ANISE HIMURA | D2 [fin]
Aug 9, 2014 22:35:45 GMT -5
Post by shrimp on Aug 9, 2014 22:35:45 GMT -5
T H E
C A R E E R
S E R I E S
ARCHETYPE #2: P R A I S E M E
ANISE HIMURA
DISTRICT TWO
SIXTEEN
FEMALE
Five-foot ten with skin like porcelain, smooth and pale. Eldest of three daughters. Exceptional student. Fast feet. Decent swimmer. One of the best swordsmen in her age group.
It's not good enough.
The hard thwack against the back of her knee is all the proof that she needs. She goes down, hard, as the only other figure in the dimly lit Training Center looks down on her with an expression as neutral as water. Anise's lungs are heaving as she crawls back to her feet. A strand of long wavy hair's in her face, and she quickly pushes it away from her chestnut colored eyes. She cracks her neck, grabbing the wooden hilt with both hands and getting back into position.
"Again," her father says, his soft voice barely reaching her ears before he rushes towards her, the two locked in a frenzied dance of jabs and blocks, the sounds of wood thwacking against wood perforating the air, ricocheting off the walls and the foam mats. It's 1 o'clock in the morning when they finally finish, and she's left to close up the Center and head home on her own. Sighing, Anise releases her hair from its too-tight bun, the greasy locks hanging around her shoulders. Her lips are dry and her throat is parched. Thw water fountain's on the other side of the Center though, so she closes up and starts her two mile walk home. There'll be water when she gets home.
The kettle's already on when she steps into the house and locks the screen door. The kitchen's empty though, save for her backpack that's been shoved against the wall along with the copious amount of cookbooks that's piled dangerously high. It's a bit strange that the Himura family has the cookbooks anyway, since nobody ever uses them. Anise makes herself a cup of green tea, pulls out her math textbook and spends the next hour completing her homework before taking a shower and heading to bed.
It's expected that she take over the family business. School is important, but always secondary.
They call her "the robot" - only speaking when spoken to, doing her homework during lunchtime, her glare as sharp and severe as frostbite. She has no friends; she's never wanted them either. People are unreliable and willing to throw you under the bus at any given moment. To Anise the world is one big competition, and she has to win no matter what. Because victory means respect, and to gain his respect is her goal, all her ambitions are to please him.
She's always looked up to the man who founded his Academy with hard work, pride and justness. And now, the Himura Academy is one of the premier Training Centers in the district, and costs a pretty penny to attend as well. When her father passes on, she will have his throne, and it is her job to make sure that she does not fail him.
Perhaps it's strange, but as much as she hates getting close to others, her greatest fear is dying alone, without anyone sitting at her bedside. Her two younger sisters never talk to her. They sit in silence the few days when they all eat dinner together, and the room always seems void of any warmth when she climbs into bed at night. Sometimes she craves contact - any contact, because as much as she relishes her mechanical nickname, being deemed inhuman has its downsides.
They all used to be close though, training together with laughter and smiles and sharing secrets and inside jokes. Sometimes they'd make rice balls together. Not anymore though, and Anise doesn't know why they stopped speaking to her, stopped trusting her, stopped acknowledging her presence. She never stopped making the rice balls. So why did they?
Anise downs the rest of her rice before Calculus, sitting in her usual seat in the back of the class.
Fighting the students doesn't make her feel any better, as she easily usurps their pride and leaves them lying in agony on the floor. Her wooden sword is gripped tightly as she walks back to the sidelines, waiting for her father to lecture the student on his mistakes. He turns to her as well, remarking that her hand placement was off.
They practice for hours after the students leave (bemoaning their aching muscles, joking with each other as friends should), halting for dinner and ending at three in the morning. The next day is Saturday, there's no need to go to bed early. Her two sisters however, are already asleep when she slips into bed, her limbs aching.
She doesn't sleep though, not for a while. Anise is left alone to her poisonous thoughts that trickle through her veins and deep into her core.
Not good enough, never good enough.
It's not good enough.
The hard thwack against the back of her knee is all the proof that she needs. She goes down, hard, as the only other figure in the dimly lit Training Center looks down on her with an expression as neutral as water. Anise's lungs are heaving as she crawls back to her feet. A strand of long wavy hair's in her face, and she quickly pushes it away from her chestnut colored eyes. She cracks her neck, grabbing the wooden hilt with both hands and getting back into position.
"Again," her father says, his soft voice barely reaching her ears before he rushes towards her, the two locked in a frenzied dance of jabs and blocks, the sounds of wood thwacking against wood perforating the air, ricocheting off the walls and the foam mats. It's 1 o'clock in the morning when they finally finish, and she's left to close up the Center and head home on her own. Sighing, Anise releases her hair from its too-tight bun, the greasy locks hanging around her shoulders. Her lips are dry and her throat is parched. Thw water fountain's on the other side of the Center though, so she closes up and starts her two mile walk home. There'll be water when she gets home.
The kettle's already on when she steps into the house and locks the screen door. The kitchen's empty though, save for her backpack that's been shoved against the wall along with the copious amount of cookbooks that's piled dangerously high. It's a bit strange that the Himura family has the cookbooks anyway, since nobody ever uses them. Anise makes herself a cup of green tea, pulls out her math textbook and spends the next hour completing her homework before taking a shower and heading to bed.
It's expected that she take over the family business. School is important, but always secondary.
- - - - - - -
They call her "the robot" - only speaking when spoken to, doing her homework during lunchtime, her glare as sharp and severe as frostbite. She has no friends; she's never wanted them either. People are unreliable and willing to throw you under the bus at any given moment. To Anise the world is one big competition, and she has to win no matter what. Because victory means respect, and to gain his respect is her goal, all her ambitions are to please him.
She's always looked up to the man who founded his Academy with hard work, pride and justness. And now, the Himura Academy is one of the premier Training Centers in the district, and costs a pretty penny to attend as well. When her father passes on, she will have his throne, and it is her job to make sure that she does not fail him.
Perhaps it's strange, but as much as she hates getting close to others, her greatest fear is dying alone, without anyone sitting at her bedside. Her two younger sisters never talk to her. They sit in silence the few days when they all eat dinner together, and the room always seems void of any warmth when she climbs into bed at night. Sometimes she craves contact - any contact, because as much as she relishes her mechanical nickname, being deemed inhuman has its downsides.
They all used to be close though, training together with laughter and smiles and sharing secrets and inside jokes. Sometimes they'd make rice balls together. Not anymore though, and Anise doesn't know why they stopped speaking to her, stopped trusting her, stopped acknowledging her presence. She never stopped making the rice balls. So why did they?
Anise downs the rest of her rice before Calculus, sitting in her usual seat in the back of the class.
- - - - - - -
She stands behind her father as he teaches his class, offering him weapons when need be, or answering his questions when the class cannot. She feels too large for this room, for the stares that lock onto her face (and only her face, for how can one have any feelings toward a robot?) feel too scathing and there's no place to retreat.Fighting the students doesn't make her feel any better, as she easily usurps their pride and leaves them lying in agony on the floor. Her wooden sword is gripped tightly as she walks back to the sidelines, waiting for her father to lecture the student on his mistakes. He turns to her as well, remarking that her hand placement was off.
They practice for hours after the students leave (bemoaning their aching muscles, joking with each other as friends should), halting for dinner and ending at three in the morning. The next day is Saturday, there's no need to go to bed early. Her two sisters however, are already asleep when she slips into bed, her limbs aching.
She doesn't sleep though, not for a while. Anise is left alone to her poisonous thoughts that trickle through her veins and deep into her core.
Not good enough, never good enough.
//odair//
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