Hypnotiq Facet D1 FIN

Hypnotiq Facet D1 FIN Dec 1, 2014 22:14:55 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Dec 1, 2014 22:14:55 GMT -5

Hypnotiq Facet

They say that butterflies don't know the color of their wings. Well, if that's the case, I'm just a butterfly that doesn't know its true colors.

My story began in August 13th,1996. That was when the first drops of ink spread on my pages. I was born a perfect little girl with no deformities. That's until... until my mother got diagnosed with cancer. I couldn't believe it. Me, only 5 years old, watching my beloved mother die again, and again, and again. The first drops of poison were mixed into my ink of life, and no matter what I did with my pen, it was still there, tainting everything. I got extremely angry, not because of my mother, but because of me. I was only a caterpillar that didn't know where to go. I was lost, trapped, and scared. My whole life came to a stop, than moved on. Without me. I was eight years old at the time, and I was taken to an orphanage. It instantly hated it. Despised it. Actually, I was scared, as if somebody had turned the lights off and had forgotten to turn it on again. It delayed myself, when I was just starting to weave a delicate chrysalis. Everybody moved like an automaton, and there was no light in their eyes. There was no life here and I wanted to get out. Being born in a wealthy family, I got nice dresses, luxurious food, and lots of pampering. However, I didn't like it. I didn't care about all the spoiling. The pages there were blank, vacant, and crusty. I didn't get a chance to finish weaving my chrysalis. I was just a lonely pupae. Again.

I was allowed to visit my father, who was a well known gem cutter. I was so surprised that his health was detoriating so quickly, and I became overwhelmed with the fact that I was going to suffer a loss once more, only this time, it would damage my heart much more. Yes, much more. I hugged my father's surprisingly bony frame. I frowned. He had loads of money. What wasn't he using it? We spent time at home like the days when mother was still there. My father had wavy, thick, brown hair, much like mine. That was the only resemblance between us, as my eyes were a nut brown, and my father's was a brilliant blue. I probably got my brown eyes from my mother. Mother. Even saying that added gashes to my heart, a another wave of pain against my impressive array of scars. They're not there, but they're there. I set to weave my chrysalis again, the silk threads overlapping against one another. So I wouldn't get hurt. Again. I left, with a pearl necklace and golden rings, all of them carefully hand crafted by my father. I was 13. An unlucky number, I suppose.

It was spring. Finally. But the blossoms and the birds were all but forgotten. My father was oh so frail, and my years with him were numbered. I was literally living in a pool of guilt, which I had slammed away in a tight room for many years. But locks don't last forever and someone eventually finds the key. I spent most of my lonely days reading, and building my chrysalis. It is not even close to done, as it repeatedly gets tattered and unpleasant. My father was getting weaker and weaker and I was mad. Mad because I was getting hurt. I was getting hurt by my loved ones and it almost felt like they were betraying. I knew it was stupid, but after years of pain, you reach a breaking point. It is different for everyone, and I had very strong tolerance, as if I had built a wall around my emotions. Of course, that had to fray and I was battered with it. 'It' meaning pain. And lots of it. Then the guilt began seeking out and it was a free for all. Except it wasn't. In silence, I began working on my chrysalis, weaving, weaving, and weaving.

I was fourteen years old when I said my final goodbye to my father. It went all too soon. I wanted to hurt them by hurting me for 9 years. I wanted to do something. But they were gone, drowned in oblivion, oh so deep that I couldn't even possibly think of reaching my hand to them. But they're gone. I silently began working on my chrysalis. It was almost done. I could feel it. This was no place for a girl in the most richest district. Because I'm in District 1, everybody thinks I'm lofty or something. No i'm not. I'm kind, just a bit absentminded or too vacant. Like a fruit with no meat. My chrysalis began forming and I waited. Until the trees burst into faux fire, until everything was layered in snow. I waited for what seemed like forever, and then it was done. And I went in, forgetting about all the pain that had festered inside of me. Just wiped it from my mind as if force eight gales were pushing my clouds away. I could heal, I thought. I could forget about this bullshit. I hid myself, and spent those months in my home, not coming out. Without my parents, the gaping hallways seemed almost sinister, like they were about to close in on me. I was scared, I admit it, but who would not be?

I emerged out of my chrysalis when I was sixteen. (Two more years to go!) And I stretched my wet and wrinkled wings. How could they be so fragile? About thin as a leaf, they don't look at all suited for air. But you know what life brings us? Surprises. And lots of them. Some are promising, some are devastating, but they're surprises and they're not going to change. I began repairing my heart, and it is more painful than when my heart was being damaged. I was ready to fly (maybe) and I spread my wings and closed my eyes. The years flashed by. I was eighteen. I still haven't found out about my wings' color, but I'm determined and hope that my wings are painted in the most vibrant hues. Just like my father's gems. Just like my mother's voice. Just like me.

End?? (Maybe)
OOC(( I think this is long enough, because I didn't use any narrow templates. That's what I think, anyway. If it is too short, just let me know! :-) ))