juliet beaumont, district two

Once upon a time, there was a little girl with ringlets of gold and impossible dreams. Once upon a time, there was a princess with a tiara of innocence, and its glimmering jewels, kindness. Once upon a time, there was a tightly-knit family who lived in a great house with white pillars and verdant gardens.

But it was all once upon a time.

And now, here I stand.

What happened to that little girl and her tightly-knit family?

She grew up.

And they stopped giving goodnight kisses and turned to the path of a Career.

I left dimpled smiles and saucer-like eyes of innocence in the dust. The distance between my family and I grows greater in miles with each birthday candle blown out with a huff of breath. Eighteen, this year, eighteen more miles. Perhaps, when I abandon the haven much loathed nest, they will be far behind me, out of my vision entirely.

Not that I would mind.

They shoved me into training when I still played with dolls, but they ripped them out of my tiny hands and replaced them with knives. I was a mere child but instead of looking into the mirror playing dress up, I was peering into the blade of a dagger, meeting my own steely blue eyes before thrusting it at the target.

Thud, against the wall.

MISS.

And the glares of disappointment would bore into my back.

In the hardships and jostling waves of youth, family is the one solid tie that keeps you grounded. Family is all that remains when everyone else has abandoned you.

I am my only family.

"I love you."

They would say these words each day before I left for school.

But their voices were hollow; they would never love me as anything more than a shiny medal to hang among their collection.

I have never been shining and gold. Always bronze, dull and dusty from neglect; I pale in comparison to my polished siblings. But I have not let their disapproval shatter my heart into pieces. With arms of iron I hold up their shadows and the weight of their glares, holding my ground no matter the shakiness of my legs. There is an earthquake beneath me and towers pressed against my palms.

I am strong enough.

Tears downpour on my insides, but the storm clouds can never penetrate the shield over my eyes. My gentle, soft features do not contort with any despair that encroaches my heart. My broad, delicate brows do not furrow; my full lips to not turn down at the corners into a frown.

The lightning may CRACK upon me and the rain may patter against my soul, but they dare not intrude upon my face, frozen in a mask of bliss. I am a warrior, failure or not, and if I have learned anything from years of scraping through the hardships of grueling training and disappointment, it is that warriors do not cry,

for it is weakness.

("But you're weak, aren't you, Juliet?"

"No.")

My steps are not feeble; my elegant, willowy body radiates grace in its strides, a result of the intensity of my training. And yet, I stumble and trip and fall. Falling is weaker than tears, but I am on a tightrope and clumsiness has no cage.

Staring at my mother is staring at resentment itself. I am reflected in her eyes differently than I am reflected in the mirror. She sees a little girl with glass bones and clouds for skin and misty eyes of steel blue. She sees the child who would braid her long, golden threads of silk that poured down her back from her scalp, and pretend to be Rapunzel.

(Mother was never a fan of my games.)

But in my mirror upon my dresser, I see a lion with a golden mane and eyes that glower with fury. I see claws for hands and titanium for skin and knives that fly with precision for eyes. I see deceiving delicate, feminine features, a girl who, beneath rosy cheeks upon fair skin, blazes with ruthlessness and might.

Mirrors do not lie.

But people do.

If I have been blessed with anything, it is the purity of candor. Lies get tangled upon my tongue rather than gliding off of its tip like the morning dew the drips from the fern leaves in the pink light of dawn. I believe the most incredulous things, for my ears wish to hear the benevolence shining through the worst people, just as my eyes blot out darkness that thrives within the human race.

(Is that why I love so blindly? Is that why my heart is so breakable?)

But it is my parents that are the most transparent - perhaps because they do not try to obscure their fangs.

"You're so precious to us, Juliet."

"We love you very much."

Empty words cannot fool me.