laurel jagneaux / d7 / fin
May 31, 2019 12:28:24 GMT -5
Post by goat on May 31, 2019 12:28:24 GMT -5
laurel jagneaux
16
he/him
district 7
16
he/him
district 7
“Are you afraid?”
Laurel shook his head, leaning back in the plastic lounge chair. The joint between his fingers created a thin smoke screen between him and the girl next to him. The girl in question, Vermillion, raised her eyebrows before leaning in with the tattoo gun anyway. She’d known him since they were children, knew how he liked to play big tough but still had the pain tolerance of a six year-old. Laurel knew it was dangerous to have somebody like that around. She was the only person who knew him, the real him. She could take him down with only her words if she wanted.
They had grown up together, not siblings by blood but certainly by choice. They did not live in an orphanage, it was a group home, thank you very much. The director of the home thought it was a very important distinction to make. Orphanages were sad, and dirty, and all the children grew up to be homeless or gang members. The children in the group home, however, had expectations placed upon them. They had schedules and jobs and cleaning duties. They were required to address adults with respect and would be punished if they didn’t, and that was just one of several things they could be punished for.
Laurel had not always lived in the group home. He’d had a family, a mother and a father and an older sister. They weren’t rich, but they were happy. At least, he’d thought they were happy when he was four. Looking back, he realized how little he knew. He knew that grass was green, and the sky was blue (but sometimes grey), and that his hair was the same color as his sister’s. He knew that his parents did everything in their power to keep their children fed and happy. It was a mundane story, something with not nearly enough drama to be published and bound in leather.
Here is how that story ends— bang, bang. One for his father, one for his sister, and his mother clutching the smoking gun.
“Are you afraid?”
He would never admit if he’d seen it happen or not. None of the Peacekeepers at the scene could confirm it, either. It’s notoriously difficult to get answers out of a traumatized child. While his mother was sent away to the detention center, Laurel was placed in the group home. Nobody could get a word out of him until Vermillion, three years older with a fiery attitude nobody could quell, approached him. They were inseparable from that moment on. He couldn’t pronounce her name until well into his teen years, calling her “Millie” instead.
Vermillion pressed a button and the tattoo gun whirred to life. She’d never tell where she got it, but she was a masterful artist with it. Laurel had a few other tattoos, ones he’d done himself with a needle and some pen ink, but he wanted something larger, and she was the only person he trusted to do it. It went without saying that he didn’t have a lot of friends, and didn’t trust easily. He wasn’t closed off— he talked with a lot of people, enjoyed it, even— but he rarely let his relationships progress into true friendship. He couldn’t. He feared that, the more people that knew him, the easier it would be to destroy him. To reach into his chest and pry his ribcage open and pull his heart from the wreckage.
The trouble came later, past the destruction of his family, past his miserable childhood, past all that. He hadn’t exactly been well behaved before, but at least he hadn’t been a disturbance to others. It was fun to act out. He wasn’t anybody of importance, wasn’t anybody in general. People would see a boy with a sharp tongue and a switchblade in his pocket, a boy with greasy hair and tired eyes, and shake their heads, but not do much else, as he was not the first boy like this, and he certainly would not be the last. The cycles around Panem were predictable and vicious.
Through everything, he’d always had Vermillion. She had the power to cut through his bullshit and get to his core. When she turned eighteen, she moved out. Laurel had wanted to go with her, but he knew any sort of plea to leave the home would fall on unwilling ears. The director believed children needed to stay there until their eighteenth birthday to “maximize their potential”. Laurel figured he could just leave— he doubted he had any sort of potential, anyway— but he didn’t want to deal with what came after. He’d seen what happened to kids who tried to run away, the full out manhunt that ensued. It seemed exhausting. Once, a boy his age had gone and even made it past the district borders, and it wasn’t the director who dragged him back. Nobody saw him again. It was easy to assume where he went.
After it had happened, Laurel had wandered through the forest until he reached the fence. He tangled his fingers in the chain-link and looked out into the distance. There was no difference between the trees inside the fence and the trees beyond it. He wondered about the people out there, how they lived. Still, he knew it was foolish to assume that there was freedom beyond the confines of the district— the Peacekeepers stalked the open forest with their weapons in hand, and the punishments for being found were severe.
Laurel may have been trouble, but he was still practical.
He sat still as Vermillion finished his tattoo, chewing his lip until it threatened to bleed. When she finished, patting his shoulder and sarcastically calling him a “brave boy”, he leaned over to inspect it. There they were, a line of planets on the inside of his forearm, perfectly detailed in black ink. When Vermillion had asked what he wanted, he’d given her an illustration torn out from one of their favorite childhood books. He wasn’t sure if the planets actually looked like that, he’d never seen them, but it was the meaning that was most important. Deep down, Laurel was sad, and sentimental, and he couldn’t hide from himself any longer.
“Are you afraid?”
Sometimes.
Is there any shame in admitting that?
Laurel shook his head, leaning back in the plastic lounge chair. The joint between his fingers created a thin smoke screen between him and the girl next to him. The girl in question, Vermillion, raised her eyebrows before leaning in with the tattoo gun anyway. She’d known him since they were children, knew how he liked to play big tough but still had the pain tolerance of a six year-old. Laurel knew it was dangerous to have somebody like that around. She was the only person who knew him, the real him. She could take him down with only her words if she wanted.
They had grown up together, not siblings by blood but certainly by choice. They did not live in an orphanage, it was a group home, thank you very much. The director of the home thought it was a very important distinction to make. Orphanages were sad, and dirty, and all the children grew up to be homeless or gang members. The children in the group home, however, had expectations placed upon them. They had schedules and jobs and cleaning duties. They were required to address adults with respect and would be punished if they didn’t, and that was just one of several things they could be punished for.
Laurel had not always lived in the group home. He’d had a family, a mother and a father and an older sister. They weren’t rich, but they were happy. At least, he’d thought they were happy when he was four. Looking back, he realized how little he knew. He knew that grass was green, and the sky was blue (but sometimes grey), and that his hair was the same color as his sister’s. He knew that his parents did everything in their power to keep their children fed and happy. It was a mundane story, something with not nearly enough drama to be published and bound in leather.
Here is how that story ends— bang, bang. One for his father, one for his sister, and his mother clutching the smoking gun.
“Are you afraid?”
He would never admit if he’d seen it happen or not. None of the Peacekeepers at the scene could confirm it, either. It’s notoriously difficult to get answers out of a traumatized child. While his mother was sent away to the detention center, Laurel was placed in the group home. Nobody could get a word out of him until Vermillion, three years older with a fiery attitude nobody could quell, approached him. They were inseparable from that moment on. He couldn’t pronounce her name until well into his teen years, calling her “Millie” instead.
Vermillion pressed a button and the tattoo gun whirred to life. She’d never tell where she got it, but she was a masterful artist with it. Laurel had a few other tattoos, ones he’d done himself with a needle and some pen ink, but he wanted something larger, and she was the only person he trusted to do it. It went without saying that he didn’t have a lot of friends, and didn’t trust easily. He wasn’t closed off— he talked with a lot of people, enjoyed it, even— but he rarely let his relationships progress into true friendship. He couldn’t. He feared that, the more people that knew him, the easier it would be to destroy him. To reach into his chest and pry his ribcage open and pull his heart from the wreckage.
The trouble came later, past the destruction of his family, past his miserable childhood, past all that. He hadn’t exactly been well behaved before, but at least he hadn’t been a disturbance to others. It was fun to act out. He wasn’t anybody of importance, wasn’t anybody in general. People would see a boy with a sharp tongue and a switchblade in his pocket, a boy with greasy hair and tired eyes, and shake their heads, but not do much else, as he was not the first boy like this, and he certainly would not be the last. The cycles around Panem were predictable and vicious.
Through everything, he’d always had Vermillion. She had the power to cut through his bullshit and get to his core. When she turned eighteen, she moved out. Laurel had wanted to go with her, but he knew any sort of plea to leave the home would fall on unwilling ears. The director believed children needed to stay there until their eighteenth birthday to “maximize their potential”. Laurel figured he could just leave— he doubted he had any sort of potential, anyway— but he didn’t want to deal with what came after. He’d seen what happened to kids who tried to run away, the full out manhunt that ensued. It seemed exhausting. Once, a boy his age had gone and even made it past the district borders, and it wasn’t the director who dragged him back. Nobody saw him again. It was easy to assume where he went.
After it had happened, Laurel had wandered through the forest until he reached the fence. He tangled his fingers in the chain-link and looked out into the distance. There was no difference between the trees inside the fence and the trees beyond it. He wondered about the people out there, how they lived. Still, he knew it was foolish to assume that there was freedom beyond the confines of the district— the Peacekeepers stalked the open forest with their weapons in hand, and the punishments for being found were severe.
Laurel may have been trouble, but he was still practical.
He sat still as Vermillion finished his tattoo, chewing his lip until it threatened to bleed. When she finished, patting his shoulder and sarcastically calling him a “brave boy”, he leaned over to inspect it. There they were, a line of planets on the inside of his forearm, perfectly detailed in black ink. When Vermillion had asked what he wanted, he’d given her an illustration torn out from one of their favorite childhood books. He wasn’t sure if the planets actually looked like that, he’d never seen them, but it was the meaning that was most important. Deep down, Laurel was sad, and sentimental, and he couldn’t hide from himself any longer.
“Are you afraid?”
Sometimes.
Is there any shame in admitting that?
