satine belgrave d1 [fin]

I hear the whispers, the hushed tones that drift into our home like tendrils of thick smoke. Their grating voices say that all Belgraves are alike, a closed off family too true to traditions. The children are all copies of their parents, who are copies of their's in turn. The rebellious natures of the youngest children are quickly chased away by the force of discipline, the threats of disowning and dishonor hanging above their heads.

I

"She's a shadow of her mother."

They say that I grew into my mother's face. A stern woman with sharp features and small pursed lips, a scathing barb always ready on her tongue, but never said. We share the same slanted eyes, so dark that you can get caught in their grasp, flooding you with that feeling right before you jump from a cliff and into deep water. Endless, terrifying depths that drag you in and don't let go. Belgraves are jutting cheekbones and defined collarbones, angles so sharp that they'll cut when you get to close. We're long ring covered fingers and hands that are always too cold and too pale. Blue veins snaking up translucent arms, their icy tendrils weaving in and out of view. We're upturned noses and raised eyebrows, long lanky limbs that create haunting shadows and chilling silhouettes. Pale faces in the dark, smudges that haunt your waking and sleeping dreams. We're short dark lashes and long jet-black hair.

We're tradition.

Or we were.

I am not all my mother. I am short hair, straight and impulsively cut with old scissors at a young age. A childish attempt at rebellion that has continued, it seems, as a tradition of my own. I am the shockingly blonde hair dye that makes you look twice, one last act against the suffocating family name. I am hair that is no longer beautiful. Hair that has dried out and thinned from harsh products. I am the splashes of dark birth spots that litter my back, marks of impurity that my mother couldn't scrub out, no matter how hard she tried. My lips are stained red, but they are rough and chewed, blood seeping through the cracks. A bad habit that was never broken. I stand tall, drawing myself up to tower over my mother. It never does seems to faze her. I'm rough, calloused hands and hidden blossoming bruises. I'm cold smiles with hidden messages, full of promises that are never kept.

I gravitate to the expensive luxuries of my District. A fashion statement, I drape silk and fur over my body, along with the highest and sharpest heels that I can find. I dress to kill, a style designed to lure the helpless in and take them out. Mother prefers items that show status more subtly, more traditionally. She would dress me in more conservative clothes of satin, my precious namesake. Her favorite was always an ancient string of pearls that wrapped around my throat like a noose, suffocating tradition at it's finest.

II

"You mean she's her mother's shadow." 

Rumors can seep into your skin, their acidic words burning you alive until you're nothing more than a sniveling shell of who you once were. If my mother taught me anything after all these years, it was how to avoid being burnt.

"Don't make a fool of yourself, Satine. Hold yourself above all, and no one can hurt you. Don't let anyone see who you really are, because if they do, you don't stand a chance."

While other mothers taught their children things like kindness and compassion, I learnt how to don a false face. How to create an image of myself and convince the world that it was really me. And if they didn't, I learnt how to make them believe it. I learnt how to work around the rules, how to dig up secrets and keep them safe until they were needed. More importantly, I learnt how to show people what they wanted to see, and when they turned their trusting backs, I was taught how to strike.

I learnt not to speak unless spoken to. Don't make a fool of yourself. Don't make a fool of your family. The whispers got louder; Disgrace. Weak. Such a waste. Desperate to protect myself from their words, my facade became stronger, twisting me into someone that I didn't recognized. I started to turn my back on tradition, even if I couldn't do so to my family. Lies began to slip from my tongue like water, I thrived on dirty secrets and information. The whispers changed, but to things that couldn't burn me anymore; Liar. Selfish. Bitch.

The terrified little girl that had always hid inside got frosted over. My walls became thick walls of ice, higher than anyone could scale. My passion was never fire, it had always been frostbite, a cold death that would consume anything in it's path.

Words couldn't hurt me anymore. I returned insults with clever barbs of my own, the things that I couldn't say in front of mother. Never, ever, in front of mother. I had my own secret now. For the first time I had something that my mother couldn't touch, couldn't know about. She wanted the perfect daughter, something that I couldn't be.

Wouldn't be.

I used my mother's own lessons to hide myself, she couldn't see the person that I was becoming. She couldn't be allowed to see that I was slipping from her grasp, that I wouldn't be her doll anymore.

The whispers continued, but they didn't change.

If it was the bitch they wanted, it was the bitch they would get.

III

"Are you really surprised? Their family is full of shadows."

My parents didn't marry for love. Although, if they had, I suppose my life would have been much different. My mother lusted after a certain lifestyle, something my father was able to provide. She saw his money, but not the long buried secrets and reputation that ran through the family. The Belgraves came from old money, and their eldest son was available. Mother married into the fortune of her dreams and I came soon after.

My mother took it as her duty to raise a perfect child. She wanted a doll, something malleable to mold into her image. Posture was always tightly corrected, grubby hands shooed away from the table. Long dark hair was pulled back much too tightly, stretching skin and forcing smiles. I tried hard to be what she wanted. I tried so hard. No matter what I did, Mother wanted more. My father, for the most part, turned a blind eye to the strain I was being put under.

"Listen to your Mother, Satine. She knows what's best for you." He would say over and over again. "Just try to listen to her."

I couldn't let down my family, couldn't fathom tarnishing our name, so I obeyed and was silent for Mother. I was a perfectly respectable child, even if I did hide my growing unrest and contempt. Soon enough, I knew that the old Belgrave anger would bubble and boil and my cold shaking rage would spill over. Until then though, I decided that I could bide my time.

My mother, now with a seemingly pliable pupil, could teach the lessons of society that had been passed down from her family. There were so many rules. No elbows on the table, no foul language, no fraternizing with certain families. I should be allowed to talk with whoever I want, who gives a fuck if we're different? Well, my mother, apparently.

My mother was always a Capitol fanatic, it was where she believed she truly belonged, no matter how much my father tried to convince her otherwise. The Games were a staple in our house, entertainment, but certainly not for proper women. Bullshit. While my mother busied herself with trying to teach me how to hold my tongue, my father taught me how to hold a sword.

My father, who spoke with soft words and walked with steady steps. The man who never raised his voice. The one who always knew how to take care of scraped knees and sore bones. My father had weathered the storm that was my mother for so long, and now he was showing me his secret. The beauty of his blade transfixed me, and our sessions became a ritual, an intricate dance that only we knew the steps to. I grew accustomed to the exhaustion that seeped into my bones, leaving me so tired that I couldn't even think about Mother. And I realized, this is how my father survived. This is his way of teaching me how to survive.

I saw it for what it really was; an escape. A way to temporarily relieve yourself of that white fisted anger, the kind that had always coursed through Belgrave blood. The shaking rage that ran through our veins like white hot fire, burning away reason and making you see red.

"That anger," the outsiders would say, "they all have it, you know. Don't cross them, stay far, far away from that family. If you don't, you'll get caught up in their lies. They'll break you down and make you feel empty inside. Hollow you out until there's nothing left but a broken, angry shell. Because that Belgrave anger? It's tradition." 

IV

"A shame really, she was such a nice girl."

They called me the golden child. Belgrave gold, traditional and priceless. But they were all wrong.

I am platinum, cold and shining with a brilliant skin of steel. My bones are hard ivory and precious silver flows through my veins. My fragile heart is encased in unbreakable diamond.

You wanted the scared little girl.

You get the Belgrave.

1628 words