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picture to burn {▲} maya/elya
Jun 6, 2015 10:30:36 GMT -5
Post by D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza] on Jun 6, 2015 10:30:36 GMT -5
LXX
That night was bitter, cold. The rain thrashed itself against my flimsy window - the wind forcing itself through the tiny gaps in the frame, ordering my thin curtain to dance in it's breeze. I lay awake, my eyes peeled open the ghostly fingers of my mother's scream which managed to penetrate every part of our home.
The wind encouraged me to dance too, lifting me from the comfort of my familiar sheets, denouncing me to the brisk breath of Mother Nature herself. I danced with it to my door, where the handle creaked as I opened it. I twirled down the hallway, I now leading the wind through the house until I found myself downstairs. With each step, a droplet of regret slipped into me like a leaking tap until eventually the tap stopped and there was a silence so ashen and pale, which only urged me through to her.
(“Help me Maya— the pain is too much.”)
The memory still casts a shadow over my attempts to sleep to this very day. You'd think that the exquisite and eccentric people that reside here at the Capitol would have developed a remedy or drug to cure a life with ghosts, yet I shouldn't be surprised that they don't. There are many misconceptions about this city.
As children, we're all force-fed different beliefs by parents which swell up like an inflating balloon in our minds which leave nothing to our imaginations.
The Capitol is wonderful. The Games are fine. I'm sure you'd win if you were reaped, Maya. Children in the other districts are just like you.
The worst thing about it is the fact that we believe it and blossom ideas from already false rumours. It's like the first sentence they say is a seed, you add the water and it just grows and grows until it's becomes out of control—when you finally begin to question the beauty of the rose.
You reach out to touch it, but are injured by it's thorns.
Now, there's only one of the sentences which is clinging to life inside my head. Children in the other districts are just like you. Even as a child, I questioned the honesty of this one. I've seen them in the games, in the arena—the beasts than the career districts produced which are unleashed upon innocents like me like a swarm of bloodthirsty bees, stinging, cutting, killing.
During my time at the training centre so far, I've steered clear of them and forced myself to play ball with the people who are somewhat like me. Brought up in a low district, struggling with food on a day to day basis.. but hearing their stories is getting repetitive and dare I say: boring. There's no difference from what I know, from what I lived. Maybe they are all just like me.
I give a shake of my head as I glance around me, my eyes falling upon the girl with the patch. She's from district two, one of the districts which churns out horrific barbarians each year in hopes it'll bring glory to their district. Even if they do win, does it bring glory or does it leave them stained with pain and acidic flashbacks?
My legs pace towards her, a tremor erupting over my whole body. This is no time for nerves, I know so. But the shaking of my hands and the constant blinking of my eyes is uncontrollable, like it's programmed into me, as if I'm not even human.
I reach her and notice she casts a look over her shoulder to me. I can't see her face now that she's turned, yet I'm sure she has the patch. I move next to her, my hands running over a long piece of rope which feels hard and impure on my skin. The feeling of it makes me feel comfortable in the situation and before I know it, words crash out of my mouth like a hurricane.
"Forgive me interrupting you."
I partially catch her attention and realise it's still my line.
"What is it like in your district? I've been fed theories and want to know if they are true."
Throughout my speaking, I continue to run my fingers over the rope. The bristles feel more vicious with every word I say, until it comes to the point where I have to move my hands away and my eyes lift from the beige rope to look at her face.
Cold, but beautiful.
The wind encouraged me to dance too, lifting me from the comfort of my familiar sheets, denouncing me to the brisk breath of Mother Nature herself. I danced with it to my door, where the handle creaked as I opened it. I twirled down the hallway, I now leading the wind through the house until I found myself downstairs. With each step, a droplet of regret slipped into me like a leaking tap until eventually the tap stopped and there was a silence so ashen and pale, which only urged me through to her.
(“Help me Maya— the pain is too much.”)
The memory still casts a shadow over my attempts to sleep to this very day. You'd think that the exquisite and eccentric people that reside here at the Capitol would have developed a remedy or drug to cure a life with ghosts, yet I shouldn't be surprised that they don't. There are many misconceptions about this city.
As children, we're all force-fed different beliefs by parents which swell up like an inflating balloon in our minds which leave nothing to our imaginations.
The Capitol is wonderful. The Games are fine. I'm sure you'd win if you were reaped, Maya. Children in the other districts are just like you.
The worst thing about it is the fact that we believe it and blossom ideas from already false rumours. It's like the first sentence they say is a seed, you add the water and it just grows and grows until it's becomes out of control—when you finally begin to question the beauty of the rose.
You reach out to touch it, but are injured by it's thorns.
—
The memory seems more prominent than most times it has risen from its ugly ashes. Perhaps it's because all of those lies have been brutally murdered in a matter of hours. I feel sorry for the believers; if they only knew what it was like, then maybe they'd do something about their immortality. Now, there's only one of the sentences which is clinging to life inside my head. Children in the other districts are just like you. Even as a child, I questioned the honesty of this one. I've seen them in the games, in the arena—the beasts than the career districts produced which are unleashed upon innocents like me like a swarm of bloodthirsty bees, stinging, cutting, killing.
During my time at the training centre so far, I've steered clear of them and forced myself to play ball with the people who are somewhat like me. Brought up in a low district, struggling with food on a day to day basis.. but hearing their stories is getting repetitive and dare I say: boring. There's no difference from what I know, from what I lived. Maybe they are all just like me.
I give a shake of my head as I glance around me, my eyes falling upon the girl with the patch. She's from district two, one of the districts which churns out horrific barbarians each year in hopes it'll bring glory to their district. Even if they do win, does it bring glory or does it leave them stained with pain and acidic flashbacks?
My legs pace towards her, a tremor erupting over my whole body. This is no time for nerves, I know so. But the shaking of my hands and the constant blinking of my eyes is uncontrollable, like it's programmed into me, as if I'm not even human.
I reach her and notice she casts a look over her shoulder to me. I can't see her face now that she's turned, yet I'm sure she has the patch. I move next to her, my hands running over a long piece of rope which feels hard and impure on my skin. The feeling of it makes me feel comfortable in the situation and before I know it, words crash out of my mouth like a hurricane.
"Forgive me interrupting you."
I partially catch her attention and realise it's still my line.
"What is it like in your district? I've been fed theories and want to know if they are true."
Throughout my speaking, I continue to run my fingers over the rope. The bristles feel more vicious with every word I say, until it comes to the point where I have to move my hands away and my eyes lift from the beige rope to look at her face.
Cold, but beautiful.
