Ashton Hollows {district 8} fin.
Apr 10, 2014 1:41:02 GMT -5
Post by Summers. on Apr 10, 2014 1:41:02 GMT -5
Ashton Hollows. Female. District Eight. Seventeen. Odair.
Snip snip.
Who said girls had to be pretty? Their hair flaunted in all it's spectacular glory, eyes shining like vacant stars. Lips full and moistened like the grasses that graced these earths. Then, the owner of those dirty toes that dug up that beautiful ground was you. Hair layered to bits, chopped in different sections. Left vaguely combed, an ugly absence of colour rather than the eloquent coals and brunettes that drifted about with soot-covered hairs.
It fell in relative straightness down your mid-back, if you disregarded those like mistakes. More mistakes were made by the day, the familiar feeling of fingers itching for dull, rusty scissors made you queasy. That nausea disappeared when the itch was quenched, a familiar snip snip. Not today. Today, you set the ends straight. Even with tears stinging the back of your eyes, the blur of hands.
Mother hadn't fancied your little habits in the slightest. Those dull globes of perceptions you wore everywhere, almost steel in colour. Grey. Under their graceless watch, was the plague of blackening bags. Even lower? Freckles of fire, wood and tears. Prickling at the skin of your cheeks. Ugly little thing.
They often chirped about your complexion. Sour glass of milk. The colour of dried bones. You knew better than to say otherwise. When you came home with a new flower or blossom of pink, purple, even black to add to your Bouquet, even they fussed. Threatened to call out the frantic boy or conceited girl that sent them to you. Over time, their pleas and pity turned into Hollowness. Interestingly, your surname was just as such. Disturbing fascination found you drifting 'elegant' fingers over these flowers.
Now, the soil they sat upon was much too pale...Plain, the colour of dried bones, still. They say you deserve their charity. Their endearment. So why do you find an emptiness in your soul when you trace the petals? Tears and pain when you received them? The boys and girls always made you thank them afterwards. Always. The kids wanted to fix you, a mess of short limbs and height alike, heavy lashes and sullen cheeks. Just above five feet, luckily. Genetics had never treated you well. Then again, had anything? Naive little thing.
On a good day. You weren't as ugly as they made you out to be. If you stared just that bit hard enough, you could see a gracelessly short woman with lightly straightened, blonde hair that fell down towards your midsection. Pale skin that practically jutted over bones, ribcage and collarbone poking out slightly. Eyes that were dull and grey, depicting a stormy sky vividly, the bags underneath them to match. Barely five feet despite your age. Small freckles dotted among your cheeks and the bridge of your nose-- this time not freckles of tears. You weren't pretty, nor were you ugly.
In a way, a bit of both. Luckily.
-----
Scrub scrub.
Clean. The Garden had to be clean. It could only be cleansed with the dense metal wiring scratching your skin until it shrivelled and bled roses. Adding more of those little flowers you obsessed over, blue, black. They found their way onto your ribcage, tousled with the vines of blue. You felt dirtied regardless of how much you scrubbed away vigorously, no amount of soap or bleach could sate your tastes.
Oh no, the inevitable feeling of the stars themselves plummeting into your sides the very second you spotted the smallest patch of skin un-cleansed. Quick. quick quick QUick. You counted the familiar seconds of dull, throbbing pain until they morphed into minutes. Good. Let it burn. More. You wanted more. You wanted the anguish in your sides to twist and tangle itself up with your gut, writhing there in pure agony. Like a lethal poison, made especially for you.
You wanted the poison to push the coppery sensations from your heart into your already clogged throat. Choke and taste the blood that was yours, that dripped from your lips and no-one could else have. You were grateful, perhaps, but a selfish urchin all the same. It wasn't long 'till the scratching began at your throat, pleads growing more frantic. Quick, more, quiickk-- Stop. Trudging footsteps, heading upstairs.
If they were to walk in, there you stood. Naked, shivering to the core and covered in bloodied scars. Without a second thought, you practically threw on a couple of baggy clothing articles, curled up in a fetal position on the bed and prayed. Prayed they wouldn't come in. It took at least half an hour to register they didn't. Paranoia. Another one of your odd, disarming quirks that managed to shift your life around drastically. It forced you to stay still, disconnected with your own body on that bed. Your stomach grumbled in anger but, you felt all too heavy.
-----
Ashton Hollows.
A troubled soul. Always the child excluded in the midst of tag, the scapegoat for other kids who could still go home to their Mothers and Fathers without a care in the world. Kids with wooden curls instead of what they called bleach bangs. They never knew much about her, but she did. If you asked her politely, without any intention of using it against her in the future, she'd utter her tale. One short of loving friends and caring Parents. Lashes often heavy with tears, moreso on her tenth birthday when she had her teeth filled in with concrete. Ashton never wanted their help.
It was never her. A foster child, in a busied Family of five. They were all aged, working while she slept and rested in bed when she woke. Regardless, they loved her and she loved them. But if one couldn't hear, see, nor even comfort her amongst demons and fiends. Who could? The answer was inevitable. Frantic. Like everything. No-one. Her seclusion made her the one to duck into Class last, sitting in the very corners, allowing other children to discover the nooks and crannies of dusty School buildings.
Time went one way. It took her years to realise she couldn't go back and fix all the horrid mistakes that were made. By both herself, and her parents. Smoke-filled lungs and looming brain tumours. The suddenness of why she was such a sickly, unhealthy child took it's toll on her. Snip snip. Another reason for her name to fly from youthful lips like spittle. Scrub scrub. 'Flowers'. That's what she told the Teachers, whom only shrugged and pointed her away. Disgusted.
The chalk turned into oil as her years progressed. Those who whined and complained in Twelve couldn't compare their lives to Eight's own. Machines. Smoke, death. Yet it was all subtle, apparently. Only Eight really knew of the dangers. Yet nobody spoke against it, for obvious reasons. Regardless of her consciousness of the subject, nothing changed. Soon her working hours varied in range just like her Family's own, the hardships became clear.
Soon. Ashton cared less and less about her Garden.
Snip snip.
Who said girls had to be pretty? Their hair flaunted in all it's spectacular glory, eyes shining like vacant stars. Lips full and moistened like the grasses that graced these earths. Then, the owner of those dirty toes that dug up that beautiful ground was you. Hair layered to bits, chopped in different sections. Left vaguely combed, an ugly absence of colour rather than the eloquent coals and brunettes that drifted about with soot-covered hairs.
It fell in relative straightness down your mid-back, if you disregarded those like mistakes. More mistakes were made by the day, the familiar feeling of fingers itching for dull, rusty scissors made you queasy. That nausea disappeared when the itch was quenched, a familiar snip snip. Not today. Today, you set the ends straight. Even with tears stinging the back of your eyes, the blur of hands.
Mother hadn't fancied your little habits in the slightest. Those dull globes of perceptions you wore everywhere, almost steel in colour. Grey. Under their graceless watch, was the plague of blackening bags. Even lower? Freckles of fire, wood and tears. Prickling at the skin of your cheeks. Ugly little thing.
They often chirped about your complexion. Sour glass of milk. The colour of dried bones. You knew better than to say otherwise. When you came home with a new flower or blossom of pink, purple, even black to add to your Bouquet, even they fussed. Threatened to call out the frantic boy or conceited girl that sent them to you. Over time, their pleas and pity turned into Hollowness. Interestingly, your surname was just as such. Disturbing fascination found you drifting 'elegant' fingers over these flowers.
Now, the soil they sat upon was much too pale...Plain, the colour of dried bones, still. They say you deserve their charity. Their endearment. So why do you find an emptiness in your soul when you trace the petals? Tears and pain when you received them? The boys and girls always made you thank them afterwards. Always. The kids wanted to fix you, a mess of short limbs and height alike, heavy lashes and sullen cheeks. Just above five feet, luckily. Genetics had never treated you well. Then again, had anything? Naive little thing.
On a good day. You weren't as ugly as they made you out to be. If you stared just that bit hard enough, you could see a gracelessly short woman with lightly straightened, blonde hair that fell down towards your midsection. Pale skin that practically jutted over bones, ribcage and collarbone poking out slightly. Eyes that were dull and grey, depicting a stormy sky vividly, the bags underneath them to match. Barely five feet despite your age. Small freckles dotted among your cheeks and the bridge of your nose-- this time not freckles of tears. You weren't pretty, nor were you ugly.
In a way, a bit of both. Luckily.
-----
Scrub scrub.
Clean. The Garden had to be clean. It could only be cleansed with the dense metal wiring scratching your skin until it shrivelled and bled roses. Adding more of those little flowers you obsessed over, blue, black. They found their way onto your ribcage, tousled with the vines of blue. You felt dirtied regardless of how much you scrubbed away vigorously, no amount of soap or bleach could sate your tastes.
Oh no, the inevitable feeling of the stars themselves plummeting into your sides the very second you spotted the smallest patch of skin un-cleansed. Quick. quick quick QUick. You counted the familiar seconds of dull, throbbing pain until they morphed into minutes. Good. Let it burn. More. You wanted more. You wanted the anguish in your sides to twist and tangle itself up with your gut, writhing there in pure agony. Like a lethal poison, made especially for you.
You wanted the poison to push the coppery sensations from your heart into your already clogged throat. Choke and taste the blood that was yours, that dripped from your lips and no-one could else have. You were grateful, perhaps, but a selfish urchin all the same. It wasn't long 'till the scratching began at your throat, pleads growing more frantic. Quick, more, quiickk-- Stop. Trudging footsteps, heading upstairs.
If they were to walk in, there you stood. Naked, shivering to the core and covered in bloodied scars. Without a second thought, you practically threw on a couple of baggy clothing articles, curled up in a fetal position on the bed and prayed. Prayed they wouldn't come in. It took at least half an hour to register they didn't. Paranoia. Another one of your odd, disarming quirks that managed to shift your life around drastically. It forced you to stay still, disconnected with your own body on that bed. Your stomach grumbled in anger but, you felt all too heavy.
-----
Ashton Hollows.
A troubled soul. Always the child excluded in the midst of tag, the scapegoat for other kids who could still go home to their Mothers and Fathers without a care in the world. Kids with wooden curls instead of what they called bleach bangs. They never knew much about her, but she did. If you asked her politely, without any intention of using it against her in the future, she'd utter her tale. One short of loving friends and caring Parents. Lashes often heavy with tears, moreso on her tenth birthday when she had her teeth filled in with concrete. Ashton never wanted their help.
It was never her. A foster child, in a busied Family of five. They were all aged, working while she slept and rested in bed when she woke. Regardless, they loved her and she loved them. But if one couldn't hear, see, nor even comfort her amongst demons and fiends. Who could? The answer was inevitable. Frantic. Like everything. No-one. Her seclusion made her the one to duck into Class last, sitting in the very corners, allowing other children to discover the nooks and crannies of dusty School buildings.
Time went one way. It took her years to realise she couldn't go back and fix all the horrid mistakes that were made. By both herself, and her parents. Smoke-filled lungs and looming brain tumours. The suddenness of why she was such a sickly, unhealthy child took it's toll on her. Snip snip. Another reason for her name to fly from youthful lips like spittle. Scrub scrub. 'Flowers'. That's what she told the Teachers, whom only shrugged and pointed her away. Disgusted.
The chalk turned into oil as her years progressed. Those who whined and complained in Twelve couldn't compare their lives to Eight's own. Machines. Smoke, death. Yet it was all subtle, apparently. Only Eight really knew of the dangers. Yet nobody spoke against it, for obvious reasons. Regardless of her consciousness of the subject, nothing changed. Soon her working hours varied in range just like her Family's own, the hardships became clear.
Soon. Ashton cared less and less about her Garden.
