♠ Malina Thyme ♠ D5 ♠ done

malina thyme.

age: 16

gender: female

district: 5

“Mummy, will you play with me?” A voice so gentle, so soft, moves through the air like a snake. I knew the voice. The voice came from that little girl who sat on the dirty rug that blanketed the kitchen floor. I try to choke back the fear that rose in me. I wasn’t her mummy. Not really. But she didn’t understand, little Ruby, didn’t understand that her mother was dead, and that me? Me, Malina Thyme, was just her sister, her older sister. Our mother had been dead for a few weeks now, her body rotting away somewhere under the soil of the veggie patch that grew at the edge of our homes garden. I had buried her there. Buried her mutilated body beneath the ground, for the worms and other creepy crawly bugs that would eat away at her flesh.

But I hadn’t killed her, no. It hadn’t been me. Sweat forms on the pale skin of my palms and I wipe my hands on the worn fabric of my shirt. I had watched my mother die, a silent scream planted on my lips. I had watch as little fingers and shoved their way into my mother mouth, sliding down, deeper and deeper into the woman’s throat. I had begged my legs to move, begged them to run to my mother as she began to gag on the arm that was digging deeper into her body. But I wasn’t able to move. I had frozen.

I had been so scared, so very scared. My blonde hair had begun to stick to the back of my neck, my t-shirt sticking to the skin of my back. “Mummy, where are you? Let’s play. Mummy?” She sounded so innocent, so harmless. My feet begun to move towards the alluring sound of the child’s voice. I wore nothing but a long t-shirt, that fell to halfway down my thin thighs, I have never really had any fat on my legs- on my body period. I never really get that chance to let the fat grow. Not in this house. Not with me trying to bring in enough money to feed me and my sister. Her voice sent shivers down my spine and the image of my mother choking on her own blood flashed behind my eyes lids.

Mum. Mum had never done anything to deserve it. She had been my best friend, one of my only friends. I wish I could say that I knew my father… but that would be a lie. I didn’t I didn’t know who he was. Was he a good person? Would he have taken care of me if he knew that I belonged to him? Just like many other woman out there my mother had sold her body for money, to take care of me, me and my sister. It could be any of them; anyone of the men who had bought her for a night could be my father… anyone of them. if he knew about me, then maybe he could save me. Save me from the same fate as my mother.

“Mikasa, please. I want to play. I don’t want to be on my own. Please, come, come play with me.” Mikasa. Never, never had she called me by my first name before. Maybe I had misunderstood her, maybe she knew that I was her sister, and that I wasn’t her mother. Of course she knew, of course she knew that I wasn’t our mother! She was 12 for ripreds sake! Then why? Why call me mummy? Was it because I reminded her of mum? My eyes catch the reflection of my long thin body in a window, of my golden blonde hair, my pale blue eyes. I looked just like her. a splitting image of my mothers.

Many people have told me that I am my mother. In more than just looks. Yes I have her fine features, her gentle curves, her pale skin and her pink lips. But I also act like her, remind everyone of her. I am gentle and sweet in times when people need me to be. But I can be wild and fiercely protective in times when needed be. My mother was almost like that picture perfect woman. She had no flaws, nothing. Everyone loved her, wanted to know her, and wanted to be her friend- her best friend. I guess at that point, that point right there is where our similarities stop.

I was not the picture perfect friend. Where my mother was almost flawless I was full of flaws, full of imperfection. Mum was graceful, graceful and so very elegant. Me? I am clumsy and unco-ordinated. I am always tripping over, always spilling or dropping things. People have often said that my fingers seem to be made of butter, and it is a wander that I still have my job. Where my mother is kind, I am not so kind. It is not that I am rude, or harsh or nasty, it’s more the fact that I don’t realise that the things I say can be rather hurtful, I don’t know what the right things to say are in the right situations. I am not very socially co-ordinated. My mother has always been that woman who I have aspired to be… But I have just not made it. I have just not made it into that woman.

“MALINA!” anger filled the air- no longer seeming so innocent and harmless. It was her. She was the one who had taken my mother’s life. Her eyes had been blank, her face twisted as he shoved her small hand into my mother’s mouth, reaching into it, trying to grab hold of something. When she had taken her hand out, blood coated it. Mother had then drowned to death. I had stood; hand over mouth, tears filling my pale eyes. Scared as hell. But then she had looked at me, my darling sister, and her eyes were no longer blank, but shocked, scared. She had screamed out, and tears had spilled from her eyes. I had broken and fell into her arms, holding her tight, telling her that everything was going to be all right. But it wasn’t. No, it wasn’t. I couldn’t look at her. I could look at her without wanting to throw up, or without recoiling in fear. It was wrong I know, she was my sister and I was meant to love her, but how could I? How could I love the person who took away my best friend and my mother?

“coming, Bella, I am coming.” My voice shook as my fingers searched for the knife on the bench. The cold metal bit at my fingers as I moved away into the room where she lay. She may be my sister, but she was also a monster and I was scared shitless of her. 

She was a killer.

That night, that day, I became a killer too.