Post by d11f sarina izar [fireflyz] on Oct 7, 2019 18:20:10 GMT -5
I don't quite believe in ghosts, but the way my family remains in perpetual mourning makes me wonder if there's some unknown presence here, like a curse, a haunting, a judgment, something that can be conjured up by generations of people wishing and hoping that the past had gone differently.
My mother was always superstitious. She was born into the Volt family, damned as it was. She had it instilled into her by her parents, who had it instilled into them by theirs, who saw the pain and suffering that their mother had suffered at the behest of the Capitol, and so my mother's way of handling this was by modifying her own behaviors. At first she merely avoided asking for help, didn't talk to Peacekeepers, refused to take out tesserae even when the family fell on hard times. Then it devolved into something more captious - she'd avoid ladders to not have to call a medic if it fell. She wouldn't wear new clothes or bright colors out to avoid attention, which turned to her only wearing certain clothing for certain occasions. She'd search my gifts when I came home to ensure there was nothing dangerous inside. First she searched for knives - then she searched for spirits. If I asked her who would dare to hurt us, she'd press a finger against my lips and warn me not to tempt fate.
But I toy with it anyway - dabble in magic, go out late at night, dare to do the things that my mother won't.
Because I'm a Volt - damned if I do, damned if I don't. Why not have some fun while I'm at it?
Post by d11f sarina izar [fireflyz] on Oct 12, 2019 18:01:52 GMT -5
Am I a terror?
Am I a goner?
Am I everlasting?
It's hard to tell exactly who I'm supposed to be when others keep telling me what that's meant to look like.
It's not entirely their fault. They do want the best for me, to avoid repeating whatever pixellated past it is that they're running from. Yet, if that means not even being able to step a single toe out of line, I want no part in it.
In a sense, the things I do are my own form of quiet rebellion. Of course, it's for instant gratification just as much as it's for the family to just get it. I don't want to be told what I can't do - they claim to hate it when the Capitol does that, anyway. And besides, I think the sky is the limit. Even if my physical form never sets foot outside of Three, my spirit is always elsewhere. Enlightened. Free. Why stay grounded when it'll make you sink? Panem is like quicksand, and I refuse to be devoured.
Post by d11f sarina izar [fireflyz] on Dec 27, 2019 20:56:42 GMT -5
My feet come up and down upon the earth with swiftness. One and then two, one, one, two and then one. Hopscotch is not a particularly complex game but it remains my favorite for the sole fact that I can go as fast as I want, jump as high as I want, and relish in the control I have. I am free, my feet as light as feathers even as my shoulders and knees ache from all the exertion. Sometimes other kids come to play with me, but I often get impatient watching them hop through the spaces traced out in the dirt. I rock back and forth in place until it's my turn again, and then I skip the stone and hop as far as it takes me, and then further. It's mindless fun.
I start playing hopscotch when I'm little and continue to play it even as I get older. I skip along the road to my house, sometimes in the backyard when I need to blow off steam, feel myself vanish into a world of quick, repetitive movements. My mother chastises me for not sitting still, asking what's gotten into me. The look in her eyes is typical of a mother's gaze, but the nervous quirk in her lip tells me she fears the worst. The spirits.
We've lived in this house, the Volts, for generations. It's quaint and smells of whatever the last thing we cooked was, until you near any of the doorways and smell what lingers in the air outside. Grandma Naomi sometimes paces the floor, muttering the names of each scent she detects as she floats around like a ghost. Sage. Yeast. Smoke. Jasmine. Yeast. Smoke. Sage. It's almost as if we have to put a name to everything lest we forget it. My mother tries to stitch my name into the burlap pouch I bring to school but I swat her hands away each time. She says she doesn't want anyone to take it, and five minutes later she'll wonder aloud if someone at my school wants to target me. I don't tell her that the shaky V on my lunch pouch would be a dead giveaway for potential poisoning.
Naomi has two siblings, Nyla and Pixel. They have their own children and grandchildren that I see around sometimes. Who knows how many cousins I have? All I know about are my ancestors, the rebels, the people who shaped this family to be so fearsome yet fearful. We are contemptuous, we are pathetic, we are almost unbearable in large doses. So I try to leave the house as much as possible, so that my restless energy and their restless energy don't end up coming together and causing some sort of explosion. In chemistry, we learn about collisions and how they form bonds, because it's relevant to electricity, and I wonder why my family's chaos doesn't bring us together.
At some point, I turn from skipping through the streets to dancing. My limbs are liquified, oozing through the gray smog sans grace but with passion. It's hard to stop moving, so I don't. I can't imagine the kind of thing that would make me stop in my tracks to confront a life that is moving at a much slower frequency than I am.