{Dear Sanity,} [Puppy/Meiko]
Apr 6, 2014 19:06:19 GMT -5
Post by arx!! on Apr 6, 2014 19:06:19 GMT -5
Sadie Travers-Holliday
district 8 - sixteen - born & bred to kill
It's so beautiful outside that I almost brought along my "children" for the walk. But seeing as they have so much fun looking at themselves in the fun house mirrors from years and years ago, I figured they didn't need the fresh air. ("Wouldn't want your skin drying out would you?") And of course they didn't nod or reply, but I could see it in the sparkle of their glass eyes - they loved me.
I haven't had the chance to make any new dolls lately though. Daddy has been busy with some new job and apparently the situation is "too sensitive" and he can't risk getting caught right now. Part of me thinks that there is a woman he wants to keep forever - one of those rare masochists - but when I ask him he insists he will have a surprise for me at the end of it all. And there will still be no new mother for me. Thank Ripred. The last sister I had turned out fine, but mothers are an entirely different breed. Some don't even make a noise when my blade pierces their skin. Women can get quite boring if the are stubborn and determined enough, but children can't hold back the screams as they bleed to death ... slowly ... slowly ... Ah, yes. Fun, fun, fun.
But today is more of a recollection day. You see, I've had to satisfy my needs in other ways for the past few weeks. Yesterday I killed the neighbors pet cat, Jasper. I made his bright orange pelt into a coat for one of my dolls, and then I baked his flesh into a casserole and took it over to his owner's house. They came the next day with cookies and said, "You have a gift, child. The casserole was delicious." I only smiled and giggled. Everyone thinks I am a darling, an angel fallen from heaven, but I wasn't giggling out of pure innocence, I was giggling because she had just eaten her own cat.
I make my way to the top of the hill, the place where I used to stake squirrels to the ground and laugh at them while they squeaked and struggled to get free, hoping for a bit of silence. The large acorn tree has my initials, "SETH" (perfect, right?) carved into one of the scraggly roots. I sit at the base of the trunk, turning my face to the sun and closing my eyes as it warms me. Though I can't help but twirl my knife into the soft ground beneath me, my primal instinct to kill running deep within my bones.
I sigh. If only the ground could bleed. If only the dirt would scream for mercy. Or maybe if someone came along - that way I could sink my knife into their ribs and carve my name into their skin. That sounds much more fun than the dirt.
I haven't had the chance to make any new dolls lately though. Daddy has been busy with some new job and apparently the situation is "too sensitive" and he can't risk getting caught right now. Part of me thinks that there is a woman he wants to keep forever - one of those rare masochists - but when I ask him he insists he will have a surprise for me at the end of it all. And there will still be no new mother for me. Thank Ripred. The last sister I had turned out fine, but mothers are an entirely different breed. Some don't even make a noise when my blade pierces their skin. Women can get quite boring if the are stubborn and determined enough, but children can't hold back the screams as they bleed to death ... slowly ... slowly ... Ah, yes. Fun, fun, fun.
But today is more of a recollection day. You see, I've had to satisfy my needs in other ways for the past few weeks. Yesterday I killed the neighbors pet cat, Jasper. I made his bright orange pelt into a coat for one of my dolls, and then I baked his flesh into a casserole and took it over to his owner's house. They came the next day with cookies and said, "You have a gift, child. The casserole was delicious." I only smiled and giggled. Everyone thinks I am a darling, an angel fallen from heaven, but I wasn't giggling out of pure innocence, I was giggling because she had just eaten her own cat.
I make my way to the top of the hill, the place where I used to stake squirrels to the ground and laugh at them while they squeaked and struggled to get free, hoping for a bit of silence. The large acorn tree has my initials, "SETH" (perfect, right?) carved into one of the scraggly roots. I sit at the base of the trunk, turning my face to the sun and closing my eyes as it warms me. Though I can't help but twirl my knife into the soft ground beneath me, my primal instinct to kill running deep within my bones.
I sigh. If only the ground could bleed. If only the dirt would scream for mercy. Or maybe if someone came along - that way I could sink my knife into their ribs and carve my name into their skin. That sounds much more fun than the dirt.
