-Cathal Blakely D5- [WIP]

-Cathal Blakely D5- [WIP] Dec 30, 2014 14:44:32 GMT -5

Post by Dobbie on Dec 30, 2014 14:44:32 GMT -5

Age: 17
Gender: Male
District: 5

So I got edges that scratch
And sometimes I don't got a filter
But I'm so tired of eating
All of my misspoken words
I know my disposition gets confusing
My disproportionate actions fuse with my eager state
That's why you want to come out and play with me, yeah why?

Wrong, wrong...So terribly wrong. Was it not enough that I broke my back? 'Work harder!' they said 'Study harder! Make something of yourself!' they said. He said, she said, they said...With every word, every expression of abhorrence and odium that stretched across their tired faces. it seeped the youth out of his bones, made him appear older. More worn and weathered. "My dear boy, your eyes used to be so blue," I remember mother. They're so boring and gray now right? Isn't that what you'd say? My eyes are hollow mother. They know no such color of blue... "They only know gray." The words come out of his mouth to be made real. But you see, there's this thing about words that everyone, himself included, seems to forget.

Words are dead once said.

They live in your brain and breathe when thought about. Are constructed and grow and give birth to antonyms and synonyms. Then they're spoken. And they die, like ashes spilled over a mountain side to scatter the world with its remains. Never to be taken back in that urn in your head the same again. The words have sunken into his skin much like the ashes in the earth and maybe that's why his is tan and his fathers is pale. His mother too. Odd, isn't it? His father thought so a long time ago. His father with black hair and chocolate brown eyes. Stark contrast to the blonde strands on Cathal's head and the thick, heavy brows above his eyes.

"Look, Cathal, at how your brothers best themselves each day with each challenge" He lowered his head and snickered to himself "A boy like you, at this rate, would never catch them. Look at you, with your scrawny shoulders, legs, and arms... Hard to believe you can walk let alone stand." Yes, he'll be the first to admit. He was scrawny then. His clothes had hung on his frame like laundry on a line. Billowing in the wind with the slightest breeze. He had an alarmingly fast metabolism. That's what his mother had told him when he was young.

Stooped down and out, you got me beggin for thread
To sew this hole up that you ripped in my head
Stupidly think you had it under control
Strapped down to something that you don't understand
Don't know what you were getting yourself into
You should've known, secretly I think you knew

Later down the line he'd take pills for it. Grow stronger, thicker. He had an unending supply. Every morning his mother went to work at the hospital and once a week she'd come back with a prescription. They weren't fun pills. You couldn't get high off them or anything and they had no real side effects. Just smuggle them in with your mashed potatoes and you'd be good to go. If he wanted something with effect, send him into a numbing state, he'd turn to rolled up tobacco. Maybe numbing is too strong a word, but it definitely took the edge off. He'd let the bud touch his lips then watch the smoke go and join the ever increasing smog that plagued the district. Oddly pretty in it's sickness. Like versions of Wilson's disease with the gold rims around the iris. Or Albinos with their mutated pigmentation. Their red eyes beautifully contrasting their otherwise all-white exterior.

"This'll be our little secret. Your father doesn't need to know anything about these. Okay?" That's what she said the first night that little glass bottle with the tiny white ovals appeared. They represented many things in that confined space. The realization that his body chemistry betrayed his genes, for it was no secret his father was a lethargic man to say the least. The chance that he now had to compete with his brothers, in his eyes. And lastly, the fact that he now had a permanent vice.