we are not right // we are not wrong {{ district iii

FIN

tell me what we call you - ezekiel wynn gardnord

they call him (ghost-boy; but never to his face). he calls himself ezekiel, although out loud it always comes out "estheikel". (his mother never called him by his name - she called him "devil child"; "cursed"; "nightmare"). his uncle told him it's because he was born with teeth, and as pale as the moon on the water, too, and even the midwife said he was some unnatural witch-baby. no one wanted to know him, and so he rarely ever needed to use his name. if he had known himself then, perhaps he would have called himself ghost-boy, or cursed, too. 

tell me when you've lived - eighteen

he's lived for eighteen long years, although for the last few of them he has only been able to count them roughly. days and nights, weeks, months all blend together in the dark. ezekiel simply celebrates his birthday whenever he begins to feel lonely again. it isn't a public affair. the last time his family all joined him for a birthday, ezekiel left the house and never came back. for a time, during the few past weeks he had been planning his escape, he had considered leaving pebbles in case he ever wanted to find his way back - but he soon realised that the pebbles were better off in his pockets than on the roadway. he would rather drown himself than go back to his family. 

tell me who you are - male

ezekiel is a boy, but he feels both genderless and sexless in that he prefers to consider himself like water, or air. since his sister pressed a hot piece of circuitry against his mouth when he was barely just an infant, leaving his lips deformed and painful, and his speech impeded, the thought of kissing anyone fills him with fear, panic, and indirect repulsion at what they might think of him. he looks at himself naked as little as possible. skin, and flesh, repulses him. it helps that he rarely bathes, and with few people coming into direct contact with him, he's rarely encouraged to, either. 

tell me why you go on - living ghost

he likes the spaces between walls. he likes finding crawl spaces and curling up in them, letting the darkness cloak him tighter and more intimately than a mother or lover ever could. insects delight him - he lets them run over his fingers, up his arms, over his face. their legs brush his eyelids as gentle as kisses. their wings and shells can't feel the cracked craters where his lips once were like fingers would be able to. they sing to him, and soothe him - they don't judge him, like people do. 

sometimes, he whispers to the others through the walls, although he rarely comes out to speak to them in person. they're not his friends like the crawlies are, but they are still companions. he likes to think his voice affects them insidiously - like a spirit, subtly menacing but amicable. ezekiel is shy, after all. not being able to see who he's talking to makes it easier to talk to them. 

tell me how they think of you - creep

they do not all know his name. to some of them, he might really be an apparition; something which has always existed in the house and always will. those who do know his name do not all treat him well. some intentionally make holes in the walls, letting in the light and a view from the outside, and sometimes they fill them with water or some sour smelling food. ezekiel's ruined mouth and weak eyes have made him more dependent on his senses of smell and sound, and when the scents or noises around him are anything from the norm (the groaning and shrieking coming from the other inhabitants' laboratory set-ups; the odour of rot, mildew and decay underneath the sweet dryness of the plasterboard walls and insulation) he begins to panic. in one word, they think of him as a creep.

tell me where you will go - any lengths, if pushed

ezekiel doesn't think of himself as scared. rather, he prefers to think of himself as afraid. the difference, to him, is subtle but important. afraid, unlike scared, is to be cautious - as opposed to feeling cold, hard fear at certain events or things. part of his caution is that, if it came to it, he has no doubt he would go to unforgivable measures to feel safe again. after all, he's already lost his birth family, as could not consider his new companions a replacement for a real belonging by any stretch of imagination. no one would really care if he did something terrible. he would just have to be pushed there, first. 

Hector Briggs [frankel]

17

Male

Taxidermy 

Borderlines horrible

Nearly all the way

Hector had it all as a child, a lovely family, four walls and a roof, there was nothing really to complain about. Until he decided to take care of injured animals. Small little creatures that needed a home, a home he could provide. He brought them back to health and set them free into the wilderness until one day...he was unable to save one of them. A small little bird, with a life long gone...this made Hector so very upset. He raged and pleaded that life would be bestowed upon the little bird. Placing the bird on the side cabinet besides his bed, he kept it there as a memory, a memory of his failure. More little creatures came and left. More little creatures filled his bed side cabinet. The first little bird was un-recognizable, its flesh rotten, its skeleton in full view. His parents dared not enter his room, for now the bed side cabinet was full and the little creatures filled every surface. Creatures no longer left, they all came and stayed...even those with full health. He'd remove their lives and keep their trophies. 

Disgusted with how the rotten bodies were turning their house into a morgue, his family threatened to throw away his little creatures. Hector let them, along with himself. He had enough, they called him creep because of his hobby and he couldn't live with people like that. Hauling his collection around District Three, he collected more on the way as he sought out to find people like him. 

He found himself sheltering under a tree at a graveyard, surrounded by bags filled with his little creatures. He watched as people's lifeless bodies were left to rot beneath the surface of the ground...what a waste. That isn't how life should be celebrated. Digging the fresh graves in the middle of the night, he removed little pieces, heads to add to his collection. Beautiful faces with different tales that should be left to hang on a wall and admire, not be buried away forever and left as worm food.

Hector found his creeps, people like him that he could live alongside and share his interest with. 

tell me what we call you - Hector

tell me when you've lived - I am living right now.

tell me who you are- I am the boy with the trophies.

tell me why you go on - Because life and death should be celebrated better than what it is. 

tell me how they think of you - They think I am a creep.

tell me where you will go - I will go all the way.