coralie bowers { d8 . cb

 

I really was an idiot.

When I was eleven, I held my father's hand to the reaping as we giggled behind Carsyn and Clarke and told me never to be scared of the reapings, princesses save princesses and dragon's only exist in the land behind my eyelids. And for eleven years I believed it, with Owen slaying his dragons and dying in front of us all. 

A factory girl, I thought the world was made of pastels, muted realities behind each fragment of reality and I wore pink to my first funeral and cried technicolor tears with my hand in short brown hair. He was dead, it was simple and the year after I became a factory girl - simple, simple, simple. and in my mind I'd sway to the rhythm of the pressing machines with carbon dioxide in my skin and ink under my nails - Noah was simple; I'd rather not. 

To his funeral, I wore all black, killed three days in to the first dragon, but he was a murderer. A sinner, unlike Owen, he killed minutes in and I cried less with scabs on my elbows. And at fifteen, I put on the same black dress as they buried Cody and I learnt not to cry as Carsyn and mother argue and - I really was an idiot. With factory dies I dyed my hair the muted pinks I saw in everybody at the age of eleven; it was better than the years of black.

coralie may bowers;
district eight, sixteen, female