nevada cousland; d4 :: FIN

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nevada cousland; d4 :: FIN Feb 16, 2014 22:08:45 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Feb 16, 2014 22:08:45 GMT -5

Name: NEVADA COUSLAND, BUT CALL ME PENNY LANE, SWEETHEART.
Age: JUST BARELY LEGAL.
Gender: VERY, VERY FEMALE.
District/Area: THE SANDY SHORES OF DISTRICT FOUR.
Appearance:

Personality:

SASSY. SHAMELESS. MORE BROKEN THAN MOST CAN SEE. COMPULSIVE ATTENTION-SEEKER. I LIVE FOR THE APPLAUSE APPLAUSE APPLAUSE. DANCING IS MY RELIGION. GOES INTO A TRANCE STATE/ALTERNATE WORLD WHILE PERFORMING A LA SUCKER PUNCH. MEMORY SUPPRESSION. TICKING TIMEBOMB.

History:

I DON'T KNOW. SERIOUSLY. I DON'T KNOW. MY LIFE STARTS TWO YEARS AGO. DID I HAVE PARENTS? OH, THEY DIED? WELL THAT'S SAD I GUESS. ~~SURE SOMETIMES I HAVE DREAMS ABOUT CHOPPING UP MY FAMILY BUT THEY'RE JUST DREAMS RIGHT.~~ NO ONE LOVES AN ORPHAN, BUT EVERYONE LOVES A STAR. BURLESQUE DANCER. ROOMMATE OF ONE IGGY AVÉ. PROUD MAMA OF A BOSTON TERRIER NAMED PENNY. CELEBRITY WAITING TO HAPPEN.

Codeword: WHERE IS FINNICK?!
Other: PROBLEM - NATALIA KILLS

Last Edit: Feb 17, 2014 14:46:49 GMT -5 by Deleted

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nevada cousland; d4 :: FIN Feb 16, 2014 23:07:23 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Feb 16, 2014 23:07:23 GMT -5

T H A T G I R L I S A P R O B L E M

[presto]

N E V A D A ▲ C O U S L A N D

My life starts two years ago.

Figuratively speaking, that is. There's a birth certificate on file at the Justice building that says a baby girl named Nevada Jane Cousland was born in the last days of May eighteen years ago, but all those years are nothing but ink on paper to me, hazy, lost things that I can't even begin to fathom. And that's all right, I guess. You can't miss what you don't remember having, and it's not worth striving for sorrow. In my case, the phrase the past is dead resonates a little more literally than you'd think.

I've known since the very beginning of my life two years ago that my family is dead, and that's okay, I guess. I don't remember whether I loved them or not, my father who died in a boating accident when I was five, my mother and stepfather who the Peacekeepers found in the bloody ruin of their bed, hacked to bits. They found me curled up in my bedroom closet, practically comatose, the way I stayed for almost a month after I was deposited at District Four's community home. This all sounds to me like a page from someone else's story, something I can't place myself in no matter how many doctors they tried to bring in to jog my nonexistent memory.

(Although sometimes I'll feel things I can't explain, a strange sickness in my stomach when someone touches me and I don't expect it, an inherent distrust of tall men with dark eyes. Sometimes I'll have horrible nightmares full of screams and sticky-hot red coating my hands, of bruises and an unexplainable fear of the night.)

But whatever the case, my body seems to remember better than my mind. They told me I had been a Career. I don't remember ever setting foot in the Training Center, but my hands somehow remembered how to hold a sword, my arms to tense a bowstring. They told me I had been a dancer, and that I could believe. It was something I looked like with my willowy frame and careful grace, a label I could attach to the stranger who looked back at me from the mirror with dark hair and pale skin and wide, confused azure eyes. A dancer. If I couldn't be anything else, I could be that.

Something happened when I danced for the first time in my remembered life, twirling alone in the common room of the Community Home hours after lights out. I couldn't remember ever having a religion, but that had to be something close to it, a trance state that was half-terror and half-ecstasy. For a moment, everything fell away, the drab, sad furniture and peeling paint, my confusion and sadness and the sense of loss I couldn't explain. Once I figured out that I could craft my own world, I had no desire to leave it.

The Community Home wasn't kind to me. I was an outsider among the children who had grown up there, an island that was doomed to stay such. How could I connect with them? There was no way from me to reminisce, to talk about the past, not when I didn't have one. They told me that before, I'd been vivacious, a social butterfly, the constant center of attention. In the Home, I was a pariah. No one loves an orphan. Not even other orphans, it would seem.

The loneliness and isolation threatened to swallow me. I felt like I was being painted gray from the inside out, that the sad, saggy house would pull me down into the floorboards and keep me there forever, circulate my misery through the veins of its creaky pipes and pass on my despair to endless generations of lost children. There were few but cherished bright spots, of course - a ratty little stray dog liked to come sniffing around the back door for scraps and took a liking to me. The staff decided we could use a guard dog and let me keep her. I named her Penny, and for the first year of my life, she was my only friend. The second year of my life, I was deemed mentally stable enough to have a roommate. Iggy wasn't a kindred spirit, couldn't possibly be when we fought about every other statement and didn't share nearly the same outlook on life, but she was close enough that I could count my friends at two on most days. We would watch the big stars on the grainy TV screen and talk about how we wanted that for ourselves, even though that had different definitions. Iggy wanted autonomy. I wanted adulation. I couldn't remember if I'd always been a compulsive attention-seeker, but I was one now, and Iggy was the only one who seemed at least partly willing to indulge me. That was friendship in my book.

And it was that almost-friendship that needed up being my salvation. Although I'd never admit it to her, I owe everything that I've made of myself to one Iggy Avé. It was her who found the jobs available dancing at a den of glitter and depravity, her who agreed to go half-in on a dingy basement apartment on the conditions that we shared the rent and water bill and she wouldn't have to take care of Penny. That was her autonomy, and my first step on the ladder out of obscurity.

She was a good enough dancer with no real training, but my muscles held the memory of years of practice, and it showed when I let myself drift into my self-crafted world and made the stage my temple, a few minutes and a dirty beat enough to land me a job with nothing more than a "What's your stage name, sweetheart?"

Still half in a trance, I replied with the first name that came to mind. "Uh, Penny. Penny Lane?"

Iggy still hasn't let me hear the end of it for stripping under my Boston Terrier's pseudonym.

I don't think she likes the work as much as I do, unable to find real satisfaction in the glitter and adoring stares, but I thrive upon it. Maybe in the life I can't remember, I was hungry for this, too. To have crowds of people look to me like I'm the most important thing in the universe, to hear the applause and declarations of love, to be showered with gifts for the privilege of my time, this is what I'd been missing.

No one loves an orphan, but everyone loves a star.

[/presto]
▲ T E M P L A T E B Y C H E L S E Y ▲

Last Edit: Feb 17, 2014 14:46:14 GMT -5 by Deleted

Deleted 0 POSTS last seen Sept 22, 2024 10:29:02 GMT -5	nevada cousland; d4 :: FIN Feb 17, 2014 14:47:16 GMT -5 Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by Deleted on Feb 17, 2014 14:47:16 GMT -5 WOAH THAT WAS FAST. LE DONE.

Baby Wessex d9 [earthling] Administrator 9,571 POSTS Pronouns: She/Her last seen Sept 21, 2024 22:19:34 GMT -5 cameron stood in line for an hour for a stupid ride for me <3 best <3	nevada cousland; d4 :: FIN Feb 17, 2014 15:04:12 GMT -5 Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by Baby Wessex d9 [earthling] on Feb 17, 2014 15:04:12 GMT -5 But everybody loves a star. <<<< Loves it! Also, happy to approve a new South bio. ACCEPTED!
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