florence cross ★ d12

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My hair is pink. Elias says it's a disguise. He's wrong, though - it's the colour of my soul. Vibrant and clear, pulsing through my mind and into my unruly, tangled tresses. Rarely do I tie it up; almost always it is free like a lion's mane, drawing glances and raising eyebrows. This brings an instant smile to my lips, for shocked expressions are like petrol to the fire in my heart. Unlike my sister, I own no ribbons or clips to tame it, and I prefer it that way. Every now and then, she'll sit me down and drag a comb through my hair, wincing as I scream and shout. "For heavens sake, Florrie, sit still!"

And yet I wont sit still, not ever. Wriggling and fidgeting are my most common pastimes, says my brother. At least he did, back before we ran away from the community home and I stopped going to school and started going to parties instead. My feet are often bare; always tired. They walk-walk-walk and dance and kick until they can't anymore, hardened soles immune to the hot pavements of summer. In the same way, my hands have been rough and scratched since I learned to walk on them, too - a party trick that draws attention just the way I like it. They shake, though, but I only notice this when I'm building the fire early in the morning, trying to warm my hands on the sidewalk.

I once heard Arletta muse that the eyes are the window to one's soul. Personally, I disagree. The lady who worked at the community home used to call me 'of disagreeable nature'; so I suppose that might explain it. The way I see it, if my eyes showed the innermost workings of my brain, then they'd be a rainbow plethora of light and outrage. (If anyone can make a scene, it is I.) Instead, they're dark blue, boring, mundane, and anything but me. Often very wide - perhaps that's down to drugs rather than my own curious expression, but nonetheless. I grin often, with slightly crooked teeth and a tongue that would rather be poking out at a passerby than tame and hidden.

The details of my face are often hard to recall; this comes with sleeping outside and getting ready without the aid of a mirror for a long, restless year. It doesn't bother me. I run on caffeine, pills and sugar rather than sleep - our slightly shady job is perfect for me, as it requires late nights, early mornings, and no afternoons. Elias picks up the haul at the beginning of the evening, and we spend joyful hours dashing around in the dark, finding place after place to distribute our fine wares. We don't know much about the stuff - Winter, they call it - but it pays well, and we're happy.

My face is makeup-streaken and unwashed, and yet that doesn't stop wandering hands in the dark of night. Here, Elias is my saviour, with his stern voice and steady demeanour. We two, we're partners in crime, always have been/ While Arletta runs along behind, shouting her inhibitions and worries, we run out ahead with no fear in our eyes and a spring in our step. Since I could walk, my hand was in his and mischief spread like wildfire into all we touched. With him, my heart thunders, a rapid pulse of excitement and anticipation. There is never a night when we do not find a new way to entertain ourselves, a new form of controversy to spill.

There was year when we had to hide from everyone, after we escaped the rigid confines of the community home and before Elias found the lifeline of Winter. Rules are my enemies, my playthings, my challengers. Without them, life would be monotonous and dull. Punishments, however, do not make my approval list. So we left, because if we ever did have a Mama, I'm sure she would have told us to do as we please. Either way, I shall, with reckless abandon.

Once, my big brother and I snuck down into the office of the community home in the middle of the night. The drawers were locked, but we'd already slipped the key from the nail above the Matron's head. Inside, we pocketed half the petty-cash and read our files in the moonlight. Mine was reasonably simple, but while Elias placed his carefully back into the folder, I tucked mine into the creases of my nightshirt when his back was turned. Still, I keep it.

Name: Florence Cross
Age: Twelve
Siblings: Elias, Thirteen, Arletta [twin, identical]
Parentage: Miners, killed in an accident. No other family available. Poor background.
Appearance: Small, underfed. White-blonde hair, pale skin, malnourished, short stature. Has a freckle on her cheek that her twin does not.
Notes: Incredibly unruly, no respect for authority. Unwaveringly loyal to her siblings and late parents. Cares little for anyone's opinion. Constantly trying to draw attention to herself and create a scene. Finds anger amusing. Behavioural issues, undiagnosed.

This report on my own personality is something I treasure greatly, a trophy of my own individuality. I'm unexpected, I know that. Words leap to my lips without filter, shocking myself just as much as those who hear them. I don't stop. Not for anyone (only my sister can calm me down and talk sense into me when I begin to get carried away, but she seldom tries). There is a spark in my chest, a voice in my head and a ray of sunshine shining onto everything I see.

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