Charlotte Fel {District Eleven} Fin
Aug 20, 2019 14:07:47 GMT -5
Post by Arrows on Aug 20, 2019 14:07:47 GMT -5
Charlotte Fel
15 per the 83rd HG
Female // Bisexual
You'll want to remember this.
15 per the 83rd HG
Female // Bisexual
You'll want to remember this.
That's what people always say when something is happening. The importance of a memory seemingly superior to all other modes of thought or action. You must be lucky then, an endless array of memories you always have access to. They are like a pool of clear water in your mind, and at a moment's notice you can collect any singular drop you desire. Too bad you aren't as thirsty as those around you seem to be. Another person's blessing is your curse, and you carry it as a nail into the coffin which confines your entire existence. Sure, the pool is perfect for problems in school or when you need to remember your list of chores. But when the sea surges without warning, the past is far too easy of a thing to drown in.
You slip beneath the surface in a second.
The past isn't particularly your favorite place in time to find residence within. Your childhood is a common destination for the random rivers your subconscious likes to spawn. Your five year old self swinging in a tire above a dry once rambling brook. A woman with your features fixing the ceiling to a small shack as a man with your smile rummages through the heat stained soil of a miniature yard. Most scenes aren't as touched by the soft embrace of serenity. Usually there are others, faces of strangers and the exchanging of illegal items. Often there is the sickening scent of home-made alcohol sewn onto your parents' skins. You spent most nights afraid and alone, huddled beneath the decaying body of a forgotten scarecrow that you named Riley. Yet still your mind wanders there, reopens the wounds, and suckles away any ounce of innocence you hold.
This is the truth of a perfect memory, a blood bank to the demons others can so easily cast off into the fog of forgetfulness.
Though it gave you a fire, a sweltering center of magma. And it gifted you a hard outer crust, one strong enough to stand up against the gales of depravity and anguish. Alas, such a set of offerings forged from the transcendent of troubles breathed life into the heart of a temperamental volcano. Rage can run in rampant strains of shouting only seconds after the most weightless of whispers. Fury can form into a force of fists towards a dumbfounded face thinking only that it had made some sub-standard joke. It isn't exactly your most appealing quality, but you can't afford to be a paper so easily torn in a breeze. You'll take fire and fury over ash and passiveness any day.
Another area your mind likes to visit is a newcomer to the puzzle pieces of your past. It doesn't dwell in the shutters you shattered or the lamp that laid broken on your floor for a week. It doesn't care about every page you covered in words of written hatred. It lives in the stream of sequences he lived, the ones you watched, the ones you keep getting drawn deeper into. The touch of the tender Eight's finger tips. The signals shaped by hands of parallel pasts. The final force of a familiar face before descending into darkness. Your mind is obsessed with the details of your brother's death, and your soul is the victim of its addiction.
There is a painful truth which seems to exist in every frame of Jacob's final fragments. He was strong, but his skin was soft. When the wind came, he tore. He left the family reeling, and he left you listening to the sobs of your Mothers' through the walls. You want to hate him like you hate the world, but in the end he was faultless. Another face lost in the garden of Hades, even as his killer lives on only minutes away. You never expected to find so much fondness, so much love, for your adoptive family. Yet his death is poison in your veins, a catalyst for the powers of your mind. His death is your grief, and it is suffocating.
You've learned to find breath where you can though. Learned every last signal of sign language for Elias, Jacob was always so caring to him. Picked up an extra shift at the granary, Jacob would have done the same. Anything you can to keep your brain busy enough for it not to think. To do whatever it takes to avoid that single second slip under the surface. The pain you already feel is punishing enough, you don't need to keep watching the final blast before his canon.
You've also found a fresh way to help harness your rage, it came to you in an explosion of euphoria. You watched that day as boards broke and flames flickered as the bomb blew away half the stage in the Square. Panic pierced the hearts of hurtling people, but in the drama of the dynamite you found steadiness. The cause came calling for you that day, the day your brother died, and you know it can't just be coincidence. You are a volcano after all, and it's about time to utilize your eruptions for something more than just the faces of bullies.
You slip beneath the surface in a second.
The past isn't particularly your favorite place in time to find residence within. Your childhood is a common destination for the random rivers your subconscious likes to spawn. Your five year old self swinging in a tire above a dry once rambling brook. A woman with your features fixing the ceiling to a small shack as a man with your smile rummages through the heat stained soil of a miniature yard. Most scenes aren't as touched by the soft embrace of serenity. Usually there are others, faces of strangers and the exchanging of illegal items. Often there is the sickening scent of home-made alcohol sewn onto your parents' skins. You spent most nights afraid and alone, huddled beneath the decaying body of a forgotten scarecrow that you named Riley. Yet still your mind wanders there, reopens the wounds, and suckles away any ounce of innocence you hold.
This is the truth of a perfect memory, a blood bank to the demons others can so easily cast off into the fog of forgetfulness.
Though it gave you a fire, a sweltering center of magma. And it gifted you a hard outer crust, one strong enough to stand up against the gales of depravity and anguish. Alas, such a set of offerings forged from the transcendent of troubles breathed life into the heart of a temperamental volcano. Rage can run in rampant strains of shouting only seconds after the most weightless of whispers. Fury can form into a force of fists towards a dumbfounded face thinking only that it had made some sub-standard joke. It isn't exactly your most appealing quality, but you can't afford to be a paper so easily torn in a breeze. You'll take fire and fury over ash and passiveness any day.
Another area your mind likes to visit is a newcomer to the puzzle pieces of your past. It doesn't dwell in the shutters you shattered or the lamp that laid broken on your floor for a week. It doesn't care about every page you covered in words of written hatred. It lives in the stream of sequences he lived, the ones you watched, the ones you keep getting drawn deeper into. The touch of the tender Eight's finger tips. The signals shaped by hands of parallel pasts. The final force of a familiar face before descending into darkness. Your mind is obsessed with the details of your brother's death, and your soul is the victim of its addiction.
There is a painful truth which seems to exist in every frame of Jacob's final fragments. He was strong, but his skin was soft. When the wind came, he tore. He left the family reeling, and he left you listening to the sobs of your Mothers' through the walls. You want to hate him like you hate the world, but in the end he was faultless. Another face lost in the garden of Hades, even as his killer lives on only minutes away. You never expected to find so much fondness, so much love, for your adoptive family. Yet his death is poison in your veins, a catalyst for the powers of your mind. His death is your grief, and it is suffocating.
You've learned to find breath where you can though. Learned every last signal of sign language for Elias, Jacob was always so caring to him. Picked up an extra shift at the granary, Jacob would have done the same. Anything you can to keep your brain busy enough for it not to think. To do whatever it takes to avoid that single second slip under the surface. The pain you already feel is punishing enough, you don't need to keep watching the final blast before his canon.
You've also found a fresh way to help harness your rage, it came to you in an explosion of euphoria. You watched that day as boards broke and flames flickered as the bomb blew away half the stage in the Square. Panic pierced the hearts of hurtling people, but in the drama of the dynamite you found steadiness. The cause came calling for you that day, the day your brother died, and you know it can't just be coincidence. You are a volcano after all, and it's about time to utilize your eruptions for something more than just the faces of bullies.
