▲ M O S C O W U R B I S // D 1 ▲ WIP

▲ M O S C O W U R B I S // D 1 ▲ WIP Aug 5, 2014 15:25:12 GMT -5

Post by grace on Aug 5, 2014 15:25:12 GMT -5

M Y W H O L E E X I S T E N C E I S F L A W E D.

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M O S C O W U R B I S
DISTRICT1 | SIXTEEN | MALE

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You've never been complimented on your exterior, Moscow, so it's not strange that you don't think much of yourself. Your mother always thought boys needn't be complimented on their looks, that they should suffice with a few passing comments about their training. But you were never good at training, were you? You were always short, and compared to the towering creatures with bones of steel and skin thick as hide, you were a fragile thing held together hastily with winding lengths of tape and filled with glass as thin as the wiry strands of brass on your head.

They'd hurt you, they would. Push you to the ground as fast as cries of pain could tumble from your pale lips . Maybe you were biting your gums raw with those buck-teeth of yours, and as you kissed the ground with your skull you'd bite your tongue and blood would trickle down your throat. It's happened before, Moscow, more times than you can count on bony fingers. (You should really stop biting things)

Your skin changes as the seasons do, translucent and sickly after winter's icy grasp on your body but coloured amber after summer boils your flesh into crimson. Your mother never cared to buy the sun-protection from the apothecary, and so every year your skin burns just a little bit more. I know you wonder how long it is before you'll catch on fire and smell your own burning body creep up your nostrils just after it's too late.

Everyone in your life has asked why you always smile. Your mouth is perpetually in a sloping half smirk, whether tears fall or joy lights your blue eyes, or anger contorts your features to try and resemble someone fierce. But the truth is, Moscow, you're not fierce, and that's okay. Even if you try to act it around your intimidating siblings or indifferent mother, when you sit in your bed staring at the sky and desperately trying to make yourself fall asleep, you don't feel fierce. When lose your grip on your identity as Rebel takes over you don't feel fierce. But you are damn brave, Moscow. When you fall in training and laughter surrounds you in a bitter chorus, you wipe the blood off your mouth with a sleeve, smile and stand up. When you awake after Rebel takes over you have the strength to get out of bed and get on with your day. That's brave, Moscow. You don't have to be a hero to be brave.

You're probably the kindest person in your entire family, but you are still a troublemaker. You know you are, Moscow, and you do absolutely nothing to stop yourself. You drink like it's the end of the world and you do drugs when you feel like throwing some of your mother's money away. You'll spray paint murals on the walls of buildings where no one really wanted them in the first place. You'll build questionable home made pipe bombs and blow them up for no reason. You'll even swipe someone's purse and throw it right at their face as you run away. You've always been good at running, Moscow, you know that? Running from your stronger peers, or your more tactical peers, or even just your more skilled peers. They have what you'd don't, Moscow, but you can run, and boy can you run fast.

What once was a self created persona is now taking over your life. Rebel, isn't that his name? Yes, it is, and he would never let you forget that. Most of the time he is just a voice in your brain, grabbing your bones and forcing them to do his bidding, filling your blood with snakes that writhe around and fill it with encompassing poison. Rebel looks like you, and sounds like you but you know what? He's almost the opposite of you and that's what gives him power over your mind. Rebel wants to kill. He wants to kill everyone in your family, your school, District 1. Rebel is narcissistic and self-entitled, and he gets angry at the simplest things. ("My name is not Moscow, it's Rebel you fucking idiot!") Rebel carries a gun everywhere he goes, and boy oh boy Moscow, you know he'll shoot if someone pisses him off. The scariest thing about Rebel? He's extension of you, fabricated by a bored mind. An extension that has enveloped your very identity.
Sometimes lines are blurred between Rebel and Moscow, and a mixing pot of emotions and thought processes brings both together, with often disastrous results. It's not uncommon for you to awaken to new friends- and enemies, or on the corner of a street, or even in a stranger's mansion, thousands worth of broken statues lying on the marble floors.
But one thing you can count on Moscow is your kindness. Maybe it's because no one is ever kind back to you, but you seen to see the best in everyone, and you're often helpful and polite around the district streets. Of course, unless you're Rebel. If so, well, to put it gently, you don't give a crap about kindness. It's a shame, but hardly surprising.

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