denim barnes [district 6] [fin]

lyss Tribute [M:1300] 414 POSTS Pronouns: she/her last seen Nov 16, 2021 0:07:26 GMT -5	denim barnes [district 6] [fin] Mar 9, 2014 11:54:31 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by lyss on Mar 9, 2014 11:54:31 GMT -5 Denim Barnes 13 Female District 6 Appearance: Personality: History: odair
	Last Edit: Mar 23, 2014 23:26:01 GMT -5 by lyss

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denim barnes [district 6] [fin] Mar 9, 2014 20:05:12 GMT -5

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Post by lyss on Mar 9, 2014 20:05:12 GMT -5

Denim Barnes
Thirteen|District 6

Words are life my dear
______________________________

Mama always told me that I would grow up to be just like her, no matter how many times my Papa and I would try to change my fate.

I started out like Papa, sweet and kind and gentle. Whenever I would do something that was wrong, Papa would chastise me and say, “You don’t want to be like Mama, now do you Denim?”
“Of course not, Papa.”
“That’s my girl.”

He kept me going like that for a while, poofy-dressed and fragile as glass. He would stay home with me while Mama worked. His accordion would be stretched and compressed so gracefully that I could’ve sworn it was made out of silk. He would let me press the buttons as he tugged and pushed, swearing up and down that I’d be a better musician than he was. “You’ve got talent, Den. You’ll grown up to be one of the most artistic people in Panem.”

Things changed, though. I had to go to school and Papa had to start up his business again. He worked late, and as consequence, I spent more time around Mama. She morphed me into what she must’ve been like as a child.

When I was old enough, she’d demand that I do the chores she used to do. If I didn’t comply, I’d be hit on the back with one of her wooden spoons. It didn’t take long for me to learn to do as I was told. I learned to be obedient quickly, but that trait usually only appeared around the house. It was hard for me to obey teachers and other adults at school. Mama was so hostile with other adults, and after watching her around our neighbors for nearly ten years, I began to act the same.

I used to think that being like Mama wasn’t so bad, and I still do to some extent today. I thought that since Mama’s boss kept promoting her at work and giving her raises that somebody had to like her personality, so I followed suit. I became snappy and agitated, always ready for a fight. I voiced my opinion without thinking of consequences. I became more bitter than the ripest lemon ever to exist.

I came to hate six, but not like Mama did. She was subtle about it and only hated the fact that we were so underappreciated. I hated that my intelligence was warped so I could be bred into the next generation of doctors. My hate for our district didn’t start to grow until I was eleven, and had to start facing the reality of the games. I turned into an extremely sadistic person while watching the games. I wasn’t overly-thrilled about them like the career kids were, but I did find a somewhat positive outlook in them. When the time came, it would be my way out of six.

-x-

When I was three, our house burned down in a kitchen incident. Papa was painting our front door and had forgotten about the meal he had baking in the oven. I was upstairs napping, so I guess I should consider it lucky that I got out alive. Everything from baby books to family portraits to recipes were lost. Mama was devastated, to say the least.

When I learned to write, she decided to buy me a diary; she told me that I had to write down one thing that had happened every day. Obviously, it was rare something important happened, but I still wrote every day because it made Mama so happy. Every once in a while, she'll call for me and I'll bring her the book; we'll flip through the pages as if we're reading a classic novel for the first time. When she reads through my entries, there's no woman on the earth that's happier than she is.

That's how everything began.

I figured that if writing silly stuff about my days was enough to make Mama happy, then maybe writing stories about actual interesting things would absolutely thrill her. To prepare for my great achievement, I asked for books every chance I got. By the time my ninth birthday rolled around, my collection had grown to a whopping ten books. I tore through them one by one, until I had an idea of what my story was going to be.

Mama got me two more books a week after my birthday, claiming they were extra presents she had just found. The first one was a thin hardback about a little girl who gets a baby brother. I didn't understand why she had given it to me; it was made for kids that were half my age. The other book was thick with a plain white cover and almost every page was completely blank. The first page had a small inscription reading "Write a good story Denim. Your baby brother will want to read it.

I remember throwing a huge fit for at least half an hour whining about how much of a waste those two sentences were before I realized what it said. After nine years of being practically isolated, I would have a companion-one in our house. I cried for hours on end before I could shake off the feeling of being so awful to Mama. I could only stop when Papa came home and played me a song he just learned on his accordion. "This one is called Rohan," he murmured as his fingers glided along the buttons, "named after your brother."

The months leading up to the birth of my brother were rough, but happy. A month before he was due, Mama and Papa began to work on the nursery. All the work Mama did was forced onto me so she could work a longer shift to scrape together extra money. Papa spent a lot of money on paint and furniture and all the supplies they would need. The money that funded my work-in-progress novel disappeared. To compensate, I would shove a twenty-four pack of crayons in my school bag one day; a fresh pink eraser would find its way in the bag the next. I would swipe the supplies from school as I needed them, and I did it unnoticed for quite some time.

I was caught in the act only one time; the boy who did would later become my best friend. It wasn't actually the first time he had noticed my actions, just the first time he had approached me about it.

A blonde boy approached me a few minutes after I had shoved a wooden ruler in my bag. "I've been watching you," he admitted sheepishly, running his hand through his hair. "I know you like to take things from this room. Don't worry, I'm not going to tell." It was hard to hide the fear on my face as he continued on. "There's a group of kids around here that do more high scale stealing. It's nothing like what it must be in the lower districts, but there's still the reward of having extras around your house. You in?"

I politely declined and jokingly told him to ask me in a month.

A few weeks after my encounter with the scrawny blonde, Papa came to get me from school. Rohan was coming, he had told me. I don't remember much else from that day, but I do remember how light I felt running home with Papa. When we reached our house, he promised me that I didn't want to stay in the room with Mama and see all the gore. I remember being stretched out on the rough, stained carpet outside the main bedroom for hours. The sound of someone shouting about the final push pulled me out of my haze. I pressed my ear against the door and awaited the sound of a newborn. There was a scream, but it wasn't my baby brother's.

It was Mama's.

Rohan was a stillborn. We were told it was because Mama had high blood pressure. She blamed herself for months and refused to get out of bed. I had to stay home for a while so I could tend to her while Papa removed any evidence that we had been planning to have another child in the house. The nursery was repainted, the furniture was sold for very cheap prices, and the toys were simply thrown away. We had invested so much money into this baby and barely made ten percent of it back. Without Mama's income, we plummeted into the lower class of the district.

A good two months passed before a letter came in the mail threatening to fire Mama if she didn't get back to work that week. She finally got out of bed, and our lives finally resumed. I went back to school, and the blonde asked me to join his group of bandits without fail. I accepted this time.

I took a while for me to finally participate. I was so afraid of the consequences that I would only take a little from each raid. One day, though, we entered a house through a window that led to a library. Everybody made their way to the kitchen, but I stayed behind, amazed by how the walls were covered from top to bottom. My fingers traced the etchings of the titles on the spines as I circled the room. Most of the books were medical or science related, but I didn't care; I had to have one. It had been so long since I was given the privilege of a new book. I swiped the smallest one I could find before raiding the kitchen with the others.

That's the most thieving I'd ever do. I took a few apples from the kitchen on the way out, but I couldn't keep them. I knew I wouldn't be able to make up a plausible excuse before I got home. The book, on the other hand, I could easily slip into the pocket of my coat. Before everyone parted ways, I handed my apples to the blonde boy who invited me.

I thought he'd pelt me with insults about how stupid I was for giving up my spoils, but instead he asked the most comforting question he could.

"What's your name?"

My lips spread into a smile. "Denim."

-x-

My most frequent dream is one I like to call “the mirror game.” I’m surrounded by mirrors that stretch along the length of the walls and wrap around the ceiling. There’s no physical way out of the room. I’m stuck until I can identify who’s in the mirror, and the dream promptly ends once I do.

I can’t remember a time where the person in the mirror wasn’t me. I’m embarrassed to say that I have a difficult time being able to identify myself. It used to only take a few minutes before I realized what was going on, but my appearance has changed too drastically over the course of a year. Lately, the dream is consistent, often leaving me in a disheveled state.

The images begin to blur together after a while, and everything is so, so pale. Sun-bleached strands coil around a ghastly pale face. Cheekbones jut out at sharp angles around cherry blossom colored lips. Eyes a blue shade near gray rest deep in the skull.

The figure walks around me in circles. Long, twiggy limbs protrude from a flowy shirt, and I notice that the strands of hair continue to curl all the way down the back. A girl, I finally decipher. The image becomes a little clearer after the realization, and I can notice how pitifully scrawny the girl is.

Underneath her semi-sheer top, I can see her skin stretched tight across her ribs. It’s sad how thin the poor girl is. As she rotates around, I can spot vibrant red marks across her back. Her legs are long and muscular, uncannily similar to mine. I press a finger against the glass, tracing the contours of the girls face. She could be my sister, I think. The girl’s name is on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t get the name to come out.

I throw myself against the mirror in front of me and cry out. “I know you! I know you!”

The dream reminds me of sickeningly reality.

I can't even recognize myself anymore.

Last Edit: Mar 23, 2014 22:41:08 GMT -5 by lyss

lyss Tribute [M:1300] 414 POSTS Pronouns: she/her last seen Nov 16, 2021 0:07:26 GMT -5	denim barnes [district 6] [fin] Mar 23, 2014 23:26:55 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by lyss on Mar 23, 2014 23:26:55 GMT -5 This is pretty rough, but finished!

cass Retired Staff 4,822 POSTS last seen Oct 24, 2021 18:11:43 GMT -5	denim barnes [district 6] [fin] Mar 24, 2014 2:47:14 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by cass on Mar 24, 2014 2:47:14 GMT -5 Beautiful FC for a beautiful bio! Accepted!