rebekah fleuriot ;; d1 ;; fin

whenever my pale, pale digits brush the expanse of silken bedspread, havoc plays with my heart. i cannot let my fawn coiffure sprawl against the pliable terrain of pillow; what if i never open my eyes again? i toss and roll across my bed, forever waiting for the undeniable embrace of sleep to take me - yet fear awakes me, tickles my senses into unbearable desperation, to see the emptiness behind closed lids. i just can't. her mother never understood. every night, she could feel warm hands brushing back, begging for sleep that would never come. tears traced cheekbone, and chords were screamed raw. it was a chaotic time for the fleuriots, especially for one girl in particular.

---

words were pushed out of drunken lips, spittle flung to embroidered walls as each and every misgiving was sprawled out in the liquor-soaked air between the sullied air around them; just too much to bear, too much to think. the snapping of wine glasses, of untamed hysteria, that broken doll lying at the foot of staircase, begging for absent salvation. for rebekah, she she was ordered a death sentence every time the moon rose. for a length of time, she made excuses.

" i need to finish my homework. extra credit. "

the lamp blazed on and on until the sun kissed the horizon.

" REBEKAH FLEURIOT! what did i tell you? "

she made empty lies, ones that did not suffice for the dark rings under her clear blue eyes. a tear would trace down perfect cheek, clouded by the makeup she didn't take off, and then all would be silent. rebekah of a creature of pity, and that was undeniable. the girl pushed herself to the mirror and plucked a jar of ebon powder. with frail finger, she rimed it around sleep-ridden eyes, concealing the ghastly, exhausted bags. 

" what are you doing! you look like a raccoon! "

doors were slammed in her face, yet the truth was obscured by just that one jar. it soon became her lifeline.

---

people said she looked like her mother. same tawny hair that refused to hold curls, the perpetually pale skin and the same rounded face, absent of cheekbones. the curve of sloping elbow, ending with rawboned digits that flourished the air, like a child playing conductor, yet the dark blue eyes was passed down from her father, 'like all the world's oceans decided to gather in your irises.' yet it was the ultimate conundrum. rebekah didn't know her eyes were the newborn navy others claimed to be. 

" what's the color of your eyes, reb? "

she would frown, and squint, and would say,

" looks like shit. " yet her voice was all cheek. the others would frown too, for why would one see brown where there was blue? the truth of inevitable: color-blindness. such as the saying goes, that butterflies would never know the color of their own wings. perhaps that was why she receives pity. perhaps that was why her obstinate words were praised. lips would curve into a pout, yet that was all she would ever say. in a way, she was beautiful, her aquiline nose bridging puppy-dog eyes, lashes framing pieces of brine. never delicate in any sense of the way; her words were scathing and voice was all arrogance, yet her weaknesses were fragments in the conglomerate that was rebekah. and perhaps that was why she was rebekah, laughing, jeering, screaming rebekah, who was afraid of sleep and never saw her true colors, and who was able to watch the games when she just merely ten.

after all, they were just pixels -- or were they? blood&blood, a meshing of the finest warriors, an arena of gore and diversity. each and every day was an epitome of survival, with the dreaded cannon shots claiming the deceased - rebekah did not grieve. she had not any blood ties to any of the tributes - weren't they just strangers from all over panem? but when she came to the reaping, clad in a lavishing dress, she realized that it was just a game. the hunger games - such an implying word! after all, the reaping itself was a game, yet one was playing with actual lives, reaching for a slip of paper that would bring the death sentence upon someone.

and that someone, a stranger who had no name, no face, would be swept off, leaving the cheering and the catcalls behind - into another world. their training was caught on cameras and shown to the world, perhaps to boast how amazing district one was. after all, they had the upper hand, with well-trained careers and a steady flow of money. the other districts would have their tongues sheared off for a weak in the wealthiest district, to enjoy the lavishing feasts and betting with a shot of tequila to wash the guilt away. one of the people who had one too many of a bottle was her father. when he stumbled home, he was a drunken mess, and the air around him was instantly infused with liquor. a time bomb ticked inside rebekah's head, guilt eating away at her sanity. 

" look at me when i'm talking to you! "

" yes, father. "

no matter what the response was, a slap brought blood to the surface of plump cheek. she held back the tears, waiting for her father to lumber down to the washroom and bring up his dinner - yet he lingered, glare pinning her to the wall like a voodoo toy.

" aren't you gonna help your mom, you useless girl! "

the shouts were more screaming than questions, yet she hurried down the oak staircase and pretended to wash the dishes, even though her mother was ill and bedridden. a thunderous snoring trampled down to her ears; her father had stumbled up into a deep slumber. like all men, he used alcohol to draw the shutters between him and the world. and so with furtive footsteps, she scrambled to her mother, even though it made her heart crawl. she was there, almost disappearing under the plush blankets, yet her hand was just a parcel and bones and just as lifeless. for once in her life, she slept, and thought she would never wake up. 

" hello, love. "

it was a strange voice, yet knowing. rebekah stirred.

" mother? "

" i'm not your mother, child. now sleep. "

" i want my mommy! i want her now! "

" shh. count your sheep. "

" one. "

" two. "

" three. "

" mommy, are you there? "

" honey, she's gone. she gone to a better place. "

" then why did she leave me? where did she go? "

" you were... safer here. now look at the stars. she how they shine for you. " 

" ... "

" is this your doll? why is it broken? "

" daddy broke it. mommy's broken too, isn't she? "

" yes, but she's getting fixed. do you want me to fix it for you? "

" fix my mommy. "

" i can't, love. "

everything hurt. the only haven was underneath the tidal rolls of blankets, curled up on the bed that was once her sworn enemy. school was dismissed and she ran as fast as her little limbs carried her into the house, the floorboards creaking silently of many ages past. she took the stairs two at a time, untamed hair running rampant, and threw herself into the safety of her bed, springs creaking under her impact. shuddering exhalations replaced her bated breath. she was safe. safe from the euphoric rages of her father. and as blood turned bilious with her hammering heart, she hated her father. hated him for all the sins that he had committed, to make a once-marble world into cobwebs of pitch. 

---

i didn't understand. she was there, and now she's gone. and now i can't breathe;the feeling of liquid in my lungs worms up to my throat, and i just can't. i counted the days, penciling the calendar with sloppy crosses: one, two, three, four. he was gone when i scribbled off five hundred and six. and then, i felt the liquid rise out of my lungs, and i could breathe. you see, my father had a way of making little ones like an imperfect piece of crap-i hated him, the way he acted like a king,the way he let no one sit on his throne. now that he's gone, where is he? in heaven or hell? and if he is somewhere,would he know of his sins? for as much as i despise the creature that was my father,a feel a tugging of guilt at my heart-no human would want another to burn again and again,waiting in agony for an absent salvation. i smell her sweet frangance,feel her knowing presence. i expect her slender hand to rest on my shoulder. but when i look around,there is an empty space. i wait for her to wake me up in my nightmares, to comfort me.she doesn't. 

you should be here.

 [ODAIR ] [ 18 YEARS OF AGE ] [ cursed ] [ ADELE EXARCHOPOULOS ]