strike the match [florence day 1

[atrb=width,500,true][/color][/size][/center][/size]



The scent of blood tickled it's way into the senses and erupted a new sense of appreciation for death. All of her life she had been but a puppet to the master, the hooded being stringing dolls along it's stage as though they were nothing more but tools to destroy. Red trickled down her back, she could feel it seeping through the form fitting uniform that had been given to her, absorbing all the proof that Florence Hartmyre had indeed been here, one stitch at a time. That was the way of clothing. The self-expression had always been present, each little nook and cranny a representation of the artist and person that was standing in them. Black, full black cargos and a t-shirt this was all she was now, simply a harrowing tale of death that one day, perhaps, her siblings would remember.

It was a void. All of the arena, all of the people alongside her - she had not met a person that she loved, she had not met someone she liked, yet despite all of this she embraced the fact that she was in a group of people. But where were they for her when she needed it most. Each step was a limp further, feeling the wound deep in her back, desperate to let go and sit down and cry and wail and and and - she was lost in this arena waiting to die, kissing goodbye each stitch of clothing. There was already a tear to the shoulder, where a weapon had already greased down her, the dull throb kissing her gently, it was a sign of war. She let her aching fingers gently caress the smaller cut, yet ignored the gash to her back sustained when she was lost. At what point did the puppeteer decide that she was deserving of being killed first? Was that the game to be played? Wait until he chooses you and stand up for slaughter? That wasn't the way she was taught.

She was taught to run.

With every fiber of her being she was told to let go and be indifferent, do not involve yourself within the process of elimination. These are your last days to live, so be free. With each cut she worried deeper about the amount of days she had left to live, she counted them on her hands as if the number ten wasn't already low enough. Florence couldn't even hope to make it that far, so she counted seconds instead. There were many more seconds than there were days, or hours, or minutes. She could waste sixty of them just breathing out her nose hoping that another sixty would be long enough to sooth the pain exploding through her back, but than another sixty dedicated to sobbing with her hand over her mouth.

Death was something that a mortuary girl should be used to, and yet she stood there sobbing. The cornucopia was filled with awful memories and trails of blood, her allies were far gone if she even had any any more, and the voices of the dead followed her ricocheting between her ribs. Say goodbye, Florence. It was time to go so soon, from the golden structure she wandered aimlessly until all the could breathe in was smoke. Each step was thicker, each step became slower, she moved at a slow legato and let her body soothe itself to sleep, watching the small trees surround her. Had she grown exponentially? At what point had death become fiction. The trees became smaller, and she became a lumberjill gently thwacking away at their roots - this was a fairy tale, a little grim, but what other day would she have a weapon in hand?

She let the thick fog envelop her lungs, and she let the trees fall around her - Esther always seemed to think she was dead, and now Florence was no different. If this was the life she had to lead now, she would gladly haunt fields for the rest of her life. Give her a shovel, and she'll dig holes like Orion. Give her some wood, she'll build coffins like Teddy. Give her a flame and she'll - each step she takes releases small puffs of fog from her scars, she is nothing but a machine running on the gas surrounding her, robotic somehow - she ticks gently knocking down trees.

"Now this would be a nice place to build a grave." She mutters gently to herself, pointing down deliberately, as if on some type of show. Gather round audience! She cues the laugh track and smiles, don't they understand the joke? She's a gravedigger! She's a mortuary girl! She lets the fog surround her and tries to fall asleep.

She plays with the dirt that surrounds her.

Blood and dirt mix together all too well for two completely different substances.

She wonders how many strings are broken.

She.




this is so ugly i'm sorry to whoever reads it

[OOC - Florence Hartmyre uses first aid for minus three, and five feet of bandage for minus one, she also collects two bundles of plants that may kill her but yolo]




[/size][/blockquote][/justify][/td][/tr][/table]