Corvus Dalkin (District 12)
May 7, 2015 21:15:54 GMT -5
Post by shrinkingviolet on May 7, 2015 21:15:54 GMT -5
Unappreciative of any color aside from black.
Why black?
Why not black?
It will leech light, and remain bottomless-- mysterious almost, if you're willing to look close enough. Black is riveting, black is rebellious, black is cold, black is warm. Black is the color of my eyes, hair, soul. It is what I feel, replacing the space where a heart once was-- I don't have a heart, who said I did? They're lying. That organ, a pulsing piece of red that (once) sat to the left of my chest, it went whilst I was sleeping. Walked, flew, ran, does it matter how it left? It just went, and I don't intend on getting it back.
This piece of paper I hold, it is white-- something odd for me to keep. On it is an odd shape, a colored creation, a portrait of sorts. It is of my brother-- was, now it's crumpled, in my fist, torn and ratted. Where did it go? Has it left like my heart?
Has it left like my brother?
The familiar black has returned.
Name: Corvus Dalkin
Age: 24
Gender: Male
District: Twelve
(Face-claim: Keanu Reeves)
The alcohol has wasted my skin of it's usual tan, now it is white, a bed of cloudy sky and cream candle wax. Smooth, marbled, yet scarred and scuffed-- like the sole of a worn shoe. Admire it from afar, maybe, if I manage to entertain the daylight, though do not touch on any circumstance, as I assure the reaction wont be worth your time.
Handsome, perhaps, if unkempt and aggressive is the social standard of the term. Like the bottomless black that is my gaze, stubble as equally dark will cover my lower face, shielding any sign of emotion-- good or bad. Expect the frown, glower, and glare, as it will accompany me on any trip-- whether or not you seek it as offensive.
Muscled from rough labor, and always bruised. Whether from the attack of an unforgiving enemy, or slip of a hammer, there will never be a scrap of skin that doesn't have a story to tell. White and black, black and white, I'm as colorless as my outstanding (sarcasm) personality.
Unintentionally harsh with the truth, and trustworthy to any secret, although you'll never find me lying. Perhaps it's the poverty prone world that has taught me what a misuse of deception can do, and how maddening it can be. How can someone with everything lose in the space of one day?
I'm bitter to the extent that even sunshine is depressing, and proudly un-selfish. No, not even a wounded child shall bring me guilt, and neither will my failing liver as I drink another pint of whiskey. Call it a form of healing, or anger to those surrounding, though I'm uncaring, and unsatisfied with the way life has unraveled.
Beneath the stern surface, there is loyalty, a yearn to trust, and even some form of care, though it is disguised by a drunken state, and a harsh tongue. Learn to approach with caution, as those sensitive enough aren't meant to deal with a waste as such as myself. I'm no man-shaped form of charity, and pity is torturous. I don't care for your feelings, nor how many tears you've shed for your own existence. We all have horror stories.
Son to a dying woman, and non-existent father (past tense, already dead) -- and brother to an unforgotten boy. He was anything but black, he was the reason to keep living, and he disappeared during the 63rd Annual Hunger Games. The search ended quicker than it began, though it became my life's duty to find him, even if it resulted in death.
Once had it all-- surprising, is it not? --though with the loss of my brother, everything simply slithered away, along with my thirst and desire to survive. The woman of my dreams vanished, into the arms of another man, where she then wed him during June-- she always loved the Summer season. Aspirations disintegrated, feelings fled, and I then became the role of 'Drunk Dalkin', or 'the strange man who never speaks.'
The rrumors aren't true, I'm no avox, though I'll let you believe that, for the sake of peace.
It is rare you'll see me, though when you do, it will most probably be in the illegal market, buying liquor, and selling whatever scrap of clothing I don't need.
Shirtless over sober.
You'll never find me mining, scavenging for coal in replace for a few small coins and the occasional button. An odd line of work, though one traded for the house I lived in-- now, with the scarce material offered from the Capitol, I build and create whatever is needed. Mostly for those of importance, though the willing members of District Twelve can offer a decent wage, in replace for an extended roof, piece of furniture, broken wall-- or hidden room. The earnings all go in the same place, in the hand of a whiskey supplier, where I'll then drink away my issues.
The course I've chosen is final, a destiny I shall finish, and once it's done, then I will leave, quietly and peacefully into the grave most have pre-dug for me. Find my brother, and I shall find my haven.
No one else matters.
