ℒil { P o p p i t } // Rave

Misaki Hatoro




"Are you a woman or a barbarian, young lady? Point your toes a little more, raise those tiny hands of yours! What have I told you about those gloves. There you go, just like that."


The frail doll pranced around the hall with such graceful, careful movements. Eyelashes fluttered closed and paper skin held tight in a pink corset that came with her ever-adored Ballet dress, feet barely touching the floor, pointed covered toes whispering false promises of connection with the woodwork underneath them deviously. Her arms raised high in an arc above her head, once beautifully flowing crimson hair now tied in the tightest of sock-buns, although a visible fringe was adorned upon her well-proportioned face. Not a single blemish, nor a single pimple was in sight upon her rosy cheeks nor her un-wrinkled forehead; the girl pirouetting ever so briefly before cavorting elegantly across the joinery. The adagio continued, her movements were as fluent as the melody that played with it, not a single bead of sweat dribbled down the temple of her forehead, nor a single hushed pant emitted from her. Although most dancers would gambol, she in fact silently and carefully frolicked around the Hall, much like a fawn in Spring. Arms were instead extended, making gestures that were in-sync with the euphony, a charming simper finding it's way to the Ballerina's countenance. Her legs oscillated ever so slightly before prancing forth again, contact with the floor now almost completely lost as the tune began to increase in volume and tempo. The peering irises of her Family were seen vaguely as her eyelashes flutter open, only to close again inevitably. Loose strands of postiche made it look as if there was a dazzling fire ablaze upon her scalp, whirling with her movements. Their accusing gaze made her feel like a marionette, their will subconsciously plucking at her strings, causing her elegant movements to become less forced, instead of her face flushing like a ripe tomato the colour source went to her cheeks, adding a fairly attractive shade to her appearance.

As the tempo gradually fell to a gentle sway in the air, the music ever so slowly came to a stop, the Doll's movements lowering just as slow as it's volume. She adorned such beauty and grace that is astounded even her Mother, her eyes' opening wide as a thundering clap echoed throughout the hall. Although it was only her Mother, Father and Teacher in the enclosure with her, she never failed to be surprised by their supportive structure. All three of them, including her Mentor. A small, unsure smile tugged at her lips as she pivoted her figure around, meeting their gaze. She let go of a brief curtsy before allowing a quiet sigh to reverberate throughout the room, walking towards them with hushed, quiet steps. The marionette instead stopped in front of them, vaguely studying their features, seeing the genuine proudness in their eyes. She began to doze off in her own thoughts once again, wondering if they'd be that proud of her if she won The Games, or if she could at least be strong enough to volunteer. With her gaze averted downwards she could imagine herself at an interview, dressed in lace and ribbons, performing for the crowd. She could imagine herself helping in the Capitol's kitchen, along with witnessing herself on camera-- beheading a lower district dweller. But really, did she want that? To always have the cold blood of a twelve year old drenched upon her palms, her gloves soaking it up like a sponge-- turning the spill into a stain. The same type of stain that would cover her heart if she even lightly slapped a person, slowly tearing holes in her conscience and turning her into a weeping mess. Would her parents even be proud of her for such vile actions? She instead squeezed her fingers against her reddening thighs, elbow-length silk white gloves covering her burns were worn. The pure jolt of pain that recoiled up and down her veins was enough to tell her the answer.

Never.

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Silence reigned.

I sank into this little world I called my own, immersed deeply in my creation. My walls closed in on me, suffocating both myself and the candle I had once called my self-esteem. My chest began to ache hysterically while my head thumped vividly. The sounds and shadows around me began to jump back out at me, but my eyes weren't even open. I instead rose my chin, inhaling the absolutely chilling air, finding my lips to become frozen shut. This ice instead begins to flurry down my neck and chin, frostbite nibbling at my exposed flesh and under my shirt. As much as I tugged and fought from it's grip, the sweet release never came. What drove me to this nightmare? Why am I hopelessly stuck in this trance, all over again. My glued shut eyelids finally opened, only to find the ice had seemingly vanished.

The only thing that connected me to reality was the wind whipping at my bare face, my thoughts enveloping me almost completely. Mentally, but surely not physically, my lithe frame stood alone in the alleyway vaguely. I did not feel the presence wash over me, their footsteps as silent as mine while I was dancing. But, no, I did not realise he was there until I heard a deep, alluring tone shout out a single, although startling, "Hey!"

Misaki Hatoro




mi-sa-ki, a japanese title meaning "beautiful blossom"

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The ceramic statuette twirls upon it's 'throne', a sweet melodious tune filling the air quietly. Marble limbs bent in such an elegant curtsy, the music box's audio played in such a quiet, sophisticated way that it would make the ocean's waves, currents that once crashed and bludgeoned the sandy coast of beaches instead turn to a more gentle sway, tides seeping back into the sea. The figurine that swiveled carelessly atop the Box was a replica of her, she who gyrated in such a similar fashion. Small gloves were carved upon the statuette's wrists, a somewhat pleasant smile barely visible upon her facial features. Such a life-like, beautiful work of art being displayed in a form of pure elegance, luxurious decorations were adorned upon the Box, although the marble figure was left un-touched. Yet, it seemed that the once hollow carcass of the ballerina was filled with deliciously decorous marble. Beautiful, she was, life-sized and portrayed as a figurine as well. But, was she really that beautiful inside and out? Sculpted into a frame of pure grace? Or was it really just pathetic copper that coated her insides, the same that ran throughout her coarse veins. Perfection was something that she, and no other person would ever achieve, no matter how beautiful they were on the outside. There'd always be something biting back at them.

The statuette's throne slowly, although surely crumbled into masses of ashes and bile, once vivid royalty becoming no more than a lump of waste. Wide hall walls gradually closed in on her, purple banners laced with gold lining and crown insignia's now turning into a sour, subtle maroon that would never be as graceful as it's original form. The once settled aroma of her palace would now turn into a stench of decomposing flesh and burnt bread. What drove her to such troubling thoughts? That even her Safe Heaven she once called her Sanctuary to burn to the ground, like flames upon canvas. The troubling thoughts deep within the back of her mind never showed on the exterior, and she prayed, so everyone prayed, they'd never come out. But who would save them, and her, when those disturbing little images came out to play.

The answer is plain, and simple.
Nobody.

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Crystal clearly I watch the man before me, although he reeked of alcohol it seemed the sheer scent of my Gingerbread men overcame his stench, although the distant smell of cigarettes managed to reach my nose nether the less. I shift on the spot silently, the enticing option of yawning almost too great to resist as my cerulean irises flutter vaguely. Gloved fingers stayed in front of my lap, the stillness of my hands caused them to have a firm grip on the tearing paper bag in between their grasp. The fragrance of pure temptation emitted from me, a cool draft carries it away from my vaguely and across the alleyway, past his ragged hair and over-sized jacket. I blink once, twice, no, three times at his offer, a quiet giggle is heard from me as I shake my head. Instead I rose my chin, observing his ever so tattered figure, although his face appealed to me above all else, unknowingly. My blush's shade increases momentarily before settling down once again, beautifully curved cherry-red lips puckering together momentarily before opening to speak, only to close again. I did not want to impersonate a goldfish, not in front of this man, at least.

A rush of air brought me back to reality inevitably. I had dozed off yet again, the embarrassing moment causing my figure to grow stiff. Was I born to be in the sky rather than on the ground? To always have my head in the spectre we call clouds. My marble-paved face's expression began to waver, although the apparent subtle shyness was still clearly evident on it. I began to observe this man, although it was only for a moment, as only seconds had passed between our speech. Pale, pale as the full moon on a starless night his face was, causing a strong amount of shock and worry to settle in. I closed the gap between us, taking not one, but two steps forward, my eyebrows furrowing momentarily. "O-oh, I-I'm perfectly fine...." I say in an unintentionally timorous tone, gulping down my fear despite my timid demeanor still visible. "You look quite pale....Would you like something to eat?" Genuine concern was laced into my voice as my fingers reached forward, cupping his face in their tiny grasp, the simple feeling of silk upon flesh would be warmer than a mother's kiss, these tender little nuzzles igniting the skin underneath their touch. I ran my thumb over his cheek, worry carved into my features-- although never over-shadowing my withdrawn nature.

It was as if she struck the sword straight into his already aching sternum.

Misaki Hatoro




mel·an·chol·y, a condition of depression and irritability formerly attributed to an excess of black bile.

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Early morning, dreary horizon
Aching hands are pulling a millstone
Wailing from the cart
...Moaning from a shattered heart...

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My gaze never faulters, not a single bit. I keep my eyes locked with his intently, his own beautifully luminous ones. My mind trails off, as usual, my heart beating in the same fashion of an army's marching. But my eyes do not betray a thing, staying wide and intent, peering into his own keen ones. It may have been something about the way he spoke, or how the way his face flushed when my own words spilled out smoothly to meet his ears-- the simplicity of it all nearly made me let out a chuckle, although I kept it tucked deep within my royally troubled mind. His breath ghosted over my face as he spoke, the eerie scent of alcohol and drugs were drowned out, lost in the flowing river I called my mind, my currents tugging and pulling at the twigs of various trees and willows. Only to forget about them soon after, letting them drift away like a boat to an endless sea. I resist the urge to lean closer, my own unusual tendencies being pushed away. I wish that I could feel the skin of my palm upon his paper-white skin, alas, the simple sight of my hands could drive any mere stranger to look at me in pure disgust. To leer at me, taunt the fact that I was hideous. A beast among beauties. I can feel my confidence delve into the unforgiving tides of The Sea, becoming lost with the treasures that 'our' waters behold. But, no. No I do not. Not today, at least. I let the waters rush past my legs rather than tug me along, for the first time in years. Then I realised how nervous he was, although why was beyond me. Maybe a bit of makeup was smudged? I was too doll-like for his tastes? I remind myself how undeniably horrid I am, the same plague of insecurity that cursed me for all of these years came back to haunt me.

No.
Not today, it won't.

"I'm usually pale," he says, although in a fit of nervous chains, why was he nervous in front of somebody like myself is personally beyond me. But nether-the-less, I offer him a smile, a smile that could equal the shyness of the Sun at the dreariest of nights. Unknowingly, I had been subconsciously tugging at his strings, plucking at the threads. Maybe if I knew I had the power to do so, I'd see how it feels to be on the opposite side of a Marionette. Like I am now. If only my fingers could be strong enough to tweak a puppet's movements. But those things only happen in the place I called My 'World'. Even there it isn't safe. But I don't tell myself, nor anyone else. The strangely beautiful man in front of me struggled internally, I could feel it. The way he stuttered his next words made my smile widen, but not in pity, not in amusement. This feeling deep within my chest was one that was foreign to me. I ignore the 'pain' in my sternum. He opens his mouth to speak, closes it, then finally allows his words to drift across and linger in the air between us."I uhh, don't think I ever picked up your name." I tilt my head at his approach, although quickly I straighten up my stature, my thumb once again dancing over the skin of his cheekbone before trailing down his face, hands now clasped in front of my lap, "Misaki, pleasure to meet you." I offer him a hand, the same hand that carressed his elegant face only moments ago. I look over him again, resisting the urge to pat down his hair, even though I liked the way it frizzled, his oversized jacket was dirtied with the speckles of fluff.

Misaki Hatoro

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consent (kənˈsɛnt)

vb

1. to give assent or permission (to do something); agree; accede

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It was strange. The fury and longing of your fingertips never seemed to soothe and lessen the hollowness in your stomach, it only appeared to make it grow stronger. With tingling toes you had pulled the feeling closer. The aroma it decided to bring was almost as tempting and alluring as the cookies you had once baked without a problem, the cookies that had stolen you. How they itched to feel the pressure they put upon piano keys ago, the clutch and grasp they had on baking trays but no. That just wouldn't do. Self-pity was not your place, if you were to pity anyone it was the lessers by far. Now your ribs bared flesh and bone only, not the groping fingers of a deceiver, nor the weight of a heavier, broader chest. When blood was spilt upon white sheets and toes dug into creeping skin, they did not stop. He did not stop. The hollowness only grew and clawed at your lungs, requesting entry. To steal your breath eternally just like he and they had stolen you. But still you kept breathing, you ceased to care about your own well-being. It meant nothing to them, so why should anyone care about the girl down the lane, the doll made of porcelain-- eyes of glass. Acting like they cared would only stain the transparent blocks of perception, turn their cracked surface into blackened stains of irises.


But now your lips yearned for air, air that was not your own. Perhaps this was the itching the hollowness had once felt before it permanently resided in your stomach, to grasp and ache for your oxygen. Although you had never felt the feeling of burning flesh upon your own tulips, you knew the only way you would like your strange title is when it was sighed into your mouth by another, limbs entangled and desire shown. But you did not wish for them to leave little footprints along your neck and nape, fingermarks that trailed away to a distance you could not reach. Away from your clutches. Not like he had once done, who scarred you at an age where you couldn't even bat at the stains left by his fingers-- to brush them away into dust. Long forgotten. Now you folded up the memories in the back of your throat, although the salty taste there was enough to be distinguished between gulps of bittersweet candies.

The cavities of your mouth stung, tongue glued to the dry cavern that was the roof. The way you said your own name seemed distant, perhaps not to him, he did not notice the way you lingered on the 'sa' and how your lips pulled back with each syllable. You were convinced that any moment you were about to transform into an animal before his very eyes, anxiety filling your head. Static. Then nothing, aching limbs stiffening with each hauled movement. It seemed painful for you to speak, teeth grinding against your inner-cheeks, heavy eyelashes fluttering every now and then. Air flooded your chest, causing it to heave-- the agonizing wait continued, patience seemed to have been drained from you. 

'That's a beautiful name.'

Some part of you wanted to prod and search his face, for any strangled lies and dishonesty that would have happened upon it. Yet it never came, only deft fingers wrapping around your own, raised to just as clever lips. Exhaling as he states his own name, you utter a few hushed words that barely have the nerve to pass your lips. "Phantilius...I've never heard anything like it. I-it's quite exotic." The smile you adorned only grows, although does not threaten to push at your cheek muscles just yet. Briefly, numb fingers wiggle around, only to stop soon after.