Rumour Jain//d4 fin
Feb 8, 2016 12:29:56 GMT -5
Post by opal on Feb 8, 2016 12:29:56 GMT -5
R U M O U R J A I N- SIXTEEN
Let's go back to being plastic
You get up in the morning, you brush your hair. You brush your teeth. You walk to your closet and put on clothes. Then you walk downstairs. The same routine every day. It just repeats itself over and over. This is the morning routine that I have been following since I can remember. Not a day has gone by where I did not ask myself a simple question. What if I didn’t get up, or didn’t brush my hair. What if I didn’t walk downstairs, but climb out the sole window in my tiny bedroom. I always ask these questions over and over. They have become part of my routine, all they are is questions. Not actions. It’s okay to think, but just because you think doesn’t mean you should do. What good would it do you, if your actions aren’t perfect? A perfect person wouldn’t climb out a window, and they would most definitely brush their hair. This is why the routine is good, it brings me as close to perfection as I ever will be.
Perfection might be boring; I am well aware of that. I’m not oblivious to the fact that if everybody were perfect then we wouldn’t have the special touch of something that makes us who we are. My special touch just seems to be that perfection is what I want. It is what my family wants. My older brother calls me his little sister and I call him big brother. In the morning we exchange smile and give a kiss on the cheek to our parents. My little sister doesn’t believe in the family goal. She doesn’t believe in not asking dumb questions. Whenever we tell her not to, she just asks what even is a dumb question. A dumb question is a question with an obvious answer. Why would you want to know something that any idiote can figure out? She also refuses the family traits. A person would be able to spot someone from our family from a mile away.
Small pointy ears like an elf. Even though they are small I can still hear just as well. I get called names for multiple reasons, and my pointy ears are just another point on the list. Along with the pointy ears comes my height. I am relatively short for a 16-year-old. 5’4’’, not an inch taller or smaller. I have problems reaching for something on the highest shelf, I always end up asking for help. My frame is skinny; I try my best to do a lot of sport to keep in good shape. I’m training for the hunger games, the people who win them. Those are the ones who are pretty much perfect. They can put all natural feelings aside, they can kill. They are powerful, they are victors. My mother says that boys wouldn’t look twice at me, if I kept gaining muscle. It’s unattractive, so she takes my food away for days at a time.
The days without food, were a nightmare. A stomach growling constantly and my brain shutting down. I grew tired easily. In district four we have enough to eat, we are not rich but we aren’t pore. When she starves me, I feel sympathy. Another reason hunger is a terrible thing to experience. Sympathy is a feeling, if I want to be perfect I have to be emotionless. I have to be a doll. That is what my family tries, we try so hard to be a living dollhouse. To only say the necessary, to have smiles plastered all the time on our porcelain skin. When we were young and we have forgotten that we don’t feel, dad would hit us. He would hit us hard, thinking that if he did it long enough the pain would go away. We would stop feeling actual pain. His plan didn’t go as well as he thought it had and all that went away was our tears. We got used to it, we didn’t care anymore that it burned and stung. We didn’t care if we bled. We just don’t care anymore.
My mom told me when I was younger, that I should walk with my chin up. She told me the puppeteer was pulling strings through my head. As a child, she told me stories of the puppeteer and how he was the one controlling our every motions. He scared me, not as much as papa did, but he scared me. To me and my brother, he was the monster under our bed. Only he was above us. Mama said he was a good guy, I always wanted to believe her, I really did. Thar’s all I wanted as a kid, to make my parents proud to call me their little doll. I let mama brush my hair, she divided the parts of my jet black hair into 5 parts. Each part she combed with exactly 100 strokes of the brush. I wasn’t allowed to move during this time. I had to have perfect posture, slacking isn’t allowed for dolls. Sometimes I would hold my breath for as long as I could, so that I would reduce every single movement my body made. I never was sure if I was scared or terrified.
I want to be a good child; I swear I do. I want to put on my doll mask and never take it off. I want to smile for a picture that would hang forever on the walls of our house. I want to be a good sister and do what my brother tells me to do. Just as mom and dad told me. Girls are there to do what the men want. I will need this skill for my future, when I get married. I will need to perfect my smile. Brother says my cooking skills need some work, he also says I still have time. I have been in the kitchen with my mother since I was a child, I just wasn’t given the gift of cooking. Dad says to hurry up and learn fast, if I were ever to get reaped, I must know how to make something edible. Not the poisonous shit that I tend to make. His words not mine.
I want to rephrase my previous sentences. I need to be a good girl.
FC:Emma Greenwell
Lyrics: Dollhouse by Melanie Martinez
Perfection might be boring; I am well aware of that. I’m not oblivious to the fact that if everybody were perfect then we wouldn’t have the special touch of something that makes us who we are. My special touch just seems to be that perfection is what I want. It is what my family wants. My older brother calls me his little sister and I call him big brother. In the morning we exchange smile and give a kiss on the cheek to our parents. My little sister doesn’t believe in the family goal. She doesn’t believe in not asking dumb questions. Whenever we tell her not to, she just asks what even is a dumb question. A dumb question is a question with an obvious answer. Why would you want to know something that any idiote can figure out? She also refuses the family traits. A person would be able to spot someone from our family from a mile away.
Small pointy ears like an elf. Even though they are small I can still hear just as well. I get called names for multiple reasons, and my pointy ears are just another point on the list. Along with the pointy ears comes my height. I am relatively short for a 16-year-old. 5’4’’, not an inch taller or smaller. I have problems reaching for something on the highest shelf, I always end up asking for help. My frame is skinny; I try my best to do a lot of sport to keep in good shape. I’m training for the hunger games, the people who win them. Those are the ones who are pretty much perfect. They can put all natural feelings aside, they can kill. They are powerful, they are victors. My mother says that boys wouldn’t look twice at me, if I kept gaining muscle. It’s unattractive, so she takes my food away for days at a time.
The days without food, were a nightmare. A stomach growling constantly and my brain shutting down. I grew tired easily. In district four we have enough to eat, we are not rich but we aren’t pore. When she starves me, I feel sympathy. Another reason hunger is a terrible thing to experience. Sympathy is a feeling, if I want to be perfect I have to be emotionless. I have to be a doll. That is what my family tries, we try so hard to be a living dollhouse. To only say the necessary, to have smiles plastered all the time on our porcelain skin. When we were young and we have forgotten that we don’t feel, dad would hit us. He would hit us hard, thinking that if he did it long enough the pain would go away. We would stop feeling actual pain. His plan didn’t go as well as he thought it had and all that went away was our tears. We got used to it, we didn’t care anymore that it burned and stung. We didn’t care if we bled. We just don’t care anymore.
My mom told me when I was younger, that I should walk with my chin up. She told me the puppeteer was pulling strings through my head. As a child, she told me stories of the puppeteer and how he was the one controlling our every motions. He scared me, not as much as papa did, but he scared me. To me and my brother, he was the monster under our bed. Only he was above us. Mama said he was a good guy, I always wanted to believe her, I really did. Thar’s all I wanted as a kid, to make my parents proud to call me their little doll. I let mama brush my hair, she divided the parts of my jet black hair into 5 parts. Each part she combed with exactly 100 strokes of the brush. I wasn’t allowed to move during this time. I had to have perfect posture, slacking isn’t allowed for dolls. Sometimes I would hold my breath for as long as I could, so that I would reduce every single movement my body made. I never was sure if I was scared or terrified.
I want to be a good child; I swear I do. I want to put on my doll mask and never take it off. I want to smile for a picture that would hang forever on the walls of our house. I want to be a good sister and do what my brother tells me to do. Just as mom and dad told me. Girls are there to do what the men want. I will need this skill for my future, when I get married. I will need to perfect my smile. Brother says my cooking skills need some work, he also says I still have time. I have been in the kitchen with my mother since I was a child, I just wasn’t given the gift of cooking. Dad says to hurry up and learn fast, if I were ever to get reaped, I must know how to make something edible. Not the poisonous shit that I tend to make. His words not mine.
I want to rephrase my previous sentences. I need to be a good girl.
FC:Emma Greenwell
Lyrics: Dollhouse by Melanie Martinez
