Reaper Grimme || D11 || DONE
Sept 6, 2014 16:27:11 GMT -5
Post by Death on Sept 6, 2014 16:27:11 GMT -5
![[some sort of picture]](http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-O2LW2jdaEj4/UhBhTJBdIfI/AAAAAAADXvI/GiUi18F7D88/s1600/09-13153bf65874d655a6d7d32124e5ef65.jpg)
[googlefont="Griffy:400"]Sebastian Reaper Grimme
male | aged 18
district eleven
as I ran through those hazy days
there must have been a change
I couldn't see your tree in the forest of the problems
there must have been a change
I couldn't see your tree in the forest of the problems
The trees are turning a shade of gold and red and orange that you find is pleasing to your optical senses. The breeze is turning cool and smells like dead leaves and rain that never falls, which you find pleasing to your olfactory senses. You feel a drop of rain against your neck and wrap your scarf tighter around your throat. It's full of holes, but when you bunch it up, you can hardly tell. It nestles between your prominent collar bones and Adam's apple.
"Seb?" a tiny voice says, its owner sidling up next to you. She's growing up so fast. Fifteen already. Her curves are beginning to develop, along with her maturity.
"What is it, Rye?" You glance with dead blue eyes at your sister who is the only one besides your parents who actually calls you by anything remotely resembling your first name. People liked common names. They didn't care for the "hoity-toity" Capitol-like name that Sebastian was.
"You don't have to walk so fast. They're gone." She takes hold of your hand. The one that isn't balled into a fist around a knife.
"I know," you reply. "But they might not stay gone."
"You fixed them good this time," she purred. "We should be fine for awhile."
"We killed their brother," you reply numbly. "If anyone killed you, I don't think I'd ever stop until I was dead or I had my revenge."
"Well, they're not you."
You grin at her. She always has a way of making you feel better. "All right. You're right. Like always."
"Let's get you home, Seb. Got to wash the blood out of your shirt before mom sees it."
"Seb?" a tiny voice says, its owner sidling up next to you. She's growing up so fast. Fifteen already. Her curves are beginning to develop, along with her maturity.
"What is it, Rye?" You glance with dead blue eyes at your sister who is the only one besides your parents who actually calls you by anything remotely resembling your first name. People liked common names. They didn't care for the "hoity-toity" Capitol-like name that Sebastian was.
"You don't have to walk so fast. They're gone." She takes hold of your hand. The one that isn't balled into a fist around a knife.
"I know," you reply. "But they might not stay gone."
"You fixed them good this time," she purred. "We should be fine for awhile."
"We killed their brother," you reply numbly. "If anyone killed you, I don't think I'd ever stop until I was dead or I had my revenge."
"Well, they're not you."
You grin at her. She always has a way of making you feel better. "All right. You're right. Like always."
"Let's get you home, Seb. Got to wash the blood out of your shirt before mom sees it."
That shade of your flowing hair
That smile, without a care
It's likely that most of them will forget it in a heartbeat
That smile, without a care
It's likely that most of them will forget it in a heartbeat
It's the usual routine. After school, or after work, when it's too dark to see past your own nose, let alone the plants you're supposed to tend or harvest, Rye would take me to the ring. She would show me off. Run me through my paces. Have me cause a few problems. Knock a few jaws loose, or give a couple black eyes.
I used to be weak. When I was little, I was always getting sick. I still do, but I hide it as best as I can. But when I was eight, I met this guy. He said he hated seeing me getting knocked around all the time. Hated seeing a person who wants strength being resigned to being weak. He said he could help me. I asked him what the catch was. He said no catch. Just training. And if I didn't measure up, he would drop me.
So I started training. It was difficult at first. I had never enjoyed being violent. Hitting other boys and girls? Yelling? I wasn't an aggressive person. Not until this man got a hold of me. I never learned his real name but he was like a second father. Except that he beat me. When I wasn't trying hard enough, he'd hit me until I fought back. Until I lashed out. At first, I wanted to crawl into a corner and cry, since he hit really, really hard. He left dark bruises like plums against my rib cage and back. But after I hit him back. After he pushed me so far that I'd snap, he'd hug me and then he'd ruffle my hair and he'd say, "That's what I'm looking for, sport."
And then, he died. Heart attack, I think. About five years later. I was thirteen. His brightest pupil. I could beat anyone within an inch of their life. I was flexible and quick. Not like the bulky, heavy guys who were so slow. He taught me about using pressure points to briefly paralyze the people I'm fighting against. Not to rely on them. They don't always work. But I learned enough to make me strong. Nobody messed with me anymore.
Rye was eleven when she found out about my skills. She was being bullied. So I opened up a nice big can of whoop-ass and took them out. It was just a few months after my teacher had died. She revealed to me her plans. She wanted our family to stop getting pushed around. To stop being pushed to the back or to the bottom. So she decided we would defend the family's honor. We would show them what the Grimmes are actually made of.
It was amazing. Being so strong. Showing them that Rye and Reaper Grimme weren't scared of anything or anyone. I ruled inside the ring so that Rye could rule outside of it. It wasn't long before there was a fourteen year old running a street gang on our block.
But... when you take something by force, it has a habit of striking back. I learned that quickly.
I used to be weak. When I was little, I was always getting sick. I still do, but I hide it as best as I can. But when I was eight, I met this guy. He said he hated seeing me getting knocked around all the time. Hated seeing a person who wants strength being resigned to being weak. He said he could help me. I asked him what the catch was. He said no catch. Just training. And if I didn't measure up, he would drop me.
So I started training. It was difficult at first. I had never enjoyed being violent. Hitting other boys and girls? Yelling? I wasn't an aggressive person. Not until this man got a hold of me. I never learned his real name but he was like a second father. Except that he beat me. When I wasn't trying hard enough, he'd hit me until I fought back. Until I lashed out. At first, I wanted to crawl into a corner and cry, since he hit really, really hard. He left dark bruises like plums against my rib cage and back. But after I hit him back. After he pushed me so far that I'd snap, he'd hug me and then he'd ruffle my hair and he'd say, "That's what I'm looking for, sport."
And then, he died. Heart attack, I think. About five years later. I was thirteen. His brightest pupil. I could beat anyone within an inch of their life. I was flexible and quick. Not like the bulky, heavy guys who were so slow. He taught me about using pressure points to briefly paralyze the people I'm fighting against. Not to rely on them. They don't always work. But I learned enough to make me strong. Nobody messed with me anymore.
Rye was eleven when she found out about my skills. She was being bullied. So I opened up a nice big can of whoop-ass and took them out. It was just a few months after my teacher had died. She revealed to me her plans. She wanted our family to stop getting pushed around. To stop being pushed to the back or to the bottom. So she decided we would defend the family's honor. We would show them what the Grimmes are actually made of.
It was amazing. Being so strong. Showing them that Rye and Reaper Grimme weren't scared of anything or anyone. I ruled inside the ring so that Rye could rule outside of it. It wasn't long before there was a fourteen year old running a street gang on our block.
But... when you take something by force, it has a habit of striking back. I learned that quickly.
That empty desk I'm by and out the pane of sky
What is it that I am waiting to be echoed back?
Even though I tried, your words would pass me by
In the end, I didn't solve a thing at all
You pulled yourself out of bed to find that your bedroom door was ajar. Not enough to cause concern, but enough to register in your mind. Maybe your mother checked on you before she went to bed and left it open.
Nothing was wrong then. Or, in your mind. But the reader can probably tell there's something wrong. Can't you, my dear on-looker. I know you're watching through the veil of fiction, but Death must tend to even the characters you so willingly destroy.
You brushed your teeth, but Rye wasn't in there with you. She must still be sleeping. But she needs to be getting up. You shrug. Run long, spidery fingers through your short blonde hair. You tug on a shirt to cover your rock-hard abdomen. But then you pull it back up and quickly study the lines that seem almost burned into your skin. The skin is light. And you burn so easily. It makes being a harvester not very fun.
Typical. You're wearing a cheap cotton shirt and a pair of heavy denim jeans with rips in them, but they're good enough for work. The jeans are huge and baggy on you, even though you're 6' 2" with most of that height in your legs.
You stow your toothbrush and baking soda in the little cabinet. Its door hangs slightly to the side from a broken hinge.
Rye still isn't up. She must've stayed up super late writing again. With a sigh and a slight smile, you walk out to her bedroom. It's not very large. Tiny, in fact, but it's her own room. And she jealously guarded it. You thought back to those times when you used to share a room because your grandmother had lived with you for a time before she'd passed away.
"Rye?" you push the door open. "It's time to get up."
It's dark in the room. But there's... red. Crimson. It smells like an acrid metal in the stuffy room. It had always had horrible air circulation, but they couldn't do anything about that.
You push the door open all the way to shine more light. A flashlight swings from a string taped to the ceiling. And you remove it. Click.
Mistake. Mistake. Oh, Ripred such a mistake. You turn the light off again. Click.
She lays on her bed, her eyes staring up at your in glassy incomprehension. There's a huge scarf stuffed into her mouth and then tied across the corners of her mouth and around her head. Lacerations cover her entire body which had been stripped of any and all clothing. Her face shines in little worm-like patterns from dried tears. And the blood. So much blood. A couple flies buzz around the room at the not-yet pungent odor of necrotic flesh.
You pull your arm across your mouth to prevent yourself from puking in her bedroom. Her innards sprawled and tangled with her legs and arms and sheets. An open hole where her heart was. It looks like it had been cut out.
Gagging and unable to hold yourself back, you rush out of the room and retch in the hallway, bracing yourself against the wall.
"Reaper?" your mother asks. "What's wrong, honey? Are you not feeling well? Is Rye up yet?"
"Don't!" you bellow. "Don't go in there!" But it's too late.
Your mother allows the light to shine on the dead flesh. On the corpse. And you mother begins screaming.
What is it that I am waiting to be echoed back?
Even though I tried, your words would pass me by
In the end, I didn't solve a thing at all
You pulled yourself out of bed to find that your bedroom door was ajar. Not enough to cause concern, but enough to register in your mind. Maybe your mother checked on you before she went to bed and left it open.
Nothing was wrong then. Or, in your mind. But the reader can probably tell there's something wrong. Can't you, my dear on-looker. I know you're watching through the veil of fiction, but Death must tend to even the characters you so willingly destroy.
You brushed your teeth, but Rye wasn't in there with you. She must still be sleeping. But she needs to be getting up. You shrug. Run long, spidery fingers through your short blonde hair. You tug on a shirt to cover your rock-hard abdomen. But then you pull it back up and quickly study the lines that seem almost burned into your skin. The skin is light. And you burn so easily. It makes being a harvester not very fun.
Typical. You're wearing a cheap cotton shirt and a pair of heavy denim jeans with rips in them, but they're good enough for work. The jeans are huge and baggy on you, even though you're 6' 2" with most of that height in your legs.
You stow your toothbrush and baking soda in the little cabinet. Its door hangs slightly to the side from a broken hinge.
Rye still isn't up. She must've stayed up super late writing again. With a sigh and a slight smile, you walk out to her bedroom. It's not very large. Tiny, in fact, but it's her own room. And she jealously guarded it. You thought back to those times when you used to share a room because your grandmother had lived with you for a time before she'd passed away.
"Rye?" you push the door open. "It's time to get up."
It's dark in the room. But there's... red. Crimson. It smells like an acrid metal in the stuffy room. It had always had horrible air circulation, but they couldn't do anything about that.
You push the door open all the way to shine more light. A flashlight swings from a string taped to the ceiling. And you remove it. Click.
Mistake. Mistake. Oh, Ripred such a mistake. You turn the light off again. Click.
She lays on her bed, her eyes staring up at your in glassy incomprehension. There's a huge scarf stuffed into her mouth and then tied across the corners of her mouth and around her head. Lacerations cover her entire body which had been stripped of any and all clothing. Her face shines in little worm-like patterns from dried tears. And the blood. So much blood. A couple flies buzz around the room at the not-yet pungent odor of necrotic flesh.
You pull your arm across your mouth to prevent yourself from puking in her bedroom. Her innards sprawled and tangled with her legs and arms and sheets. An open hole where her heart was. It looks like it had been cut out.
Gagging and unable to hold yourself back, you rush out of the room and retch in the hallway, bracing yourself against the wall.
"Reaper?" your mother asks. "What's wrong, honey? Are you not feeling well? Is Rye up yet?"
"Don't!" you bellow. "Don't go in there!" But it's too late.
Your mother allows the light to shine on the dead flesh. On the corpse. And you mother begins screaming.
By getting just a little closer to you, I think I could find it out
Just so these days would never ever have to end without a doubt
Ringing in a tone that slowly died and never will restart again
And all at once, I know everything is gone
"Toumei Answer," Translation by JubyPhonic
Face Claim: (Hopefully) Clark Bockelman
(c) to Adri // Death
o D a i r
Just so these days would never ever have to end without a doubt
Ringing in a tone that slowly died and never will restart again
And all at once, I know everything is gone
Face Claim: (Hopefully) Clark Bockelman
(c) to Adri // Death
o D a i r
