts of the wind. [/color]Does he have an Arwen to chase him away? Or is his Arwen as stubborn as mine? And then Lilith is calling us downstairs, and he's disappeared from view, and I only have to put two and two together to register the unfolding events in front of me.

Build it up with iron and steel, iron and steel, iron and steel.

Tell me your story, he asks. And Lilith is so polite, so friendly, so welcoming. [/color]So selfless, an act only second nature to her. Ruth biting back her tongue and following suit as Lilith explains what happened to our home. Of course, she forgets to add the searing, scolding tongues that licked my limbs, Arwen's limbs - the blooded, burned corpses that haunt my dreams, screams that echo off of walls that crash to the floor and paint peeling from the walls like slices of skin. Arwen dead, Lilith dead, Ruth dead, everyone dead dead dead dea- alive. Everyone's alive. She forgets to add that we almost perished, that my Arwen was almost stolen by the ghost that haunts both myself and the Victor who stands in the room that the doorway I'm perched in exits. Silas is quiet, they'll say. He doesn't say much. Never plays the hero.

Iron and steel will bend and bow, bend and bow, bend and bow.

"You want to know our story?" I interrupt, making my presence in the household known. A sudden anger fills my body - to whom it is directed at, I have no clue. Arwen. Klaus. Lilith. Ruth. Death. Myself, even. Sauntering into the room, I lean against a wall, not looking at our visitor. My vision only stares at an old, crumbling corner of a once-neat and tidy living area, now long lost to time. "No family, no home. We come here. Then half of this place burns down. Not much else to tell. End of story. " The bitterness on my tongue tastes sharp, tense - knowing Lilith would be sending me warning glances for acting so unlike myself. But that does not matter anymore, nothing matters. What was a Victor going to do for a bunch of sad, lonely orphans with a house slowly deteriorating like the patience in my veins?

Nothing was my first bet.

Sycamore house is falling down, falling down, falling down - my fair lady.

[/color]Because falling's not the problem
When I'm falling
I'm in peace
It's only when I hit the ground
It causes all the grief

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

Last Edit: Sept 16, 2012 5:54:36 GMT -5 by ✨ zozo.

“and men said that the blood of the stars flowed in her veins.”

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literally so gay, doing so many crimes

hurricane heartbeat // sycamore Nov 21, 2012 12:09:09 GMT -5

Post by arx!! on Nov 21, 2012 12:09:09 GMT -5

∫∫∫ - Blaire -

- ₪ - ₪ - ₪ - ₪ - ₪ -

New flesh swirls across my palms, scars lining up to make new creases in my hands. Cutting straight through the old callused skin and creating a new layer of baby soft skin as pink as the cheeks of the kids that run through the snow during the winter. Some days I wish I was running with those kids, getting snowflakes in my hair. But long ago I was told I could never be with those kids. Long ago the only person I wanted to love me and build a snowman with me said, "No." And now I'm stuck in a half- burned house with no dad, no love, and no snow. Just baby soft scars to remind me of the hell hole I live in. Of the fire that consumed nearly all of it. When will it get better? When I freeze to death in the middle of the night? When the house collapses on top of me? When the world finally stops and I close my eyes forever? Will heaven take me now if I ask?

I reach under my pillow, which is probably the dirtiest thing in the world, until my fingers reach the crumpled, yet smooth surface of paper. It's so beautiful the way it feels. Rough on the outside but still silky smooth on the inside with it's bright smiles and glowing eyes. I don't even need to pull the picture out to know where her teeth show from beneath her lips. Where her hair curls down the back of her neck. Where her eyes gaze right back at me. I have memorized this happiness. But still, I know it's not for me. The young boy who took her life? No. The smile on her face isn't for me because I'm a murderer. But a kid can pretend can't he? Pretend that maybe his mother can forgive him for the wretched horrible thing he had done. After all, he was only a small, crying bundle of nothing when it happened. He hadn't meant to. The perfect mother would forgive, and I know she would have been the perfect mother. That smile is for me. It could be for me. In a perfect world where everything goes right, that smile is for me.

But I'm not in that world and I never will be. I pull my hand from under my pillow and stare at the ceiling instead. It's started to get cold in the house. Cold enough that I have started to wear my ratty, old jacket to bed. I wake up in the middle of the night and realize my toes are about to fall off, so I climb out of bed and grab my shoes from the rug and wear them to bed. Sometimes I wish I could get the old days back. When I was cold at night I had a blanket. When I wanted something to eat it was just a 10 second walk to the refrigerator full of food. When Ruth and I shared a bed because it was safer that way. Sometimes I wish for that hell to return, just to get me out of this new hell I live in. Because in this hell - even though there is a house filled with other people, even though I share a room with someone - I feel alone. My heart pounds against my ribs but it doesn't make a sound. My lips move but no words come out. I wiggle my toes but don't feel them move. Is this what is left? Numbness for the rest of my life? At least when I was younger I could feel something - even if if was only the sting of a belt against my back or the pounding of a fist on my face.

I remembered when I first got here. Not really caring about anyone else, convinced none of them understood what it was like. But I know they do. Now they are my family - sort of. Because no matter how horrible this place is, we are all in this together. This is a place we all have to endure. Together. "Kids? Come down here, please."I used to be able to completely ignore the other people that roamed this dead mansion with me. I was the king of an great, empty mansion. But ever since the fire, everyone's voices ring in my ears like an alarm. I roll out of my bed, just a mere mattress on the basement floor, pushing off the ground, dusting the dirt off my torn jeans and worn down tee. As if it matters if I'm clean or not. People around here expect us to be dirty. That's the way orphan children are - dirty, starving, sick. It's an expectation we are supposed to meet. And if we don't, we are frowned upon instead of pitied. I climb the stairs, counting each one as I go. Maybe, someday, I will find an extra step. And then another. And another. Until I'm climbing into the clouds and away into the stars above. But I'm just an orphan boy. What hope do I have of reaching the stars?

My foot meets the top step and the count is 21 - as always. I sigh and push the door leading into the rest of the house. Well, the half of a house. The rest is still a wasteland of ash, and dust, and maybe even a bit of crumbling dreams. "You want to know our story? No family, no home. We come here. Then half of this place burns down. Not much else to tell. End of story. " I peek from behind the door, trying to find out who Silas is talking too. Ruth and Lilith are there too, speaking to a guest. And I have to wonder what kind of idiot would come to a half burned down house like this and ask what story's we have to tell. Our story. My story. Since when do random visitors not only show up to this dump, but then ask what our story is? I walk silently from behind the door, watching from a distance as the visitor comes into view. But it's not just any boy - it's one that has been plastered on every poster and television screen everywhere for the past year. Klaus Goravich, District 3, Victor of the 61st Hunger Games. Just another famous murderer. A rich one no doubt. But what should I care? Honestly, why did Lilith call me up here to meet this kid? What does a 3 want to give us 5's? What would a Victor want to give to a bunch of orphans?

Nothing. I'm sure, nothing. So instead of introducing myself, or offering an explanation for him, I only watch in the background. No need to tell him our story - he offers nothing special in return for the tragic script we give to him.

[ooc: How overdue is this again?? ... Sorry about that. Games gets you preoccupied. :3]

"I run on the road, long before I dance under the lights."

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hurricane heartbeat // sycamore Dec 7, 2012 12:28:54 GMT -5

Post by Wonder on Dec 7, 2012 12:28:54 GMT -5

( S E P T I M U S A S C A S Y C A M O R E )

jumping up and down the floor
my head is an animal

He still sees flames.

Flickering across his dark amber irises, consuming every bit of him. At morning the flame starts at the tips of his hair, dancing their own routines silently down each string of her, crisp and warm. The friction is enough - enough to start a real fire, all flames grew into fire, did they not? Did they not? Friction. That was all there was here any more - a sense of rising friction, two sticks twisting and turning creating flame, fire, in to a kindle that was ever present. His hair was friction in the morning, flame's trickling down to his forehead, down his face, down his neck. By lunch, Septimus was eating fire - he was a dragon, a dragon of the day soaring high into the sky, flying and looking down upon all children.

They used to play knights and dragons - running along the dead green patches of grass in Sycamore field - yellow with drought, the only rain they'd been doused with was tears. Afternoon would soar the flames out to his arms, and with the tingle in his arms he flew. Soaring high above the rest with wings outstretched, red and lively, with the largest wingspan of all ! He was Septimus Sycamore, the king of dragons, large and scary, ferocious and confident, eating flames for breakfast, lunch and supper. Soaring above the moping children, soaring above them and raining upon them with ashes from his mouth, a gift from the dragon, rain. There were no knights any more, no boys in shining armour with swords as sharp as their minds, there were no saviours in this city - and if there were, they were not interested in a dragon. A dragon like me. Edgar once was a knight, a man as strong as any, as confident, but even he couldn't stop a flame once it started - no one no one no one could stop the flame, why couldn't they stop the flame, why didn't they st - Edgar once was so much greater, but knights were no match for dragons.

Was that why they stopped playing? Was the game no longer fair?

By supper, the flames would dance along his knee caps, making them more alive than he'd been in years. By supper, the flame would settle in his stomach and make his legs run, run far and wide, talons, strong and powerful. Able to push off anything if needed be - building tops, shadows lurching over the edges and the moon shining down on the dragon boy without his wings - without his wings he couldn't fly but his legs wanted to run so far - so fast. At night, his feet would carry him around to the wall, the wall from which all the letters would be there for him to claim, letters from the rich, the poor, letters from the intelligent - the not so intelligent. With shadows around the boy would run off in the dark to deliver, without any questions and coins in hand he'd bring them home. The dragon could provide for himself - Septimus was stronger than the rest, stronger than anyone. A fourteen-year old could do as he pleased, a fourteen-year old could run with the shadows and fly in the sun - but a fourteen-year old couldn't stop a fire.

The flames still haunted his dark amber irises with memories of had come - ashes, ashes, we all fell down. Ashes filled most of the house with a daunted black tinge that couldn't be erased regardless of how much scrubbing that Lilith put forth - oh mother dearest, try and scrub harder - the ashes won't come out, no sir, no sir. Black walls were sickening - sickening and dark, and desperate, oh so desperate. The kids of Sycamore House with only half a home to live in, eight kids and a dragon. Eight kids, a dragon, and a bat. One thing hadn't changed - a flame, a single flame trickling down his body each morning starting with his hair and ending with his toes, a single flame that ran down the frail set line of a firecracker - pop, pop, pop - laid gently across a work table. Matches that stayed in the basement, every day he set a fire, he set a fire and watched the explosions - pop, pop, pop - as they danced along table tops and danced across the air. Half the house had perished, why not the other half? Make something new - fly into the clouds and live there, live amongst the clouds, a dragon in the sun, a dragon in the clouds, a dragon drowning the world in ashes. Yes Sir, Yes Sir.

"Kids? Come down here, please." Lilith's voice piercing through the silent air, a monster in his mind, she almost died, she almost left me, she almost broke a promise, she almost - a monster of a mother. A monster of a caretaker, she almost, almost, almost. But she didn't. She didn't leave him alone on a doorstep, no longer wanting him, she cooked and cleaned and tried. She tried to clean the ashes, tried to put us to sleep, but a mother couldn't watch a dragon in the sky regardless of how she tried. Septimus shuffled down the stairs quickly, feet of a dragon, bouncing off each step ferociously. Before her stood a boy, a boy with sunken eyes full of water, a boy with blood in his hands, and hate in his heart. Septimus slowly skulked towards him, curious and fearful, a knight - a knight in no armour with three dragons slain - they say he slew three dragons in front of millions. Even the dragons who protected him with their fire.

Klaus Goravich with sunken eyes and water leaking from him, a knight, a dragon slayer who asked for stories. I flew across the sky, I did. I jumped across building, I did. I spat ashes on the earth, I did. I made an explosive with my own two hands, I did. Stories, there was many of those in Sycamore, deaths, hurt, there were many stories, so which one did he want? Not the one of a little boy - no sir, no sir - no the one of a dragon. Flames trickled down to his stomach, curiously twisting them about in a manner that made him almost fall to the ground. Flaming butterflies, burning tough and bright. "End of story." Silas told a story - a quick fairy tale, a tale of woe, the story of Sycamore in three short sentences, we are so much more Silas, we are so much more. We are knights, and dragons, and boys and girls, we are monsters of our home. We hide under our own beds because nothing could scare us - we are children of circumstance.

He looks upon the dragonslayer, the knight, the boy who'd survived his own stories. "You're welcome to stay and find out -" The invitation slips out of his mouth, "our stories, I mean. We know yours." They knew the stories of the boy, the knight, but was he also just a child of circumstance? Had he felt the water trickle down him as Septimus had felt a flame. The flame seemed to disappear in that moment.

[/blockquote]

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hurricane heartbeat // sycamore Dec 8, 2012 17:46:00 GMT -5

Post by Python on Dec 8, 2012 17:46:00 GMT -5

- - - - - -

Laila was never supposed to believe in fairytales.

Stories of wicked witches with their cauldrons boiling and pretty princesses adorned in their sparkling gowns as if they were weaved out of the stars were mere fantasies, lies that parents fed their children under the moonlight to ease their insignificant worries and lull them to sleep - not that I would know. The doorstep baby - no parents, no lies, just me myself and I - was supposed to live up to the public’s standards as a lonely, miserable, parentless orphan. And while she was miserable (we all are), she was not lonely, for there were eight other souls to share the despair with in this silent house of starvation and desperation. She was also not parentless, with both Edgar - her lion-hearted hero - and Lilith scrambling to keep her heart beating. She would never be the hopeless, fragile little orphan girl the public eye expected to watch squirm under the harsh conditions. She would not be weathered away by the frost of winter numbing her skin or the aching pains of her stomach twisting and writhing in hunger. Laila was not weak - Laila was a fighting child. Laila was a princess.

Or so she thought.

When she had watched her kingdom burn, she had realized her mistakes. Me? The princess of this castle? Who was she to believe in fairytales when her entire life rested on the fact that her home was a pathetic wasteland in shambles? Princesses were beautiful, they were flawless, they were not temperamental brats wearing tattered gowns with grime stains and smudges of ash. Most of all, in fairytales, where the earth was perfect and life was sweet as the chocolates she wished she could taste, the kingdom was always indestructible; but this princess had lost her kingdom to a fire-breathing dragon, and so her pages were torn, and her false fairytale shredded into fragments that joined the raining ashes of their burning house. Who did this? Who dared to light fire to their last remaining hopes and purge them into hell’s abyss? Why, it was none other than Arwen, the girl she had learned to ignore. The girl who thought perhaps a kiss would mend every last one of their broken hearts after their house burned, and while it was a moment that kindled a gentle flame in everyone’s hearts there was nothing Laila could do but loathe the naïve, selfish, selfish and foolish girl who thought a romantic moment with Silas would buy her forgiveness and happiness. But Laila knew better. Nobody in Sycamore was happy, and while the two could mingle all they wanted, there was no convincing her to aim her icicles of hatred elsewhere. She wanted desperately to tear the ice shards away from the cold cavern that was now her room and sever the strings bonding the two of them together, just to spite them. Just to teach Arwen that she could not find happiness at their expense, because if Laila could not be happy, nobody could be.

Winter’s harsh breath sent surges of chills like pins and needles under her skin, forcing her to retreat to the comforts of her tiny mattress. Decorated only with a bundle of dirty sheets, it was a pathetic sight to behold resting crookedly in the corner of her empty bedroom, but in a world where fresh bread a pair of clean clothes were their most prized possessions, it was an image no longer considered significant to the girl with an extinguished flame in her eyes. She wrapped herself in a cocoon and shivered in her thin shell, like an exposed insect with no exoskeleton. Half of their house had been demolished by the wrath of the flames, but while her own bedroom had remained unscathed there was no disregarding the missing chunk of wall that exposed their skin to unhealthy temperatures and other lurking dangers in the outside world. It was in the room in which she now shared with Edgar that she sought shelter when the weather proved to be too much of an obstacle for her to bear. Winter was seeping its way into the walls and crawling into their systems, making their teeth shatter and their bones shudder. Laila could only cower in the pitiful comforts of her bedroom as the weather executed its wrath, always wishing that Edgar could take a break from his responsibilities and spend time with her. But of course he wouldn’t - there were eight people to care for, and Laila was only one girl. One of many suffering children in this fallen kingdom of chaos. Just one girl, and only a girl.

A commotion downstairs prompted her to open her half-lidded eyes and crawl out of her protective shell of warmth. ”Kids? Come down here, please,” it was Lilith, their precious caretaker and ‘mother’, summoning them from their quarters to assemble downstairs for a reason Laila figured wouldn’t be worth the trip. However, knowing both Lilith and Edgar, she could not conceal herself in her room and avoid facing whatever awaited below for long without their interference. Submitting herself to obedience was never an act she found appealing, but regardless of whether she chose to listen or not she knew she would be dragged into whatever the situation was. That’s how the Syacmores functioned, like separate dolls strung together by thread wrapped around their ankles. Hiding in her room would only postpone the nuisance, so with a heavy sigh she shuffled out of her quarters and descended down the creaking staircase, shivering from winter’s icy breath. What she expected to find was present; a gathering of the Sycamore ‘family’, with Lilith’s lips moving and familiar faces appearing either grim or neutral. What she did not expect to find was the herd crowded around a visitor - a visitor whom every district in Panem called Klaus Goravich, also known as The Capitol’s newest celebrity. The victor of the 61st Hunger Games waa standing in Sycamore house

”There are nine of us living here. We’re orphans. Oh, and there’s Miss Aggie, too..” Lilith was blabbering to the golden celebrity, describing their situation as if sharing their sob story with a celebrity would make a difference. Laila, meanwhile, stood in the background and blended in with the surroundings rather than with the gathering. Klaus Goravich was as extravagant as he appeared on television, adorned in clothing worth twice as much as their entire house, perhaps more. She never understood the celebrity status of Hunger Games’ victors - it was all one sick, barbaric game, sending innocent children into the wilderness to fight to the death, and that’s why she never watched it. However, even with such little exposure to the Games, there was no missing the familiar, glowing face of Panem’s newest victor, especially as he stood against a canvas of ash and withered walls caked in dust. Observing was Laila’s only reaction, and when Silas spoke up, his voice was all she could absorb. ”You want to know our story?” his voice was irksomely bitter and laced with venom, his insolence and displeasure evident. ”No family, no home. We come here. Then half of this place burns down. Not much else to tell. End of story.” Blunt, but straight to the honest and bitter truth, exactly the way their stories should be told to such a prestigious ‘champion’. What was he so interested in, anyway? There was nothing for him in Sycamore house. Nothing but the whispers and cries of miserable children - nothing the victor of the hunger games could use.

Septimus is next in line to speak, and this time, Laila found herself drawing closer to the crowd, blue eyes never leaving the golden boy of district three. ”You’re welcome to stay and find out,” he said. ”Our stories, I mean. We know yours Indeed they did. But while Laila didn’t know every detail, she didn’t want to. Nor did she want this stranger staying in their broken home despite her fascination with someone of such high status from a foreign district. As if he would want to stay here. The Capitol’s precious victor, playing with a bunch of filthy orphans? No doubt he would be ridiculed. Laila scowled at the thought of his presence in their home and the attention it would bring. “Oh, pity for the orphans!” No.

”No, don’t stay here. You don’t belong here.” Not if he had nothing but pity to offer them. ”Go away unless you have something nice to give us.” Call her a brat, call her selfish, but Laila knew she deserved something. They all did - all except for Arwen, who could rot away in the ashes for all she cared. So what’s it gonna be, Mister Goravich?

[/blockquote][/justify]

Last Edit: Dec 8, 2012 18:32:11 GMT -5 by Python

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hurricane heartbeat // sycamore Dec 27, 2012 5:40:34 GMT -5

Post by chelsey on Dec 27, 2012 5:40:34 GMT -5

EDGAR

[/size]

"I need an ambulance.

I took, I took the worst of the blow.

Send me a redeemer, let me know if I'm gonna be alright.

Am I gonna be alright?

Cause I know how it usually goes."

[/i]

The children's screams are muffled behind the tinted glass of the only rotten television set in the house. Glittering blood pours out their guts ~~and consciences~~ as the fluorescent haze of the TV's light flickers in the midst of the dark room, the artificial light staggering back and forth just as my own feet stagger now. "Please, at least stay as their brother, even if you won't be mine?" I feel the corners of my mouth tug tightly at the edges, a throaty growl itching in my throat as I watch the murderer cradle his "beloved ally." Recaps of the games are sickening, just more death and blood and screams for mercy condensed into one not-so-merciless hour. (If I close my eyes for long enough, the voice of the victim does not belong to Fitz Ripley, but to those who already suffer here.)

Because, let me tell you something, Klaus Goravich is a fucking ass.

He's almost as big an asshole as me. He pretends that the face of innocence smears his entire fucking existence, and then he goes out and slaughters those he dared ever say he "loved." Because, even if I don't know much about love or how you should love people, I'm pretty damn sure you don't stick a blade up the gut of someone you love. And maybe I'm just bitter because this kid - pure and pathetic and weak as he is - managed to win himself a life full of sustainable luxury and wealth, and he'll never have to worry about a damn thing again. And maybe I'm even more fucking bitter because if he could do it, then I sure as hell could do it, too. And maybe I'm just past the point of being bitter because it disgusts me how I wouldn't mind feigning friendships with some few unsuspecting victims, either, only to shove my knife up their gut while their back is turned. And I wouldn't mind that because if killing meant money, and money meant I could actually give these damnable kids what they actually deserved for once, then sacrificing a few lives for the safety of their's wouldn't mean a damn thing to me.

There's a lot of things I don't have, and one of them is a bloody conscience.

At this level of intoxication, it's almost magnifying to watch the way the golden liquid drips from a crystal bottle into a cup, and the way the drink sloshes against the cup's glass walls. The liquor burns my throat with a familiar, throbbing pain that'll last 'til morning. Brimming drops gently spray the surface of the oak table after I slam the glass onto the counter. "Live, Klaus. Don't regret." "Bullshit!" (If there is absolutely anything I've learned from life, it's that it's full of damn regrets.) Suddenly the liquor bottle is hurtling towards the TV screen, and then the ground is littered with shards of broken glass. I lift a hand to rub across my face and settle into the couch, knowing we won't be able to afford another set anytime soon. "Fucking hell."

"Edgar!"

Grabbing another liquor bottle, I take a swig and head downstairs with it in hand - already knowing a confrontation with Lilith would be completely inevitable.

Lilith doesn't like me drinking in front of the kids, but, sometimes when she isn't looking, I let them have a sip or two. And I know occasionally she'll have a drink, too, because why else would I find the liquor cabinet unlocked and the bottle caps unscrewed? She's not as brave as she makes herself out to be - none of us are. Besides, none of us'll get by without a little. . . help.

Alcohol has been my redemption ever since the fire. The weight of my heavy burdens slip away under the spell of vodka and whiskey - a spell I don't intend on breaking any time soon. The liquor runs brazenly through my veins, igniting something within me,

[/i][/color] allowing me to feel (for once) purely invincible. The power of drinking gives me the strength to face the day with an impenetrable mask. (Everything these kids know of their past lives are changing, but if there is one thing that they can count on being stable in their life, it'll be the one and only reckless Edgar.) It's funny how I fill myself up with alcohol, though, in attempt to forget the fire.

Shouldn't I know by now that alcohol is highly flammable?

I've buried myself in this dark and hollow pit, and it'll take a long time to get myself back up again, so I might as well keep digging.

As I near the edge of the hall, angry voices fill my surroundings. With my right hand still clutched around the neck of a liquor bottle, I raise my palms up in defense, ready to surrender to Lilith. "Alright, Lil, but in my defense, the bottle slipped from my hands - "

"End of story." "We know yours." "Go away unless you have something nice to give us."

And it's the goddamn murderer standing in the middle of my hallway.

Everything's a rushing blur full of incoherent sounds and colors and faces, but one thing that is clear is the swelling rage that's building up in the pit of my ribcage and the fact that my feet can't help but stagger closer towards Klaus Goravich.

"Well, well. Speak of the devil." I raise my empty hand in the air and make a twirling gesture, then bow to him in an exaggerated and dramatic fashion. "'S a pleasure to meet the Capitol's mutt himself." I tilt my head just a bit so I can eye his pocket where, undoubtedly, a wad of cash lies. I lift my head completely, then, only to crookedly smile at him. "And ya came just in time, too! We needed a new TV set."[/justify][/blockquote][/blockquote]

NORMAL // 927F7F

CHARACTER'S DIALOGUE //AA6655

OTHER DIALOGUE //BB8877

EMPHASIS // CC8866

SOUNDTRACK //Ambulance by Eisley

OOC // THANK YOU STARE FOR THE AMAZING GRAPHIC BTW <333
and also, DRUNK EDGAR HAHAHAHALSJHL. this was fun to write. I'm kinda rusty bc I haven't been writing lately so sorry that this sucks

[/justify][/size]

"Isn't this the point of being young?"

^ bless avalon's soul ^

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hurricane heartbeat // sycamore Jan 3, 2013 20:40:27 GMT -5

Post by florentine, d4b ❁ on Jan 3, 2013 20:40:27 GMT -5

Ink is running toward the page, it’s chasing off the days.
Look back at both feet and that winding knee,
I missed your skin when you were east,
You clicked your heels and wished for me.
Hey moon, please forget to fall down.

A long time ago, I used to worry that nobody truly wanted me. When they passed me on the stairs, I would ask myself if inside their heads they were wishing I had never arrived. There's something oddly comforting about knowing for certain that every being inside your home - except, perhaps the one who should - hates you completely and irrevocably. Eyes slide away when I sink into my chair at the dinner table; feet scuttle back into the shadows when I pass and silence falls when I enter a room. In the past, I might have felt anger pulsing in my veins and my vision slipping - Silas may have clamped a hand on my arm to steady me and yet I would tumble out of control just the same.

"You don't understand!" the old Arwen would have shouted with all the ferocity of a wild animal tearing at it's prey. I am not that girl anymore. With the flickering smile and empty eyes - at least she was quite certain she deserved better. Poor, unfortunate Arwen. Spoiled and selfish and downright rude, but still capable of being somebody and anybody and everybody. Still, that girl had suffered losses she didn't deserve. Now, she is nothing. No longer a tragedy - just a walking, talking reminder of what everybody else dare not become. I'm not angry, not misunderstood. I think my ~~horrible, awful, tumbledown mess of a~~ family has every right to look at me as though I've done something quite awful.

I am quite awful. Who knew, the little ones have spent years peering under their beds in search of monsters when when shares the living room with them after tea? Silas has done his very best to reassure me that they still love me - that their accusatory glances stem from and inability to understand. I agree with him, if only to the extent that my actions weren't something that can be understood. Or forgiven.

It's been a while since I roamed the halls. Mostly I spend my time tucked up in Silas' room, sitting on the windowsill and waiting for the weight of my sins to lessen. He comes in, sometimes, to offer me biscuits or cold bowls of dinner or words of comfort. I don't think he hates me - he says he doesn't and I can't truly believe that he's lying, just wrong. But now the commotion downstairs has become too much for me to bare. Curiosity isn't something I've really held onto since the fire. After all, who really cares what goes on below when finding our would mean enduring yet another reminder of why I no longer belong at Sycamore House. I'd run away - but I'm far too selfish to leave Silas and everybody else behind.

I'm not strong enough to lose them all, not yet. Perhaps one day I'll flee down the hill and into the district, promising myself that I wont look back over my shoulder. For now, I tiptoe down the stairs for the first time in a long time. The wallpaper is still blackened and torn, and my clothes dirty quickly with heavy black ash. This is no place to live - even breathing away from a window leaves me choked and on the verge of tears, eyes stinging and skin smudged. I did this. All of this.

"What's going on?" I say as I open the door and let myself into the first room inside Sycamore that I ever saw. I stop. My entire family seems to be crowded in this room, although around what, I cannot tell. Another step forward and my jaw drops, breathing slows. Surely, not? I blink, compose myself, and laugh as convincingly as possible. "Well, well, Mr. Goravich - this probably isn't quite what you expected." When I picture what it's like for the Victors, I imagine splendour and fame, people kissing the ground at your feet without so much as a hint of sarcasm. It's the closest thing we have to being a King, and yet Klaus stands in our house talking to perhaps the six people who hate him most in the whole of Panem.

"How terribly rude of you all," I point out, my voice dripping with sarcasm. I'm around ninety percent sure that Klaus doesn't pick up on the cruel tone in my words - he simply smiles at me slightly thankful, looking baffled and shocked. "Mr. Goravich, please, come in." I suppose the others think that I will forgive his sins because I myself could easily have caused the death of twice as many as he. What's more, nobody forced my actions - I didn't make them in order to save my own skin. No, this boy is far more pure than I will ever be, and yet that doesn't mean I can stand to have a murder standing in my front room. I move him to the kitchen, invite him to sit down, and lean across the counter.

He's scared now, but incredibly obedient. "Now, let's be clear," I begin, sounding what I hope is a little less vicious. I study the kitchen, something about the way the darkness leaks from the ceiling, crawling down the wallpaper and edging into the cabinets satisfying. I did this. No amount of repeating those words in my mind can solidify them there. "You're just like us, kid. Difference is, your story has a happy ending." I think about all the stories I used to read to my sisters when they were small (they are eternally small now, in matching boxes below the ground) but no matter how hard I try I cannot remember any of the closing words. I bet Klaus Goravich knows. The words belong to him.

"I'm sorry," says Klaus, interrupting me. It's for the best. It's been so long since I broke down that I almost feel as though I'm trying to balance my sanity, fragile and taught. I have forgotten what it feels like to smile. "But if you want to tell me what happened, I promise to listen." There is a kindness in his eyes I cannot return.

Ooc: This is horrible but it happened and I tried to move everything along a bit with Klaus ~~please don't hurt him guys~~.

emphasis

[/i]
"speaking."

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

Last Edit: Jan 3, 2013 20:42:10 GMT -5 by florentine, d4b ❁

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hurricane heartbeat // sycamore Jan 10, 2013 23:29:27 GMT -5

Post by Stare on Jan 10, 2013 23:29:27 GMT -5

I'm going to kill them.

I'll admit, it's not the most motherly thought. In fact, any real mother would probably be disgusted by me right now. But I'm as much a teenager as I am a parent to these kids, and I have every right to be angry with them. A small, secret part of my mind whispers that it's my fault, I'm the one who raised them all wrong, I'm always to blame for these kinds of things, but I swallow it down and allow myself to focus on the rage burning in the pit of my stomach as I sweep my horrified gaze over the Sycamores. I've never harmed a single hair on any of these kids' heads, and yet suddenly I feel the overwhelming urge to shake Silas until the imprints of my fingers leave bruises on my shoulders, to scream at Laila so loudly that she goes deaf, to slap Edgar hard enough to leave a mark on his face for days to come. I want to, but I don't, instead gritting my teeth and turning my head stiffly toward Edgar. "A new TV set?" my voice is pleasantly tense, pitch raised slightly from my normal tone as my eyes narrow in on the amber tinted bottle clutched tightly in one palm and the forget-me-now liquid sloshing inside. My gaze burns into his. What did you do? "That would be news to me."

Before I have a chance to continue, though, an all too hollow voice interrupts me, a form slipping through the crowd of broken children. And there she is. The most shattered of us all, scars working their way up her arms. The reaction is immediate and effectively silent, jaws becoming tense and eyes flickering away, but a kind of despair sets itself behind my irises and I don't dare look away. (She's so lost, dear, and it's all your fault. You were the one supposed to take care of her. Take care of all of them. See this mess all around you? It's yours.)

[/i] I swallow the rise of bile in my throat, the fleetingly sickened expression leaving just as quickly as it came. It's not a matter of forgiving Arwen for what she did - rather, it's about forgiving myself for all I've done to build such a terrible home for these kids. But I'm not ready to do that yet. I'm not sure I'll ever be.

But then she's speaking, dragging him away from the front hall and into the kitchen, where onyx scars spread over the curling, tacky wallpaper, and the guilt quickly melts back into my initial rage. Other footsteps pad in behind me but I ignore them in favor of readjusting Ara in my arms, watching as her small eyes slowly drift closed. She must be the only Sycamore who doesn't take any interest in the ~~stranger~~ Victor sitting at our wobbly kitchen table (I really do need to fix that loose leg, if I can find the time). I take a moment to brush a tiny curl off her forehead before approaching Mr. Goravich with excuses already fabricating themselves in my mind, shooting Arwen a scolding glare though I know it means nothing to her. None of these kids ever listen to me anymore.

"Mr. Goravich, I'm so sorry. They... they haven't been raised properly. No families, no home. Although some - " I glance pointedly at Arwen, Edgar, Laila, and Silas " - take it worse than others. Really, you don't owe us anything." And it's true. It's certainly not his fault that just because our families died we have been tucked away into the most overgrown corner of District Five and forgotten. We are the unwanted children, scarred and rotting in a half burned orphanage. How can we possibly blame him for such misfortune? Briefly my eyes find Septimus, Ruth, and Blaire, nodding a silent thank you for at least behaving somewhat in the presence of such an important person.

"I've obviously upset them by being here - I'd really like to make it up to you, Miss Lilith, and your family." My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Miss Lilith? I've never been called Miss before in my life. (He's certainly not like I imagined him. If I hadn't seen the blood spilled along the snowy sand and salt-worn wooden planks, I would have thought him to be... timid.) "If there's anything I can do to put this right, do let me know."

There are about a thousand things he could do for us. He could repair our house, give us new clothes, get more money sent to us from the Capitol, request a proper amount of food for us, or even give us the new television we apparently need ~~(I knew I shouldn't have relied on him. I just knew it. So why does the sight of the bottle still hurt so much?)~~. Klaus Goravich could very well turn our lives around and save us from the starvation and frostbite that plagues our visions of the approaching winter. So many wishes and requests hang on my tongue, but something holds them back. A kind of stubborn pride, mixed the motherly instinct that the kids should not be rewarded for their behavior. So I hold my silence, hesitating, before my eyes widen as I realize my idiotic mistake.

I should have learned by now that in Sycamore House, every hesitation is lethal.

(OOC: Permission from Clover to powerplay a bit ^^)

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Cait
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if looks could kill

hurricane heartbeat // sycamore Feb 17, 2013 8:53:50 GMT -5

Post by Cait on Feb 17, 2013 8:53:50 GMT -5

The world around me is a sea of colours, a hurricane of rainbows that mingle and mix, each colour combining with another to replace the original with a new creation so beautiful that it takes your breath away. As the residents of Sycamore fill the downstairs lobby where we stand around Klaus, I watch them come, watch the dancing colours radiate off each of them as they drift down. Some of them are blue, others red, others the pure white colour of a lily just coming into bloom. With each colour comes a different emotion, only instead of reading it there on their faces, the emotion comes to me in colour, and I can visualise how they are feeling inside, how their minds are working, how they are reacting to the situation at hand.

But it is not their own emotions that I focus on as the colours swirl around me, a glowing mist draping over me like a silky garment. I see the colours expressed inside of me. And so, the adventure begins, and I take flight as my wings sprout.

I see the icy blues.

They come first, chilly shades of blues and frosty images of nothing but white, mixing together, swirling to create patterns of lovely colours. Cold, frozen particles of ice rain down around me, and I am no longer standing in the tattered hallway of Sycamore House. The air turns chilly, a wintery wonderland forming right before my eyes, the soft snow underfoot crunching against the old shoes that do not provide a comforting warmth that is needed in that moment. The snowflakes drift down from the sky, and although the scene before me is beautiful, I know that the cold bitterness biting at my face is a result of too many years spent whimpering in fear of my father, a cruel, bitter past that continues to blow like a blizzard inside of me, stirring up the feelings I have the slightest of control over. As I watch the snowflakes change to raindrops, I breathe in and out slowly, enjoying the fresh taste of water on my face. I am a child, caught in a magical snowstorm, and as the swirling colours begin to morph, the scene beforem e changes and I am launched into..

..a fireplace.

A glowing fireplace filled with yellow and orange embers, fierce orange flames from a marigold painting the wall as the brilliant colour dances at the top of the flame. The setting is a cosy little room, and the sense of safety I feel standing there mirrors the minimal sense of belonging I feel in my day-to-day life, a faint but noticeable sensation that lingers with each second, eventually turning into minutes and hours and days. The sensation is not unpleasant, but the feeling of having someplace where things feel safe was strange. The fireplace emits an amazing glow, and my heart swells as I become transfixed in the magnificence of it, the glow reflecting the one that set my heart on fire the minute I saw the inferno. I watch the flames slowly build, licking the mantelpiece as they climb higher and higher, a race to the top, a fire dance that you cannot draw your eyes away from. The images change once again as the flames engulf the mantelpiece, the panic rising in my chest quickly extinguished when..

..a waterfall comes into view.

The clearing in which the stream stands is isolated and secluded, and immediately the tranquillity of the little clearing calms the nerves from the end of my previous vision, reminding me that even belonging somewhere can be dangerous. I let the sound of rushing water soothe me, a lullaby played to frightened little children who fear the demons of the night, the peace to come gently lulling me into a blissful state of unconsciousness. Only I am still conscious. I still see the never-ending rainbow dancing playfully in the watery ripples at the bottom of the waterfall, the beauty too great to even begin to explain. The peace that succumbs me mirrors the sensation felt when I’m drawing, my little box of crayons laid out on the bed as my hand moves with a mind of its own, creating artwork right before my eyes. The peace that succumbs me mirrors the sensation felt when I’m curled up in an abandoned corner of the mansion, nestled into a cushion, reading a favourite book that I’ve no doubt read 27 times before. For that is the only time I can ever truly be at peace with the cruel world around me.

All too soon, the beautiful colour show fades, and I am brought back to the bleak, dreary entrance to Sycamore, no time having passed whilst I was caught up in my own world. Those images would make for lovely drawings sometime.

Only this time, all I see as I look around me, is red.

Blood red, deeps crimson red, the colour of blood, coursing through my veins, pumping faster and faster with each frantic breath I take. The red colours emerge and bring on a whirlwind of hatred – pure, agonizing hatred – and a feeling of wanting to lock myself in my room, and stay there until the horrible colours vanish. The same lurching sensation passes through me, as usual, only this time, the red hot hatred isn’t associated with my malicious father, as it so often has been in the past. Only this time, the hatred is aimed towards my family. In that moment, I’m disgraced to even call them my family, and Lilith’s intentions to make a wonderful first impression become all the more clearer in my foggy, mixed up mind. Because even if Klaus is a Victor, and even if he is no longer one of us, in a way, he belongs here.

The red fades, and all I see is a mirror of sadness, the pain and sorrow reflecting the inner Klaus. For the first time, I see him with new eyes, fresh in black-and-white, no dizzy colours blinding me and clouding my thoughts. The sadness and guilt that rides on his shoulder appears unbearable, tiring, a heavy price to pay for his life. The abandonment in his eyes is clear to see, and yet through the empathy I feel, there’s nothing.

The colours of my mind threaten to take over, and they hold me in a state of transfixion as the reds move about in my fragmented mind. The inevitable streams of hatred must stop, and almost immediately the colours fade to nothing once again, the sudden disappearing act leaving me dizzy and light-headed. But amidst the confusion of missing colours, one thought stands out amongst the rest, and I am able to see myself through the eyes of those surrounding me.

And all I see is me.

I’m no hero, no mediator. I’m nothing, I’m a nobody, and they knew that all along, only I was too naïve to see it myself. All I really am is a girl who’s trying to fit in where nobody really wants her at all. They all knew it, though. I’d never be able to do anything but follow directions given to me, and the world bursts into colours before fading just as suddenly as the hope that came with the show, fades also. The realisations leave me flustered, and the sadness that fills inside of me is almost unbearable. I’m just nobody.

You could never help yourself, even as a young child, let alone an entire, broken family, could you, Ruth?

The colours come rushing back now, only the purple eruptions that fill my eyes with blinding, swirling violets are new, inexperienced, foreign to me. The desire to be more than a silly little girl who draws and paints and never speaks for simple fear of being shut down comes in bursts of magentas and indigos and lovely shades of violet, and I am falling into an abyss of bliss, falling deeper into my deepest desires.

The loneliness flutters gently down from above, and your curious eyes watch with growing interest as the shifting shape twirls just out of your reach. An outstretched arm reaches tentatively to the sky, the shifting emotion drawing closer with each agonising breath of anticipation. Gorgeous streams of light shrouded with a thick black blanket wrap their shimmering threads around you, for even though the dark magic at work is tearing down all your defences and leaving a terrified shell in their place, there is no effect.

Maybe that’s because you were already broken and afraid.

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(The man wants to know what you want.) But what does a broken girl need? Timid, trapped and alone, a girl of such description only needs one thing to help her get by in life. If I was to be honest with myself and stop living in the fairy-tale make-believe world I’d dreamed of for so long, not even material needs, like a sketch book or a new set of crayons, could save me from the dark.

The only way to free yourself is with a little help, sometimes in the most unusual of forms.

An explosion of soft pinks and gauzy reds swirl around in a stream of glitter, for in that moment, there was only one thing I wanted. My voice choked out the barely audible word, as if the very thought of such a thing was all that was keeping me alive.

‘Love.’

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Last Edit: Jan 1, 2014 3:46:16 GMT -5 by Cait

i always used to be into writing sort of modern abstract
lyricism stuff (that were like) slight vague indications of a feeling.