claire constantino ♀ d3 ♀ fin
Feb 24, 2014 18:11:09 GMT -5
Post by Ella on Feb 24, 2014 18:11:09 GMT -5
WHAT DOESNT KILL YOU MAKES YOU STRONGER
STAND A LITTLE TALLER
STAND A LITTLE TALLER
CLAIRE CONSTANTINO SIXTEEN DISTRICT 3 BI-SEXUAL FEMALE DEM ODAIR |  Pale blonde hair (though its light brown when she dips it into the lonely waters) falls slightly down her back, stopping abruptly at the shoulder blades in a clean cut. People walk in front of her, as always. Not giving a care in the world to the lonely puppet. The girl that is a puppet to the Stine family. The girl that everybody thinks really is a puppet, not somebody that has a mind of their own. All the other puppets seem to have a "mind of their own." They don't. A few do. Not all, definitely not. Although, the girl who always sits in the back, keeping to herself and facing the paper, her mind is blank. In a way. She has a fine mind. It's just what she chooses to do with it. (and what other people choose to do with it, of course.) Behind those blank hazel eyes lie a brain that doesn't know what to do. Be smart. Or be blank. The seesaw in her mind is continuing to rock back and forth, all day everyday. Both options weigh the same, yet the girl chooses to be blank. Nobody can figure out why, but why should they care? It's only the girl in the back. "Hey, puppet girl, move it." A smooth voice startles her and the small body jumps a bit before turning around. A boy with icy blue eyes (so cold) and midnight black hair (like a raven) lies before her. She stares for a moment, before speaking in a hoarse voice. "Puppet girl?" The voice speaks, and the boy takes in a little sarcastic gasp. She has never spoken. Or at least, to anybody else. Few have heard her voice, except for the family. But that's only when she has to. "Puppet girl speaks?" He questions, well, not really a question. His snow white hands motion to some other people, and they walk over immediately. Claire stares at them blankly for a moment, her tan hands go behind her back, fingers clasping together tightly. "Yes, 'puppet girl' speaks. But 'puppet girl's' name is Claire." The girl mutters, and the icy blue eyes roll like bowling balls. "Idiot puppet girl." His cold voice says, ringing inside her ears. Repeating themselves in the same cold voices. A few tears stream reluctantly down her face, like they don't want to go out in the public where everybody can see that happens to be watching. (why is it such a big deal)? "Cry baby," He adds, noticing the pale blue tears. She glances around, maybe looking for somebody to stand up for her. Nobody will, of course, and realizing that, her legs run, fingers unclasping so the sticks attached can move. "Idiot." "Puppet girl." "Cry baby." There all things she's always been called. Left alone mostly, but it's what people have said to her. And they stick. Stick like glue in her mind, repeating over and over in her ears. (She knows that they shouldn't bother her, but they do.) More tears start to flow. It's a wonder she's not dry, really. They move down to her rosebud lips, little drops landing on her pale pink tongue and saltiness spreading until it becomes dry again. She stops in front of her house, nearly out of breath as she is out of shape a bit. It's funny, considering where she lives. District 3, in between the career districts, yet not one of them for now. Maybe there's something good about not being a career, though? Constantly feared by other tributes, yes, that's good. Yet they all hate you. Plus your as bad as the Capitol. Well, not quite. The Capitol can stop the games any time they would like, whether it be the 67th or the 1000th. The careers can't, yet they still play it like it's no big deal. Like they will win. Yet they haven't won lately. The nerve. She steps inside the lonely house, not looking forward to what lies ahead. This is why everybody teases me. I'm a puppet, of course. Well, I already knew that. But I don't have to come back to it, do I? I could live somewhere else with somebody else, yet I stay here. Maybe it's because this is what I'm used to, not somebody else's home. Claire wasn't always a puppet, but really, she doesn't remember different. Only little snippets from her previous life remain, no complete full-blown memories. One of her favorites (and least favorites at the same time) is a woman hugging her. A very old woman with silvery hair, creased skin and kind brown eyes. The little girl had a pearly white smile with a rosebud outline as she looked at the woman above her. "Hush." The woman says quietly to the little girl. The woman leans back into the chair, closing her tired eyelids, as if to take a nap. A nap that would last forever. She doesn't know if it really was forever, though. Maybe it was just a short little nap? Or maybe a longer one, but she got up still. In all of her little fantasies the old woman is still alive and kicking, but lately the woman has even been dead in her fantasies (no matter how few of them there are.) Not quite dead, really, but alive in another place. Although, there is still some hope remaining in her soul. |
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