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Rosetta
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/ending/ [one minute at a time]// open May 31, 2013 20:18:34 GMT -5

Post by Rosetta on May 31, 2013 20:18:34 GMT -5

Ophelia Rose Stromstatt

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I shouldn’t have let him provoke me.

It’s so easy, really. So simple. Like a little ripple in the never-ending sea. A little ripple that grows and shudders and rolls and grows into a tsunami. That is me. Prod a finger in me and I begin to ripple.

They say I have to go to school. So, I do. Mace used to gather up my school books, shove them into my unresisting arms, and say to me, “You’re good at school. You need to go. And stay out of trouble.” But, now Mace is gone, whoring all over the Panem, from the Capitol to District Twelve, District Two and back and doing whatever else survivors do meaning that he’s no longer around to boss the rest of us around. Yet I still go. I speak no words and barely lift my head. My hand shuffles along the page, zombie-like, writing equations and sentences that register so easily in my mind it’s hard to see why I dislike school so much.

Sitting in the emergency room, I hold the wash cloth to my nose and tilt my head back until the nurse at the desk chastises me and says that if I do that the freely flowing blood in my nose will go down my throat and choke me and I should put my head forehead. I nod and oblige and she asks me if I’d like more painkillers. I shake my head for I don’t feel a thing. It’s the numbness after the fight. My toes are ice-cold, my face is still, barely throbbing as it should be, and my eyes stare at the white tile, counting the boxes under my feet. The only part of me that’s moving is my heart. It’s beating slowly as if trying to let me down slowly, halt the pump of blood through my body, fill and evaporate and die. I’m slowing down, the boiling acids in my stomach cooling into ice. My knuckles are bruised and bleeding and three finger is bandaged, broken. They don’t even tremble. I am still. I am the sea, the silence after the storm. For I am never silent just before.

He was new. Or rather, for now, he is. I haven’t heard the verdict on his head yet and dread is right in the middle of that block of ice, just waiting for the melt so it can stab me with razors. He usually sits behind me in history class and he’s the sort of kid who makes sarcastic comments every five minutes from those huge, wormy lips of his that release a wave of decaying tuna fish into my air every time he speaks, betraying the wealth of his family, with enough money to buy expensive imports of fish from District Four. Teacher stands before the class, teaching us all about 61st Games and the death of Haff Ferde. Tuna Breath behind me makes a comment about “retarded” tributes and my hands tighten around the edge of my desk and I lower my head to doodle onto my page, hoping that the gentle rise and fall of lines will calm me.

Personally, I feel no connection to the Games. I don’t carry an umbilical cord to them like others do. Never for victory purposes do they hang on so tightly, but rather for survival. Families of lost ones cling to the television, as if waiting for their dead sons, daughters, brothers and sisters will rise out of the Cornucopia and claim their rightful victory. Siblings of twelve to eighteens, especially the weaklings, take notes, hoping that one day if misfortune befalls their family, they’ll have some idea of what to do. The only time I ever actually cared was when Mace was sent and the entire Home sat glued to the television for days and people in town pressed food in our hands before ushering us in their homes or stores to watch television. Otherwise, I hid up in my room for the Games because they make my fingers itch, just like they itched as I sat at my desk and Tuna Breath’s words prodded and tugged at my ears.

“Ms. Stromstatt?” I glance up as a stately woman comes towards me. She’s the doctor treating Tuna Breath whose real name is Jackson Macguire. I rise and watch as she pulls off her blood-stained gloves with two slaps that send jolts up my spine. “You’ve been treated?” Her pale eyes scrutinize me, neither forgiving nor apprehensive. I nod. Her lips tighten and she motions for me to sit. “Fine, fine. Jackson will be fine, but you got him good. Would you like to know how many stitches?”

The word “stitches” bites at me like a needle, sticking into every inch of body, and I cringe from the word because it’s the result of my fists that had to stitch sanity back in place. The ice is melting, flooding my body with cold, piercing dread, well aware that each stitch will be a tally on my back.

“Retarded.” That’s what he said. He said the word loud and clear. “Retarded.” His friends sitting around him chortle and Teacher pauses, purses her lips, but instead of doing something, urges us to open up our textbooks and read. And so, Tuna Breath goes on. “Retarded” is the only word of his I hear and it smolders within me.

The doctor before me leans back in the seat she’s just taken beside me and she gazes upward at the white ceiling, forming an O with her lips as if she’s just taken a drag and is blowing smoke into the heavens. But, instead she blows scars. “One hundred. It’s lucky he doesn’t have permanent

-brain damage?” Ma frowns. “No, no, Ophelia is just fine. Look at her grades!”

“She is unruly, sullen and often engages in fights with the other students,” Headmaster says impatiently, ignoring the A+ report card before her. “You’re absolutely sure of no brain damage? No psychological issues? No…” she lowers her voice and glances furtively around and I pull my head around the door just in time, my heart racing, ears perked up…listening. “No, mental retardation?”

“Mental disorders?” Ma says firmly and I know she’s fixing Headmaster with one of her famous death stares, but I can’t smile. That word. The R-word. “No, no,” Ma goes on, “Ophelia is just fine. Fiery spirit, but just fine.”

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Except for that word. That horrible word that Tuna Breath breathes into my air now. I can smell it.

”Retarded.”

“Can you not use that word?” The words escape from my mouth before I can stop them, growled out from between clenched teeth to dark, harsh lines in my notebook. Instantly, the laughing behind me stops and I feel accusatory eyes on my back. I turn and face them head on, my fingers twitching around the sides of my desk.

“Excuse me?” The smell of tuna hits me squarely in the face and I grimace.

“Don’t use that word.”

Tuna Breath really didn’t know who he was up against when he laughed, pointed at my mole, and said, “Says the girl with the second head on her face.” I am set ablaze.

After the fight, I find I cannot remember much of the details from it. All I know is the aftermath with my knuckles bruised and blooding and my nose dripping as my classmates scream around me. None of it is compared to Tuna Breath, slumping over his desk, skull cracked open from hitting it so hard. Blood dribbles onto the floor.

Later, my classmates will whisper to one another that I was a feral animal, barely giving Tuna Breath a chance to defend himself before I smashed his head into his desk. It took all of his friends and a smack to the nose to calm me.

Now, I stare at the doctor and the ocean within me quivers, draining, churning, running dry until I find myself trembling entirely. I cannot breathe without water. I must go. I must run. One hundred stitches. One hundred tally marks on my back and gasping for breath, I stand to run.

But, I find I cannot bring my feet to take me anywhere. [/color][/size][/blockquote][/blockquote]

^^Made by the excellent Shrimp!

k!ah
Retired Staff

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last seen Nov 19, 2024 4:03:09 GMT -5

#expensivetrash

/ending/ [one minute at a time]// open Jun 11, 2013 5:32:42 GMT -5

Post by k!ah on Jun 11, 2013 5:32:42 GMT -5

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::Distrcit 10::Female::16::

The sun had just risen above the horizon and colours that range from reds and orange to pinks and blues are streaked across the sky, like an artist might streak paint over a canvas. My eyes scan the sky, taking in the breath taking beauty. It literally takes my breath away, my heart pausing for a moment, also lost in the beauty of the sky. Finally with one final glance up at the picture perfect sunrise I turn, heading in the opposite direction, towards the school. I have never been a fan of school, but ever since my father had disappeared, into thin air, I had taken it upon myself to learn more about the world, about my District and of course about the capitol. I wanted to know more about the capitol and what it was capable of, after all I wanted know if the capitol was capable of abducting my father, I wanted to know if there was a chance that the Capitol had be responsible for ripped my father from my family, I wanted to know if the Capitol was the reason that my family was falling apart. Pulling my mine away from the Capitol I put all my focus into the path in front of me.

It always took me a long time to get to school, not that I mined, I have always enjoyed the walk, the feel of the fresh open air that surrounded my body, pushing itself into my body, cleaning it from any sleep that may have lingered longer than necessary. I loved to breathe in the fresh air; I loved the sound of cows and all the other other animals in the nearby paddock going about their normal live, usually unaware that each day they lived they were coming closer and closer to their end. It was all so peaceful and quiet. A small smile plays at the edge of my lips threatening to come out and play openly upon my lips, I hold it back, fearing that if I became too comfortable with my surrounds that I would stop, stop and stand here forever, getting lost in the sound and the feeling of the life around me. While I am walking I can almost forget about the life I lived and enter a life of a person who does not have to worry about a thing, a person that was free. Free to do what they wanted when they wanted, almost.

My footsteps become muffled as the ground beneath me changes from the thick tar of the roads to the soft spongy grass of an open field. This was a shortcut I took to get to school and it was the best part of the whole walk. Walking through the free paddocks the spongy grass under my feet was one of the best feelings of my life and I always took my time to let the feeling consume me, making me feel, even though it was only for a short time, somewhat free. I felt like I was a wild eagle soaring proudly across the fields, feeling the wind in my feathers as my body soars slightly above the swaying grass. That’s who I felt now walking along the paddock. My mind raced sent thrilling thoughts surging through my body until I reached the school, where instantly the thought of being free evaporated leaving me empty as my feet lead me down the path that would lead me to the main entrance of the old school.

The front of the school is bare, all the student huddled inside as classes have already began, labouring over papers, pens running smoothly back and forth as teachers chattered endlessly advising their students about things that were most likely entering one ear to only exit at the other. The empty school yard came to me as no surprise, as I was usually late or school. Slumping slightly I walk across the grass of the yard coming to a halt at the main door. I pause for a moment before opening the old creaking door and stepping inside. The hallways were quiet the only sound that could be heard was the gentle tap, tap, tap of my shoes as they came down on the hallway floor. My eyes scanned the walls new graffiti scattered on the white walls caught my attention walking over to the little piece of art I realised that Is was a heart with two letters inside and a plus sign, oh ain’t that adorable I think sarcastically, when really I found it absolutely idiotic, after all who cares who the ”J’’ person loves?

Shrugging I kept heading down the path. I pull my hair over one of my shoulders as I come to a halt outside the door of my first class. Did I really have to go in there? I think to myself, the urge to leave climbs through my limbs. Shrugging away the unwanted temptation I place my hand on the door. I am about to enter when the sound of flesh hitting flesh floats to my ears and I hear and ear splitting scream fills the air. I turn around and alarm shoots through me when I see a girl being hauled away from a class room, followed by a boy who is unconscious his head dripping with blood. Instantly I feel the beginning of my curious mind start to tick with a billion questions.

Without looking back at the door I was about to enter I peruse after the fleeing people trying to get a closer look at the boy who I now realise has cracked his head open. I recognise the boy instantly and I feel surprising satisfied at the look of pain that was written across his face. He was one of the biggest jerks in the school and for me to be satisfied that he was hurt was not something little, I hated to see people in pain; I hated the way their faces would cringe, the way they would groan. It usually made me sick to the stomach, but not today; this guy deserved what he got. This guy was a bully, he picked on though who he knew would not stand up for themselves. I think of the many times I had seen him picking one someone because they had a bit of a stutter in their speech, a surge of anger climbs into my limbs.

Letting my mind travel away from the boy, I move to study the girl who holds a wad of bloodied rags to her nose. A woman, the nurse, stands in front of her telling her something that seems to make the girl uncomfortable. In a sudden movement she is on her feet, an uneasy look plastered to her face. She looks like she might be about to run. But I realise after a few moments that she wasn’t going anywhere. Cautiously I walk up to the girl, like I would to a small frightened animal, I didn’t want to stun her. “Um, hey, are you okay?” I asked holding back the hundreds of questions which jumped to my lips. “Uh, did you do this?” I asked gesturing to the boy who now sits in a chair, stitches stretching from one side of his head to the other.

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